Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
I drift from conversation to conversation, working my way closer to Congressman Ruiz’s table. Anthony never leaves his side. I should not be angling to see Mateo Ruiz. He knows what I can do. My resume speaks for itself, or at least it should. He’s worried that Lennix is gone and I can’t manage on my own? I’ve been doubted at every turn, and I always pull through. I just elected a president. If he’ll give me the chance, I’ll deliver this state to him. Skulking around ballrooms, positioning myself for his consideration, hoping I can “accidentally” run into him—this is not a good look. And if this was a game of chess, this would not be my move.
I politely end the conversation I’m in and head into the women’s restroom. The bathroom is done in richly patterned silk wallpaper. Benches with plump cushions line the walls. Egyptian cotton hand towels, costly soaps and fragrant lotions are stacked neatly on the marble sink counter, but the greatest luxury this room offers me right now is solitude.
I set my clutch onto the counter and face my reflection in the large gilt-framed mirror. Kayla’s stylist did my makeup for the gala. She employed a heavier hand than I usually like, but I must admit she did a great job. Long-lashed dark eyes stare back at me, a palate of peacock colors brushed across my lids. I never wear fuchsia, but the matte color pops purply-pink against my skin, painted over a mouth that looks even wider and fuller than usual. My hair, pressed straight, falls around shoulders left bare by Lotus’ creation. It’s a masterpiece of jewel tones—blues, greens, and purples subtly reflecting the colors decorating my face. The dress is a fairy tale, a strapless tulle bodice, nipped waistline, and flared skirt that bells out in layers of iridescent wings ending just above my knees. My only jewelry are the round emeralds glimmering in my earlobes and the gold ring Daddy gave me that rarely leaves my thumb. I take it off and read the inscription inside.
To thyself be Tru. Love, Daddy.
He gave me this ring when I settled on Arizona State. The whole family accused me of believing the schools that shaped our family for generations weren’t good enough for me. That wasn’t it. I just needed to get away from it all. From them all and make my own way.
Daddy got it. He always did.
Losing Daddy remains and may always be the most devastating moment of my life. When he died, that unconditional love and acceptance died with him and left behind such a void. The last few years, I’ve kept busy enough to fill that void with work and ambition and, yes, power. I’ve acquired power for myself and for others by staying in constant motion. But with the problems crowding in on me—the possibility of never having children, and maybe never getting this shot to make history for the state of Georgia because the congressman is “keeping me in mind,” I can’t be still.
Not to mention I’m still not sure what I should do about Ezra. Oh, I know exactly what I want to do, but can I afford the emotional attachment it could easily become with him? Can I afford that now? And should we get involved when things are so uncertain with Aiko and Noah? Family shit gets messy, and I have enough mess of my own.
I stride from the bathroom and come face-to-face with Anthony Rodderick, my sometime-nemesis. Yale educated. His family are Augusta National board members who yield power across the entire state. He holds a guaranteed spot on Sunday morning’s political news circuit that I usually eschew. He’s your typical entitled male, but a liberal, so in some ways he’s even blinder to his own privilege because wanting to save the world assuages his guilt for getting all he wants from it.
“Kimba,” he says, his deep voice modulated by an expensive education, years of breeding, and just the right twinge of a Southern drawl to keep him approachable. “So good to see you again.”
“Good to see you, too, Tony,” I say, deliberately using the sobriquet I know he hates.
His expression twitches almost imperceptibly if you don’t know what you’re looking for. But, of course, I do.
“I think the last time I saw you,” Anthony says, “was at the Inaugural Ball.”
He leans against the wall and slides his left hand into his pants pocket, but not before I notice the lighter band of skin where his wedding ring used to be. Relationships—marriages, families, friendships—are the greatest liabilities of any campaign. I know that firsthand.
“It was very gracious of President Cade to invite his rivals to his big night,”
Anthony continues, grudging admiration and some envy evident in his voice.
“The president is a gracious man,” I reply neutrally.