“Senator? Are you listening?”
Melissa blinked. David was watching her with barely concealed concern, his tablet clutched to his chest like a shield.
“Yes. The committee meeting. Continue.”
“That was everything about the committee meeting. I was asking if you’d seen the Redwood Herald piece.”
“What piece?”
David’s expression shifted into something careful, the look he got when he was about to deliver bad news. “It went up this morning. I assumed you’d… here.” He handed her the tablet, already open to a webpage.
The headline hit her like a slap:Senator Brandt’s Post-Divorce Struggles: Can She Handle the Pressure?
Melissa read the article in silence. It was short, barely five paragraphs, and maddeningly vague. Anonymous sources “close to the senator” expressing concern about her focus. Questions about whether her “tumultuous personal life” was affecting her ability to lead on the infrastructure bill. A pointed mention of her ex-husband’s abrupt departure, framed as abandonment rather than the mutual decision it had been presented as publicly.
No direct accusations. Nothing actionable. Just insinuation, carefully worded to plant doubt without providing anything concrete enough to refute.
And of course, accompanied by the worst possible picture, a random shot where she looked tired and irritated.
“It’s a gossip blog,” David said. “Barely anyone reads it. But—”
“But it’s the opening salvo.” Melissa set the tablet down, her jaw tight. “Thornfield is making their move.”
“We don’t know it’s Thornfield.”
“Don’t we?” She stood, moving to the window, looking out at the capitol grounds without really seeing them. “Anonymous sources questioning my fitness to lead. Vague concerns aboutmy personal life. Right as the bill is gaining momentum. Who else would benefit from this?”
David didn’t answer. They both knew.
“Get me the communications team,” Melissa said. “I want a response strategy by the end of the day. Nothing defensive—we don’t dignify this with a direct response. But I want to know what else is out there. What they might have. What they might be planning.”
“Already on it.” David hesitated. “There’s something else. Dr. Carter called. Three times. She said if you don’t call her back in the next ten minutes, she’s driving to Salem, quote, ‘whether she has patients or not.’”
Melissa closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. Of course Rachel had seen the article. Of course she was threatening to abandon her practice to check on Melissa in person. That was what Rachel did—refused to be ignored when she sensed something was wrong.
“Get her on the line.”
A moment later, her desk phone buzzed. Melissa picked up.
“Before you say anything,” Rachel said, “I have exactly seven minutes before my next patient, so I’m going to talk fast and you’re going to listen.”
“Hello to you too.”
“I saw the article. Are you okay?”
So much for hardly anyone reading it.
“I’m fine. It’s nothing I haven’t handled before.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Rachel’s voice was sharp, the no-nonsense tone she used with difficult patients. “I asked if you’re okay, not if you can handle it. Those are different things.”
“They’re the answer you’re getting.”
A pause, weighted with everything Melissa wasn’t saying. Rachel had known her for a decade—had been there through the marriage, the slow dissolution and abrupt crash of everythingMelissa had built with Michael. She’d held Melissa’s hand in the hospital when Lila was born. She’d poured whiskey and listened without judgment when Melissa had finally admitted the marriage was over.
She was the closest thing Melissa had to a best friend, which meant she was also the person most capable of seeing through her defenses.
“This is going to get uglier,” Rachel said finally. “You know that, right? They’re going to dig into everything. Your marriage. The divorce. Your personal life.” A pause. “Are you ready for that?”
