I usually avoid social media. It can be too much. Comments picking apart my body, my skin, my clothes, my smile—or lack of one. Criticism about my campaign is fair game. The rest of itcan go. Even the positive comments come with pressure. Likes, shares, views. Expectations to keep the numbers climbing.
I’d rather focus on my messaging and let Anika handle the internet.
“We’ll see,” I say, knowing how fleeting popularity is. “Diablo’s a good politician, and he’s got the advantage of the last word.”
“Social media never sleeps,” she says, turning up the volume. “There’s no such thing as the last word. Now stop being a downer and let’s watch this man squirm.”
I study Diablo on the screen with an analytical eye. Navy suit, no tie—going for that man-of-the-people look. His responses are tighter than usual. Still policy-driven, but there’s more care behind his words.
He doesn’t use my name, not giving me any extra airtime. Instead, I’m referred to as “my opponent,” the one who misspoke about his waterfront plans.
“Adjusting your approach when new information comes in and listening to your constituents is not waffling, it’s good leadership,” he tells Kane. “My opponent, suggesting that her plans have never wavered, speaks to a lack of flexibility. That should concern voters.”
“Oooh, nice try with that hit.” Anika feigns ducking a blow. “But nowhere near a TKO.”
When Kane grills him on childcare, Diablo doesn’t get defensive. He takes ownership, offers a solution, then moves on.
Smart. Effective. DK’s coaching.
“Diablo did a good job,” I say when it’s over.
“I’d give him a solid eight,” Anika replies as if she’s being generous. “Yours was a ten.”
I think we were more evenly matched, but it still feels satisfying to have held my own against a strong candidate.
The rest of the afternoon blurs into constant motion. Donations spike. Volunteer applications roll in. Anika drafts response posts using clips from the interview. My phone buzzes nonstop with personal messages and campaign business.
Best of all, Women Rising offers their endorsement ahead of the scheduled brunch.
Like… what?
Anika and I slap palms. We understand what a major coup that is.
When I make it over to the tourism office, the staff greets me with cheers.
“Madam Mayor!” Natalia calls out.
I grin, waving her down, not letting the title get too comfortable until I’ve earned it. My dad had sent a bouquet of flowers with a congratulatory note. I call to thank him, then hole up in my office with Symone to go over the transition plan. She’s ready to assume the interim director role next week.
By the time we wrap up, the sky outside the window has turned that soft gold that means the workday is over—unless you’re juggling two jobs.
I stay until eight, then head home, thinking about kicking off these shoes that are pinching my toes, pouring a generous glass of wine, reheating last night’s pasta, and doing absolutely nothing but catch up onRHOAuntil DK calls.
When I reach my front steps, I find a wooden box leaning against the door. I tuck it under my arm and carry it inside. Curious, I slide open the lid.
A bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
Of course I know the champagne’s from DK. It’s the one I told him I loved for the apple and pear notes, and the history behind it. Madame Clicquot, one of the first businesswomen in France, pioneered the clarification process still used today.
He didn’t just listen to me gush—he remembered because it mattered to me. And that means more than the gift itself.
I tap out a message:
Me: Thanks for the champagne, boo. Very sweet and thoughtful. I’ll save it for us to open on the night of my win.
The bubbles appear.
DK: And if I win? Do I still get a glass?
