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Chapter 25
I plaster a big, fake smile on my face. “Congratulations, Daddy!” I squeal, jumping up with legs that feel like melting icicles. My arms go around his neck, my nose pressed into his collar, and I smell his aftershave. It hasn’t changed. All these years, Daddy’s gone from being a district attorney to running for the U.S. House of Representatives to the U.S. Senate and now he’s running for President. He hasn’t changed his cologne.
I feel like I’m four years old, instantly, as I inhale during the hug. In a way, I am. This announcement makes me feel immature. Like a burden. A child who can’t be controlled.
Scandal.
Drew avoids eye contact with me, looking anywhere but at my face. I’m avoiding him, except that my peripheral vision is too good. Mom beams at us. Anya has the same fake smile on her face that I have. Tears fill my eyes even though I fight them.
Suddenly, I get it.
I’ve been brought home because I am a prop. I am nothing but a thing you put on a stage because the performance requires it. Daddy’s role is potential president. Mom’s role is potential first lady.
My role?
Shut up, smile, look pretty. Show the world that Senator Bosworth is a family man who has his child’s respect. Who is the authority. Who has a loving relationship with his daughter. Who is compassionate and kind, as good in real life as he will be leading the nation.
I’m a line in a script.
And I’m going to play the role of my life.
Except there's this horrible little stain in my past. Like a skid mark in a pair of underwear.
I stifle a hysterical laugh at the thought and bury it, making the sound seem like too much emotion. Daddy pulls back and looks at me, searching my face, assessing whether I’m okay. People say I look like a feminine version of him. We have similar hair, and eyes that are the same shape, a little cat-like. My eyes are rounder. His are more guarded. He’s analyzing me. It occurs to me that ever since he ran for Senate ten years ago, I’ve never seen him look at me without trying to figure something out.
Ten years.
That’s a long time.
“We have a problem, kiddo,” he says gently, holding my shoulders, peering into my eyes. “Your...incident.”
My blood runs cold.
“My incident.” I don’t phrase it like a question. And the emphasis on my is intended.
He nods. I know Daddy. He didn’t miss my inflection. Ignoring it meets his needs, so he’ll pretend I didn’t say it. “We did so much damage control four years ago, sweetie. You weren’t here to witness it.” He squares his shoulders, as if bracing for a blow. “It’s time to talk about it. Strategize. Prepare.”
Great. My gang rape is now an incident that requires more strategic management than a war. Maybe even more than Black Friday sales.
“And everything we discuss in here is absolutely confidential,” Mom says, her voice smooth but menacing. I’m not sure if her words are aimed only at me.
I look around the room as Daddy steps back to his seat at the head of the table. From the looks on some faces, I’m pretty sure Mom’s target was wide. Like buckshot.
And everyone got hit with a little shrapnel.
“Of course,” I reply, trying to match her tone. My skin is on fire. There’s a coffee machine on a buffet table against the wall. Turning away from the table, I prepare a cup, searching for cream. There is none.
I can tell Anya’s watching me, because she stands quickly and announces, “Let me get cream. Sorry. We used it all.” Her swift exit involves being watched carefully by Mom, her eyes tracking Daddy’s assistant, narrowing as Anya disappears out the door.
What’s that about? Mom’s never had a problem with Anya. The running joke about her being Daddy’s work wife was always just a joke.
So much has changed in four years.
President. My very own father is running for President of the United States. Leader of the free world and all that. The enormity of it hits me. My dad wants to be the most powerful person in the world.
But he couldn’t stop what happened to me four years ago.
Or seek justice for me after.
