Having finished my thorough perusal of his face and unable to take the silence anymore, I say, “Alex, how long have you been doing private security?”

Keeping forward, he responds, “About two years, ma’am.”

“You don’t have to call me ma’am. You’re making me feel old,” I say in a lighthearted way. I don’t know what possessed me to be so informal. I’ve never protested to someone calling me ma’am before. In fact, I’ve become so used to people doing it, it’s almost expected.

“Okay, Mrs. Fitzgerald.” I feel my face pull down into a pout. For some reason, that doesn’t sound much better either. I’m about to tell him to call me Elizabeth when the car door opens and Cal slides in beside me.

“We have a meeting with Aaron tonight to go over some of the beginning stages of the campaign. Things are about to get pretty hectic and you’ll need to be there through the whole thing.”

Grabbing hold of his hand, I squeeze it and say, “I’m right beside you, Cal.” Public appearances aren’t the only thing I have to fool. I have to fool my husband into believing I’m the perfect wife as well. He has no clue the contempt I’m starting to feel for him. The anger and resentment grows on a daily basis, but I really only have myself to blame for it. As time goes on, I feel used more and more. I almost laugh at myself at the irony. Aren’t I doing the same thing? Using him for my own reasons? Except my reasons for marrying him got a lot more complicated after one phone call, and now I can’t leave.

“Good,” he says with a nod. The car pulls away as we drive back home.

I’m exhausted and the last thing I want to do is talk political strategy with Aaron tonight. Actually, I won’t be discussing anything. I’ll simply be an ornament on the couch where I’m expected to nod, acknowledge, and agree to all the plans that are laid out before me. Aaron’s good at his job, one of the best. He knows what appeals to the public and how to manipulate them into voting for whoever he works for. And that makes me hate him. Every action, every word has a specific goal and purpose. Everything is calculated and you cannot deviate from that plan. If you do, there will be hell to pay. Aaron’s a fairly calm guy, does well under pressure, but if you mess up whatever path he has laid out, he will come down on you like you’ve never seen. It’s why his candidates always win.

A little after seven o’clock there’s a knock on the door. Cal leaves me sitting in the living room while he answers it. A few moments later, he walks back in with Aaron. After we’ve exchanged pleasantries, Aaron dives in, pulling out maps and charts and numbers. All things that I couldn’t care less about.

Pretending my focus is on the meeting at hand, I discreetly look around the massive living room to alleviate my boredom. I never cared for the large, white sofa that faces the expansive windows overlooking the front yard or the matching armchairs and love seat. I’m not one for fancy furniture and it all looks rather pretentious. The fireplace to my left, on the other hand, is my favorite part of the room. It’s the focal point with its exaggerated mantel and built in bookshelves placed on each side. Reading has always been a passion of mine, an escape from reality, so I take pride in the books that line the shelves.

“Elizabeth, that’s where you come in,” Aaron says, looking at me. I’m sure I have a deer in headlights look, making it quite obvious that I wasn’t listening.

Shaking my head slightly, I say in confusion, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I understand.”

“You come from a poor family. Cal needs to connect to the poor voter. It’s hard to do that when everyone knows he comes from an extremely wealthy family. You’ll make a speech about your upbringing, your struggles, and how you met Cal. You’ll talk about how he never saw you as the poor girl and cared for you unconditionally. Just like he’ll do for each and every one of the voters.” I stare at him blankly, blinking every so often. He wants to use my childhood struggles as a campaign tool? A way to trick citizens in believing that he doesn’t think he’s better than them?

Truth is, Cal had no idea I was poor when he met me. I was in my third year of college and I had perfected the art of looking expensive without spending a fortune. I’d buy key designer pieces off of Ebay as a way to trick the men I was interested in. You flash a little Louis Vuitton here and there and suddenly you’re perceived as having money. None of them knew I grew up poor. It wasn’t until we were engaged six months after dating that he found out where I was raised and under what conditions. To say he was stunned was an understatement, but I had played my part so well that he was able to look beyond it. He saw me for my potential. And by potential I mean he saw the benefits of having me on his arm. It was obvious that I could work a room and schmooze over affluent people. That’s the perfect woman to have support you when you have high political aspirations. However, not everyone saw what I had to offer. I thought his mother was going to have a heart attack on the spot.

“Elizabeth, this will help me win the primary,” Cal says sternly, making me turn in my seat toward him. He looks offended that I haven’t agreed immediately, and it’s unlike me to hesitate at a request made by or in support of him.

Blinking several times, I say, “Yes, of course. Whatever you need, love. You know that.” I force a smile to spread across my face, knowing it doesn’t reach my eyes. Not that Cal would know the difference since this is the only smile he’s ever seen.

“Are you alright?” he asks, grasping my shoulder lightly.

“Yes. I’m sorry, I’m just exhausted from the long, exciting day. If you don’t mind, I was actually thinking of turning in for the night. But if you still need me here, I’ll stay.” Again with the fake smile.

“No, you go on up. I shouldn’t be much longer.” Leaning in, he gives me a kiss and lingers for a few seconds. I play along and act like the loving wife everyone knows.

Standing from the sofa, I walk around it and make my way through the kitchen. I’m in a daze thinking about their request, my eyes fixed straight ahead not seeing anything. That is until a pair of crystal-blue eyes catches my attention, causing me to come out of my zombie-like state. Alex is sitting on a barstool at the kitchen island. I hadn’t noticed him there before since my back was to him during the whole exchange with Cal and Aaron. I’m sure he heard the whole “let’s use your poor childhood” strategy. I can see the question in his eyes, but I’m not sure why. But there’s something else there, which leaves me puzzled and angry at the same time.

Pity.

And I hate it.

IT’S THE NEXT morning and my week just gets shittier.

“I know it’s last minute, but my mother is going to be here around lunchtime,” Cal informs me as I’m buttoning up my blouse. I stifle the groan that threatens to leak out. To say I’m not a fan of his mother would be an understatement. She is the stereotypical stuck-up rich lady who I avoid at all costs. Unfortunately, it looks like that won’t be possible since she’s on her way.

“Oh, how nice,” I reply, turning my back to him so he can’t see the lie written all over my face. Even I’m not a good enough actress to pull that one off. There are two things I’m unable to fake in our relationship: orgasms, and liking his mother.

“She wants to spend a couple days here to congratulate me on the big announcement.” I cough at the mention of ‘a couple days.’ “Are you alright?” he asks.

“Excuse me.” I place my hand gently on my throat¸ pretending I have something caught in it. “Something just went down the wrong pipe. I’m okay.”