THE NEXT MORNING I wake up to an empty bed. The sun is just peeking out over the horizon, and I know I should go downstairs to see Cal before he heads off to work. Stretching my arms above my head, I hoist myself up out of bed and throw on my silk robe that hangs next to the door before going to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I stare into the mirror as I take in my reflection. I still look the same with my straight, light-brown hair, green eyes, full lips, and high cheekbones, but every day I feel myself changing slightly. The burden of playing the perfect, plastic wife is starting to take its toll on me emotionally, and I wonder how long I’ll be able to keep up the charade before I crack.

After I brush my teeth, I walk down the stairs and can hear Cal talking quietly as I get closer. I pause outside the entrance to the kitchen to listen to what he’s saying.

“I told you to get the damn votes. I don’t care who you have to fuck over or make promises to, get it done. If this bill doesn’t go through, I can kiss my presidential candidacy good-bye.” Cal pulls the phone away from his ear and tosses it on to the kitchen island. He runs his hands through his reddish-brown hair, letting out a deep sigh in frustration. I walk around the island to make my presence known.

When he lifts his eyes, I give him a small smile. “Good morning, love. Is everything alright?” I ask.

“Nothing for you to worry about. Do you want to have some coffee with me before I leave?” The stress lines in his face have smoothed out. That’s the one thing about Cal; he’s good at masking his emotions. It makes it difficult to read him, and one of the things that annoy me the most. He always gives off a cool façade. Always the politician.

Once I pour us both a cup of coffee, I set his in front of him and walk around behind him. Rubbing his shoulders, I say, “You seem tense. Everything going well at the office?” I know I’m prying, and I’m sure it doesn’t go unnoticed by him either, but maybe I can help or if nothing else, provide him some comfort.

“Like I said, dear, it’s nothing for you to worry about. Everything is fine.” His voice is tight and I know that’s the end of the discussion. Giving up on that line of questioning, I decide to ask him something else that I’ve been pondering recently.

“Are you planning to run for president? I thought I heard Aaron talking about it one day, but you never—” I’m cut off midsentence when he turns around on his bar stool and grabs my hands, cutting me a sharp look.

“Elizabeth, why all the questions? I told you, when I make a decision, I’ll let you know. Until then, don’t worry your pretty little head over it, got it?” His grip on my hands tightens.

Struggling to hold my tongue, my lips twitch with effort to smile. “Yes, dear. I only ask because I care.” I look down at the ground to break eye contact.

“I know you do,” he remarks as he lifts my chin up with his finger. “But it’s really not the place for a wife to be sticking her nose.” The back of his hand brushes against my cheek as his voice softens. He says this gently, but pointing out that he doesn’t see me as his equal has the opposite effect on me. My stomach twists and my jaw tightens being told so blatantly that I am beneath him, but I quickly cool my features to keep from giving away my disgust at his comment.

“My apologies.” I lean down and kiss him on the cheek which seems to placate him. “I’m going to jump in the shower. I’m having lunch with Catherine down in the city.”

“That sounds nice. Tell Catherine I said hello and have fun.” He kisses me on the lips, smiling at me as he pulls back.

“Should I expect you home for dinner tonight?” I walk backward, letting our joined hands stretch out between us before letting go.

“I’m not sure. I have a few meetings with some lobbying groups, but I’ll call and let you know.” Getting up from his stool, he takes his coffee mug and places it in the sink.

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later,” I say over my shoulder as I make my way back to our bedroom. Once I’m in the privacy of my bathroom, I sit on the closed toilet seat and struggle to put a lid on my emotions. My frustrations over being ignored and treated like a piece of decorative furniture are starting to fester the longer I’m married to Cal. Squeezing my eyes shut and balling my hands into tight fists, I shut down the part of my brain that’s telling me to march back into the kitchen and tell Cal to go fuck himself.

After sliding off my bathrobe and nighty, I step into the shower, letting the hot spray relax my tense muscles. Part of me wonders what would have become of my life if I had never listened to my mother’s constant talk about finding a man with money and just followed my heart. If I had married for love instead of wealth.

Maybe there was a man out there who was financially stable that I could have loved. I did try to find a man like that, someone who could provide for me that I cared about and enjoyed spending time with. I’ve never dated a man that I loved unconditionally, and I don’t think anyone has loved me without something to gain from our relationship. Unfortunately, I was never able to find a compromise between love and money and circumstances in my life forced my hand into settling with Cal.

I’m just walking through the doors of Siroc, the restaurant I’m meeting Catherine at. As usual, Cal had a driver come to the house to take me. Even though I don’t mind taking the Metro or a cab, Cal insists. He once told me that having the wife of a Fitzgerald taking public transportation was a disgrace and that he would not stand for it. Not to mention his mother and father would blow a gasket. God forbid the world thinks they’re average.

“Hello, Mrs. Fitzgerald, how nice to see you again,” the hostess greets me.

Smiling politely, I respond, “Thank you. I’m meeting Mrs. Williams this afternoon. Is she here yet?”

“Yes, ma’am. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your table.” Trailing behind her, I look around at the other patrons of this establishment. Being that this is in the heart of the city and not far from the White House, most people are dressed in business attire; suits and ties, pencil skirts and blouses. All of them no doubt working for the government in some aspect.

The hostess stops and waves her arm out, gesturing to a booth my friend is already occupying. As I’m taking a seat, the hostess says, “Your waiter will be right with you.” I reply with a thank you and she leaves us.

“Oh, Elizabeth, you look wonderful this afternoon, dah-ling,” she says as she drawls out the last word. The way she talks always comes off so fake to me, like she tries to sound rich. It’s incredibly annoying.

“Thank you, Catherine. You look lovely yourself.” Catherine always looks impeccable with her perfectly placed short, blonde hair, flawless makeup, and dressed head to toe in Chanel. She carries herself with an air of superiority, a thing that’s common among people of her stature. My husband and his family included.

“Oh, I look a mess,” she says as she gently pats her hair ensuring not a strand is out of place. This is her response every time she gets a flattering remark. I almost want to ask her how she expects me to respond to that. Sorry, but I inflate my husband’s ego enough at home. I don’t have the energy to inflate hers as well.

Ignoring her ill attempt to downplay my compliment, I look over my menu even though I already know what I’m going to get. The same thing I get everywhere I go; a salad with balsamic vinaigrette dressing. My eating habits stem from another lesson my mother taught me on how to keep a rich man. Always maintain your appearance. When you’re younger, that involves eating right, watching calories, and exercising. And as I age, that will evolve into going under the knife to get a nip, tuck, and lift where needed.