Chapter 118

Next morning at work, I feel like a zombie. I slept last night, finally, though it was more a collapse out of necessity than anything restful. I certainly don’t feel rested this morning, dragging my sluggish body through the office doors and to my cubicle.

After flopping down into my desk chair, I exhale a lengthy exhale. At least now, I can busy myself with work again. I set about to do just that, opening my unfinished file from the day before – when a popup message from Kimberly opens over top of my work.

My office. 5 minutes. Get your coffee first, you look like death.

I snort a small laugh and move to obey. The coffee pot feels a thousand miles away but I eventually make it there. Blessedly someone else has already started the brew. I’m not even the first one there with a mug.

My co-worker Sabrina is in her late-twenties with a head full of blonde locks pulled up in a high-ponytail. Her makeup is always on point, eyeliner crisp and straight and perfect. I’ve secretly been building up courage to ask her for tips.

That bravery is not going to find me this morning, however. I didn’t even bother with eyeliner before I left. All I have on is some powder and light shadow.

We haven’t talked one-on-one very much, but I can tell just from how she acts in the office that Sabrina has been with the company for some time, perhaps since straight out of college.

It’s not my business, but I notice she’s not married. With that figure, she probably hasn’t had children. It’s impossible to say though, without just asking.

Shaking my head, I scold myself. I shouldn’t compare myself to her, just because on the outside, she seems to be living the life I maybe could have.

I would never trade my children though. Not for a universe full of second-chances.

“Good morning, Esther,” Sabrina says brightly.

I don’t hate morning people. I usually am one.

Today is an exception.

“Good morning, Sabrina.”

“Need that coffee today, huh?” she says, smiling.

God, I really must look like hell. “Yeah.”

“It’s almost ready.”

“Thanks.”

Sabrina smiles bigger, then turns to the coffee maker. Side by side, we wait in awkward silence. I should probably say something to fill the voice, but I’m feeling really off today.

When it’s finally ready, Sabrina turns to me. “You go first. I think you need it more.”

Maybe that should annoy me. She can’t possibly mean that in any flattering way. But it’s fine. I will take the generous offer of cutting in line in exchanged for some light ribbing.

Coffee poured, I turn back to her. “Thanks.”

“Take it easy,” she says and moves into the spot I’ve emptied.

Shuffling my feet, I move into Kimberly’s office. I’m grateful when she gestures toward one of her chairs; even more so when she waits for me to take my first sip of coffee before starting our meeting.

“We have to talk about your usual assignments,” Kimberly says.

I lower my mug. “Is my work unacceptable?”

“Nothing like that. Your work is stellar, as always.” Kimberly waves away those concerns. “This is more of a concern regarding recent changes you’ve made to your personal life.”

She’s talking about Miles. I can tell just from the way she’s dancing around it. If she meant my divorce, she would just say that. “Oh.”

“I’m going to start assigning Sabrina to cover any Miles Hamilton stories,” Kimberly says.

I lean forward. “I am perfectly capable of separating business from my personal life.”

“This isn’t a reflection on your work, Esther. But you, I’m sure, can see how sending you in possible close proximity with Representative Hamilton would not be the best plan for anyone involved. Besides, there’s no shortage of other stories to cover. Even if you want to continue reporting on politics, we can send you to different events. There’s no shortage of them in this city.”

Disappointment surges through me, but I try to push it down. This is a curtesy that Kimberly is extending to me here. Seeing Miles again, having to interview him… Everything about it would hurt me. Focusing elsewhere is the best thing for me. For both of us.

“Okay,” I say, slumping a little. I sip at my coffee.

“These things happen,” Kimberly says. “You’ll forget about him by year’s end.”

I really, really doubt that’s possible, but knowing she means well, I give her a small, thankful smile anyway.

“Now,” Kimberly looks down at her paperwork. “Don’t you have connections at Rockview Elite Country Club?”

“Esther!” Paige says with delight as I enter the clubhouse of the Rockview Elite Country Club, my press pass around my neck. When she notices it dangling at my front, she smiles brighter. “Look at you! We knew you could do it. I always believed in you. And now here you are, a bigshot reporter.”

By now, the coffee has kicked in. Even if it hadn’t, her kindness would have lifted my spirits. I’ve been gone from here for too long. Paige and Mr. Carver are good people, and I want to keep them in my life.

“I’ve missed you,” I tell her with open affection.

She easily returns it, giving me a hug. When she pulls back, she says, “Come on. Mr. Carter is out in the courtyard. The party is already starting.”

I follow Paige out the backdoors to where a political donor party is in full swing. I see Mr. Carter off to the side, giving directions to the staff.

The guests are mostly people I recognize, high-paying donors and politicians eager to make wealthy acquaintances. I see the Georges among them. My sources tell me they are the backers of this particular mixer.

As they are big donors for the Hamiltons, I’m surprised to see Mr. George talking to one of Miles’s rivals. Governor Woodruff is well like in his state and has amassed quite a following wishing for him to run for president.

As he is the same political affiliation as Miles, they would need to face off against each other in the primary election, before the winner between the two of them would be added to the ticket for the main election.

Huh. Why would Mr. George choose to back a different candidate?

Moving closer, I fully intend to ask him.

My personal feelings aside, this kind of monetary shift could create its own scandal in the political world. Candidates are made or forgotten based on the money their backers put toward their campaign.

The George’s have always been big money.

For Miles to lose that, will be a large hit against him.

I quicken my pace, eager to interview Mr. George himself.

Yet, before I get there, I’m abruptly stopped my Mrs. George stepping directly into my path. She peers at me with a narrow-eyed gaze.

“Where is your uniform?” she says. “Has this place truly let itself fall so far that employees don’t wear uniforms now?”

“But I’m not –”

“No backtalk,” Mrs. George says with a huff. “Don’t they teach you anything? I will have to speak with Mr. Carver later. Here.”

As I’m standing there startled, she shoves a glass into my hand. It’s an empty champagne flute.

“I trust your legs aren’t broken?” she sneers. “Refill my champagne. Now.”