He doesn't care. The first time I had a meal prepared for him when he got home from work, he cast me a suspicious look as if I was about to poison him, reassuring me that this was in no way what he expected of me. He compliments me on even the most simple dishes, but I know he only does it to be polite. He enjoys taking me out to fancy restaurants a lot more, and to be honest, so do I.
Despite the vast size of the penthouse, there's also not much cleaning for me to do, because he hires staff for that. I always try to be out of the house when they show up because I feel terribly awkward when there's someone scurrying around the place, doing things that I could be doing just as easily, and I'm simply lounging on the couch like some kind of Beverly Hills housewife.
I know things will change eventually. We're spending more time at his campaign headquarters already, and while his public or semi-public appearances are still few at this point, they will increase in number in just a few more weeks. I will also have to prepare for more than just standing at his side, enduring superficial small talk. I've already been briefed on his main political stances and the potential areas of his campaign in which I could play a more prominent role. Jared was sitting next to me when his campaign manager first mentioned the possibility of me campaigning by myself at the League of Women Voters. I turned around to try to read the look on his face. It was obvious that he was hoping I would agree to do it, but he wanted to leave the decision up to me.
I still don't know what to do about it. This is big. I thought this would just be about me being his plaything at home and something pretty to have on his arm when he had to appear in public. I never imagined that I would be asked to speak on his behalf. He must trust me a lot if he's willing to put this much responsibility in my hands.
His trust means a lot to me, but it also makes me feel worse about the notes I’ve been writing about our relationship. I've been writing almost every day since I've moved in with him. At first, my writing was mostly an outlet, a way for me to cope with this situation. But day by day, I saw the journalist coming through as I wrote. My notes are no longer just reflections about what happened between us and how I feel about it. More and more, they've progressed into their own narrative and evolved into what resembles an article or editorial story. I'm distancing myself from the writing and slowly turning it into something else.
I'm turning it into something that I could sell.
It's not like I'm actively planning to sell him out like that, but I know that I could. With what I know about him, and the more I learn about his personality, his darkness, his weird obsessions by the day - I could destroy him.
And he has no idea.
I'm in the middle of another writing spree, recording the events of last night, when I receive an unexpected e-mail.
It's from Brandon.
"Can't reach you by phone. Your contract ran out. You need to come and clean out your desk asap!"
Fuck! I completely forgot about my desk at the co-working office. I was so occupied with everything that went on between me and Jared that this part of my previous life totally slipped my mind. Just like I forgot that I had to switch off my old phone after Jared gave me a new one. I never informed anyone about my new number because I hadn’t thought it was necessary. I had pretty much no social life and the few acquaintances I'd made since moving to the city probably didn't even notice that I seemed to have disappeared into thin air a couple of months ago. It's kind of sad to admit, but true.
I check the time. It's not even two in the afternoon, so there's still plenty of time for me to get to the co-working space today. It's not like I have anything else to do and Jared won't be home before six or seven, if then. It's probably best to get this over with.
My reply to Brandon is just as short and to the point as his e-mail was.
"Sorry about that! Will come over later today!"
Right after I'm done writing.
Chapter Thirty
Ann
It's already late afternoon by the time I make it to my old workplace. I delayed my visit as late as possible because I was hoping it would mean fewer people would still be there when I arrived. I'm not particularly excited about going there and seeing anyone, and wish I could just avoid it altogether, but that would be cowardly - and a waste of money. Extending my contract to keep my desk for whatever results after my arrangement with Jared ends wouldn't cost so much that it would pose a financial problem, but it feels wrong. My main motivation for keeping it would be because I’m too much of a coward to show up and pack up my things. I have no plans of returning, even after Jared is done with me.
Thinking about the finality of Jared’s and my contract makes me feel sick to my stomach. He may ask me to prolong the contract because a year is a very short period of time to establish a political career. But he only needs me around long enough to get elected to Congress. He claims that’s as far as he's trying to go right now.
"After that, any further aspirations will be based on my achievements in Congress and not on my character credentials." That is what he said, and that is why his campaign managers suggested he only introduce a girlfriend and not a wife. A divorce could hurt his political career a lot more than a simple break-up.
It's all spelled out in the contract.
Soon enough, I will no longer be needed.
But not yet. I cast the sorrowful thoughts aside and gather myself, remembering who I am. I'm pretty good at keeping my heart safe from harm. I'm strong, I'm smart, I'm independent. Growing up with a man like my father and an older brother who inherited all of his bad traits can do that to a woman. Sometimes I feel like I should almost be grateful that they were such assholes. Otherwise, I wouldn't be the person I am today - and I kind of like that person.
I took the bus to my old office, even though I know that Jared would hate it if he knew I had taken public transportation. He told me to always use one of his drivers when I needed to go anywhere, but I just can't get used to that. It feels excessive and unnecessary. Besides, showing up in a fancy limousine with a personal driver would definitely attract the kind of attention that I'm trying to avoid at all costs. I just want to sneak in, clear out my desk, leave the key, and sneak out as quickly as possible.
Of course, that's not at all what life has planned for me today.
I take a deep breath before I use my IC card to get access to the building that had been my second home for so long. I used to love coming here, in the beginning. That was before I started that damn adventure with Brandon and doubting my decision to be a freelance reporter. I should have known that money and living the dream don't come hand in hand; they almost never do. Still, I guess in a way one could say that working as a journalist brought me closer to my goal of not having to work by the time I'm thirty - just not how I suspected it would.
I'm smiling as this thought bounces around inside my head. It may only be born out of a desire to legitimize a decision I still don't feel entirely comfortable with, but it makes me happy nonetheless.
My smile fades when I enter the loft space that serves as the main working area for most of the people who work at fixed desks here. The place is pretty crowded today, and I'm greeted with a lot more familiar faces than I was hoping to see.