Not even close

The chamber of the State Senate is usually a place of practiced boredom, but today the air feels thick, like the moments before a summer storm. I stand at the podium, the weight of the speech Naomi wrote resting in my hands. I don't focus on the words—they flow out of me with a precision I haven't felt in years—but I focus on the faces.

To my left, my fellow Republicans are frozen. They expected the "disaster" to stumble, to apologize, to fade away. Instead, they’re watching a man they thought was dead suddenly command the room. Across the aisle, the opposition is leaning forward, their faces a mix of confusion and mounting alarm. The galleries are packed, the silence so absolute I can hear the hum of the air conditioning.

As I call for the vote, the tension snaps.

One by one, the lights on the board flip to green. The "no" votes are sparse, hesitant. My peers are voting with their eyes darting toward the back of the room, as if they can feel the invisible pressure Naomi promised she’d apply. When the final tally is read, the gavel cracks against the wood, and the room erupts. It’s not a celebration; it’s a roar of disbelief.

I’ve passed the unpassable.

I step down from the dais, my legs feeling steadier than they have in months. Naomi is waiting for me at the edge of the floor. She isn't cheering; she isn't even smiling. She’s just watching the chaos with the calm of a conductor.

She steps into my path, her eyes locking onto mine with a sharp, proprietary spark.

"So," she says, her voice a low hum beneath the shouting of the sergeant-at-arms. "I am hired, boss. Correct?"

I look at the board—the green lights still glowing—and then back at her. The "nothing to lose" version of me is gone. This version feels like a weapon.

"Correct," I say.

She doesn't waste a second. She turns and leads me toward the side exit, but even through the thick mahogany doors, I can hear the world reacting. In the staff lounge just outside the chamber, three different television monitors are screaming at each other.

I catch a glimpse of the headlines as we walk past. MSNBC is already running a "Breaking News" banner: THE RISE OF THE RADICAL RIGHT? A NEW FACIST PLAYBOOK. Their lead anchor is mid-sentence, her voice dripping with disbelief as she describes my speech as a "calculated **** on civil safety."

I flick my eyes to the next screen. CNN has a split-screen of me and Charlotte. THE KENNEDY TRAITOR, the ticker reads. Their panel is already dissecting Naomi’s "defection," calling her a mercenary who traded her legacy for a seat at the table of an extremist.

The weight of it should be crushing. Instead, it feels like armor.

"They're calling you a traitor," I mutter, nodding toward the screen. "And apparently, I'm a fascist now."

Naomi doesn't even look at the monitors. She keeps her stride long and confident. "If they aren't calling you names, you aren't doing anything worth reporting. Let them scream. It just means they've lost the ability to stop us."

She pushes open the heavy exterior doors. A pack of Fox News reporters is already swarming the steps, cameras held high, mics extended like spears. They aren't screaming; they’re waiting for the man who just pulled off the impossible.

"This way, gentlemen," Naomi calls out, her voice cutting through the noise with effortless authority. She begins to guide them toward me, her hand subtly directing the flow of the crowd, positioning the cameras to catch my best angle while the echoes of the other networks continue to buzz in the background.

She’s already building the myth. And as the lights hit my face, I realize I’m not just a senator anymore. I’m a story she’s writing in real-time.