No, just refuse

Charlotte’s expression tightens—a tiny crack in the marble, but unmistakable. Her crossed leg starts bouncing again, faster and sharper. It’s a rhythmic, hypnotic twitch that betrays an irritation she can’t quite bury.

I can’t help it; my eyes flick down, just for a second. The movement is impossible to ignore, and honestly, in this lighting, it’s the most interesting thing in the room.

“You’re being dramatic,” she says, her voice clipped. “And ungrateful.”

She reaches for the folder on the table, opening it with a sharp snap, and slides the glossy photos toward me. There they are. The evidence of that night. Evidence that I was, apparently, having a much better time than I am right now.

Her leg bounces harder.

“You seem to forget what I have,” Charlotte says, her eyes searching for a flinch. “What I can release.”

I look at the photos, then back at her posture—the tension in her thigh, the way the silk of her dress shifts with each irritated rhythm. I let out a short, breathy laugh. It’s a joke, right? It has to be. This is some elaborate, high-society hazing ritual.

“This?” I say, my voice tilting into a grin. “This is your big move? Charlotte, I’ve seen better composition in a high school yearbook. If you wanted to see me with my shirt off again, you could have just asked. You didn't need to involve a private investigator.”

Her jaw tightens. The bounce speeds up. She doesn't find me funny.

“I’m a political nobody, Charlotte,” I say, leaning into the absurdity. “I’m the guy people use as a 'What Not To Do' slide in campaign seminars. You think anyone cares enough to **** me? You think these pictures would ruin me more than that video of me trying to karaoke Sinatra while drunk? Please.”

My gaze slips again—involuntary, stupid, human—to that bouncing leg. “Besides, the lighting in these is terrible. If we’re going to do a scandal, let's at least get my good side. We can go back to the bedroom now and re-shoot if you’re feeling nostalgic.”

Charlotte’s irritation sharpens into something colder, something dangerous. But I’m on a roll now, the denial fueling a reckless kind of bravery.

I lean back, putting air between us. “I’ll go to the New York Times myself. Newsweek. Hell, I’ll leak the photos. But babe…” I let the word land, watching it hit her like a physical insult. “…it’ll hurt you more.”

Charlotte freezes. I lean in, my voice dropping to a low, deliberate crawl, half-teasing, half-poison. “'The Kennedy Who Submitted to a {last_name)—Politically.' Think of the headlines. Your father would have a stroke, and your voters would think you’ve developed a very specific, very questionable taste in ‘projects.’ Is that the brand you’re going for? Charity for fallen senators?”

The effect is immediate. Her entire body goes rigid. Her leg stops mid-bounce. Her fingers dig into the couch cushion until her knuckles turn white. I hear the faint, sharp click of her teeth locking together.

She is fixed on me now, her bluish-green eyes locked onto mine. Fury is rising, but there’s a flicker of something else—humiliation, or maybe just the shock that I’m not crawling at her feet. She doesn’t blink. She doesn’t breathe.

She’s so focused on my mouth that she doesn't notice anything else.

Not even Naomi.

I feel a movement behind me—a soft shift of air, the faintest change in the room’s gravity. Naomi has repositioned herself. She’s no longer standing behind her employer.

She’s behind me.

Silent. Close. I can almost feel the heat radiating off her.

Charlotte is blind to it, locked into a cold, furious tunnel vision.

“You think that’s funny,” she says, her voice thin and strained like a wire about to snap.

“I think it’s hilarious,” I say, though my heart is starting to hammer against my ribs in a way that isn't particularly funny at all. “The great Charlotte Kennedy, reduced to playing paparazzi because she can't get me out of her head. It’s flattering, really.”

Her leg starts bouncing again—furious, rapid, uncontrollable. She’s losing the thread. She tries to regain the high ground, her voice **** back into a mask of deliberation. “You were chosen because you are the only Republican in this state with a name people recognize. You’re a tragic fall, a broken icon. You are the only one who can be rebuilt into something useful.”

Her leg bounces harder—the tell of a woman who has lost control of the script.

I look at her one last time—the dress, the pride, the way she’s looking at me like she wants to either kill me or kiss me just to shut me up. I decide to stick with the "No."

“No,” I say, my grin fading into something steadier. “Find another project, Charlotte. I’m retired.”

Charlotte’s leg stops instantly. Her posture stiffens. Her eyes flare with a surgical fury, and I realize the joke might be over.

She still hasn't looked at Naomi.

But I have. Naomi stands behind my shoulder now—silent, steady, unreadable. The room has shifted, quietly and precisely, and as I look at the two of them, I realize I might have just joked my way into a much deeper hole than I intended.