They treat me as soldier

The moment we step inside, Naomi’s warmth shuts off like a switch. It’s jarring, like the air has suddenly been sucked out of the room.

Charlotte is already waiting for us. She’s seated on the couch in a short black dress, her thin straps framing a figure that belongs on a runway. She crosses one leg over the other, an angled, deliberate motion that ensures I notice. Her expression is a businesslike smile—polite, distant, and entirely in control.

I watch Naomi move ahead of me. The transformation is immediate. The admiring, almost school-girl warmth she used in the hallway evaporates in a single step. Her posture tightens. Her stride becomes measured, balanced—almost military. She doesn’t look back at me. Not once. She walks until she’s standing directly behind Charlotte, then clicks into perfect, frozen stillness.

The compliments are gone. The small talk is dead. The Naomi I thought I was getting to know has been replaced by a blade. She isn’t looking at my ego anymore; she’s a strategist assessing a variable. She’s studying my posture, my breathing, my hesitation—calculating exactly how much of a threat I pose.

I step forward, forcing a bit of normalcy into the room, and offer my hand.

Charlotte doesn’t stand. She doesn’t even greet me. She just glances at my outstretched arm as if it’s a piece of debris she’d rather not touch. The rejection hangs in the air, cold and deliberate.

Fine. I do the only thing I can to **** her to acknowledge I’m a person: I sit down right beside her.

I’m not close enough to be inappropriate, but I’m close enough that she has to register my heat. She shifts a fraction of an inch away, still refusing to meet my eyes. She studies me with the detached curiosity of a master artisan examining a cracked tool, weighing whether it’s worth the effort to repair or if it’s easier to just throw it in the trash.

I glance at Naomi. She’s still a statue. A weapon in a silk suit.

“State Senator,” Charlotte finally speaks. Her voice is smooth, but it’s an empty vessel.

She doesn’t use my name. She doesn’t even give me a “Mr. Doe.” She just uses my title like a medical diagnosis.

“You’re going to run against him again,” she continues. Her tone is flat, as if we’re discussing a scheduling conflict rather than the wreckage of my life.

My stomach tightens. “Against… my rival?”

She doesn’t bother to confirm. She just bulldozes through my question. “But not for Congress.” She takes a slow, deliberate inhale. “For governor.”

The words hit me like a physical punch. “Governor of California? Me?” I repeat, the absurdity of it ringing in my ears.

Charlotte doesn’t give me a second to breathe. “You will run as yourself, with your awful political views,” she says, her tone sharpening. “Your politics stay the same. That is the only part of you that still functions. Everything else will be rebuilt. Your discipline. Your image. Your habits. Your weaknesses. Your personal life.”

I **** a sarcastic laugh, trying to claw back some dignity. “All of it? Was there anything you actually liked about me?”

She ignores me. Without even looking at me, she delivers the final sentence. “Naomi will handle you.”

Naomi finally speaks, her voice calm and absolute. “For the next three and a half years,” she says, “I will be by your side. Every day. Every hour. Your schedule, your habits, your image—it will all be corrected.”

It doesn't sound like a promise. It sounds like a sentence.

I let the silence stretch, feeling both of them watching me—Charlotte with her cold calculation, Naomi with that unreadable operative stillness. Then, I exhale, slow and deliberate.

“No,” I say.

Charlotte’s eyes narrow by a fraction. It’s the first real reaction I’ve managed to pull out of her.

I lean back, forcing myself to hold that icy gaze. “The world sees Naomi as your shadow. Your fixer. Your dog. No one is going to believe she’s suddenly my handler. Not even if I agreed to this.”

I keep my voice low but steady. “And why would I? Why would I sign my life over to you? Why would I let you rebuild me like some broken project you found on the curb?”

The room goes dead still. Not explosive—just… heavy. Like they were waiting to see if I actually had enough spine left to say it. For the first time since I walked into this suite, I feel like I’ve actually landed a hit.