EPILOGUE
5 YEARS LATER
I sat in the back of the taxi as it coursed across town, my suitcases filled beside me. I cleared my throat, directing the taxi driver, who had made a wrong turn a few roads back.
“I am so sorry, Miss,” he declared, gesturing with his hands.
But I laughed evenly. “It’s okay. I usually get lost on my way out here. Don’t worry about it for a moment.”
He pulled up outside of the grand house. Brick, old, with this sort of other-century charm. I smiled at it, bringing my fingers to the glass. Home.
The taxi driver stood outside, helping me gather my suitcases, my boxes.
“You don’t have much stuff,” he said, shrugging. “You are moving here?”
I nodded, bringing my hair around my ear. “This is when I can start accumulating stuff, I suppose,” I said, laughing.
“All right, Congresswoman,” the taxi driver said. “I suppose you know best, no?”
I laughed, reaching into my purse. I paid the man double, thanking him for his assistance with my bags. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
I turned toward the grand home before me, breathing evenly. I couldn’t believe the day had finally arrived.
He appeared on the front steps then. He was clad in jeans, a sexy V-neck T-shirt. He looked so casual, so primal before me. I hadn’t seen him without a suit in what seemed like years.
Outside of the bedroom, of course.
He brought his hands around my neck and kissed me, there, in front of the house. He sighed, his eyes large. “The wait is over, Amanda,” he whispered. “It’s finally over.”
I smiled, knowing how grateful I was. The past five years had been a struggle.
Xavier began helping me with my bags, bringing them up into the house we would now share together: the house he and his wife, Camille, had purchased nearly 15 years before. “She never liked it anyway,” Xavier had declared months ago, when he’d proposed this final addition to our plan. “I don’t think she’ll miss the place.”
But already, the brick mansion was stealing my heart. The interior was well-lit, with this remarkable, stone fireplace in the center. Because it was winter, a fire was brimming in the fireplace, such a greeting after the winter chill had escalated throughout my body. I rubbed my hands next to it as Xavier brought in the last of the bags. He set them by the winding staircase and tapped the couch beside him as he collapsed.
I sat next to him, gazing at the fire. It felt so good to be natural beside him, without feeling that everything was about to fall apart—as it had, several times throughout the previous five years. The press had nearly gotten wind of it a few times, especially during the election season. They were continually asking us questions about each other, trying to get us to slip up. But we never did. We were professionals.
Of course, after Xavier won the election, I had to move forward with my career. He understood, and he supported me—without helping me, which had been essential for my procedure. I outlined the reasons why I was essential to Congress, how I had helped the president through every element of his campaign trail. And I’d been voted in—incredibly—as a 31-year-old woman, still a bit bright-eyed, with big, brimming ideas. I’d made great strides since my arrival.
Being at Congress meant that I still saw the president during the day. However, it had never been enough. We would pass each other, our eyes locked forward, still feeling the heat from each other’s bodies. It nearly drove me crazy some days. But most days, I understood: this was our agreement with Camille, his wife. We weren’t to ruin her first ladyship. This was her only asking.
And, all in all, she’d been a remarkable first lady. She’d made great strides with younger elementary education programs, working alongside Xavier as he altered the education program of the entire country. With a few minor hiccups along the way—and with me working Congress tooth and nail to get the bill passed—Xavier was able to make great changes. It had been beautiful. Already, people were remembering this president for his achievements. And Xavier’s incredible, bountiful presidency had actually paved the way for another Democrat, a member of his own party, to churn into the White House seat. I’d clapped heartily at his inauguration, of course, knowing in my heart that it wasn’t yet my turn. I was only 34 years old. I had so much learning, so much living to do.
“How was it when Camille left?” I asked Xavier there, as we sat on the couch.
Xavier turned toward me, his eyes a bit far away. “She told me she would have left me anyway, even if we didn’t have this deal.” He laughed a bit at these words. “I thanked her for staying, for keeping my presidency together. I know, of course, that she has to feel that she wanted to leave me. Otherwise, it would feel wrong—it wouldn’t feel like her choice. But I know that she has a boyfriend in New York. I know that she has plans to move on, to have a life of her own.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say. It was strange, the way people came together. It was strange, the way they came apart.
“But now. I have you,” Xavier murmured, kissing my cheek.
“How should we tell everyone?” I whispered. It had been over a month since the inauguration of the new president, which meant it had been four months since the election. God, it seemed that time was moving both too fast and too slow, all the time. Once, I had been a young and bright 29-year-old. And now, I felt my limbs aging, every day.
Xavier thought for a moment. “I have a PR guy on it. He says it’s tricky, but it can be done. It surely won’t hurt your career, either. We were very careful. I never gave you a single recommendation.” Xavier laughed, shaking his head. “I remember a reporter once asking me if I didn’t like your policies, if I didn’t like your ideas on the bill. I wanted to scoff, to tell her everything. But I knew you’d kill me.”
I smiled. “I wanted it to feel like I’d worked my way to the top, on my own.”
“You never needed my help,” Xavier murmured. “You never needed anyone’s help.”
I bowed my head. “I need you, though. I need you more than anything.”
We sat in silence, brimming with the knowledge that we could finally be together, out in the open. We could go to brunch together, to the theater together. We could go out on double dates. I could introduce him to my family, if I wanted. Everything was different. He wasn’t the president, and I wasn’t his campaign manager. We were just people, struggling to survive and finding something particularly special along the way.
Xavier snapped his fingers then. He stood up, leaving me still, on the couch. “Do you want to make a toast? I have this aged bottle of red. I’ve been saving it.”
I nodded, standing up before him. “Of course,” I murmured, a bit sleepy. Something about making these big, overarching decisions seemed to conk me out.
Xavier was gone in an instant, rushing down toward the cellar. He left me alone, to my own devices, for several minutes. I began to roam the house by myself, gazing at the beautiful artwork. I wondered if the place had been decorated with Camille’s tastes in mind; I wondered if I could change anything, personalize anything to my taste.
I imagined the grand parties we would have at this place. The friends—and non-friends, the political socialites—would gather in the foyer, kissing each other on the cheeks, calling out to each other, eating hors d’oeuvres. Perhaps we would have my campaign party here. I imagined myself, then, 10 years down the line. A presidential candidate. The first woman to rule the office, poised with Xavier by my side. I shivered at the mere thought of it.
For a moment, I allowed my mind to shift back to my old life. Immediately after Jason—that terrorizing brute who I’d heard had accepted a job in the state of Illinois, for some political agency in Chicago—had been revealed by Xavier, I’d moved back into my apartment. Rachel had grown quite serious with Michael in the months after they met, and I knew that I needed to get out of their way, to bring myself back to the place I belonged. I remembered their wedding—the bright, outdoor ceremony the summer before Xavier’s second election. I remembered standing by her side at the helm of the ceremony, feeling myself brimming with such joy for her. My best friend in the world, finally meeting her happiness, head-on.
Suddenly, the cellar door creaked open. I stood, face-to-face with Xavier once more, in the kitchen. My fingers passed over the cold, beautiful countertop. My eyes met with Xavier’s. In that moment, a bit of tension flitted through the air. I swallowed, unable to breathe.
In Xavier’s hand, he held a bottle of aged wine and two wine glasses. He walked forward, his eyes still on me. He tapped each glass on the counter, and the sound rang throughout the air. He uncorked the wine and poured it, allowing it to breathe for only a moment. And then, he passed the wine to me.
I didn’t say anything. I waited as he pushed his wine glass into the air, as if he were about to make a toast.
He began.
“Amanda,” he said, his voice soft. “You have been a constant joy in my life. You’ve guided me through two presidencies. You’ve held my hand during difficult times. You’ve waited for me, until this final day when we can finally come together and be free with each other, find love with each other, without prying eyes. I don’t think I can ever thank you enough for it.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say. My heart had begun to swell in my chest.
He continued. He brought his hand into his pocket and revealed a small, black box. He sent his wine glass back to the counter. I noted that his hands were shaking. He bent down on one knee, allowing his dark, penetrating eyes to look up toward me—so deep, so full of wisdom, so full of love, just as they’d been all those years ago, when this all had begun.
“I want you to be my wife, Amanda. I want you to be by my side through thick and thin, and I want to do the same for you. I love you.” He opened the box then, revealing this stunning, immaculate diamond ring.
I brought my hands to my face, feeling the tears riding hot, fast down my cheeks. My mind knew my answer. I brought my left hand toward him, and he drew the engagement ring over my finger. I watched as it glowed in the subtle candlelight of the beautiful kitchen. I nodded, with passion, with zeal, unable to form the words.
Xavier understood, just as he always had. He brought his body up, toward me, and he kissed me, bending me over the countertop in the new home we shared together. Our lives were joined, then. We were united: at the helm of the country, our hands linked and our eyes locked together. Nothing could tear us apart.
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Claire Adams
Chapter One
Asher
I glanced at myself in the mirror to see the image of a young man dressed in a subdued business suit reflecting back at me. He sat in silence on the sofa in the seating area, studying the artwork hanging on the wall next to the mirror.
It was a large piece, perhaps five feet across and four feet high. It consisted of a small red square in the top left hand corner against a white background. Countering the geometric, ordered simplicity were splashes of bold color sprayed across the entire right hand side in a chaos of strokes. It was as though all of the artist's pent-up rage and frustration had been poured out onto that canvas. It was a work of genius, really. In a way, that red square represented everyone trying to play their roles and keep the madness, and chaos, contained and controlled.
A young man approached and looked up at the artwork. He looked at the painting for a few seconds, shrugged, and then turned his attention to me.
“Hi,” he said, somewhat nervously. “Do you mind?” He motioned to the empty seat next to me on the sofa. “I have a meeting in this boardroom in a few minutes,” he added as he nodded toward the closed door to our left.
“Don’t mind at all,” I said, smiling warmly as I shifted to make more space for the newcomer. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks,” the young man replied, looking a bit flustered. His ill-fitting suit appeared to be uncomfortable, which only added to the somewhat flustered air he exuded. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his forehead and the sides of his neck.
“I'm Jason, by the way,” he said to me as he put down his briefcase and took a seat.
“Nice to meet you, Jason,” I said, extending a hand to the man. “I'm A—, er, Andrew . . . Andrew,” I replied as we shook hands. I caught myself before I could reveal too much. “I'm with the Sinclair Agency,” I added.
“Nice to meet ya, Andrew.”
“Are you with Winston?”
“No. I'm also with Sinclair. You been at the agency long?” Jason questioned.
I smiled strangely and nodded. “You could say that.”
“It's my first month here,” Jason said. “I was just assigned to the PR project for the Harry Winston Watch Company like three days ago. Now, here I am presenting at a brainstorming meeting. I’m a bit of a nervous wreck. Word is the CEO of the agency, Asher Sinclair, isn't too happy about the performance of the latest line of athletic watches in the first quarter of the year.”
I nodded. “I heard the same. Say, what's the word on Mr. Sinclair these days? What does the marketing department think about him?”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “Uh, don't you already know a bunch about Asher Sinclair? I mean, you did say you've been working here a while. What department did you say you were with again? I didn't catch it the first time.”
“I'm with finance. We don't chat too much about the boss. I think there are too many people who have to answer to him directly.”
“Oh. Well, this might help. Check this out,” Jason said as he opened his briefcase and took out the latest issue of Forbes magazine. “There's a feature piece on Asher Sinclair in here.”
“Is there, now?”
“Oh, yeah. I've read it like three times already. The guy's like, man, I dunno, Bruce Wayne or something. I can't help wondering if he's got a Bat Cave and a Bat suit up in some old family mansion in the hills.”
I chuckled. “Maybe he does have a Bat suit.”
“He's an odd dude. It’s a little strange that almost nobody knows what he looks like. There aren't even any photos of him on social media or anything like that. I don’t know how he keeps such a low profile. But, I guess I would, too, if I were in his shoes. It couldn’t have been easy for him, the way he grew up.”
“And, how was that?”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “You really don't know? Are you sure you've been at this firm for a while, man?”
“I just like to cross reference the stories I hear. It’s interesting how different they can be. So, what is it that you think you know about how Asher Sinclair grew up?”
“Well, rumor has it that his family situation was, you know, kind of troubled. I mean, being a millionaire by 18 cannot make for an average childhood or normal teenage years. And then the big kicker: when his grandfather, founder of the Sinclair Agency, passed away, he left the majority shares and control of the company to Asher instead of Asher's father. Now come on, how many 20-year-olds do you know who not only get to become sudden billionaires, but also the head of one of the most powerful PR firms in North America? That sort of stuff has got to mess with your head a little.”
“It might, I suppose. Although, for someone with the right resolve, the right constitution, with an insatiable urge to achieve and succeed, it could be the perfect trial by fire.”
Jason nodded. “Yeah, you could be right. And by all accounts, the kid pulled through that fiery trial like a beast. According to everything I’ve heard or read, everyone was expecting the corporation to crash and burn after being thrust like that into the hands of a kid. And, I’m sure you know, but shares did initially plummet.
“Man, I don’t know what's in Asher Sinclair's blood, but there must be something superhuman mixed in. After all, here it is 12 years after he became CEO and those shares are worth three times what they were before. Three freakin' times, man! The guy's a bona fide genius. Someone even told me he's got his own personal racetrack and Formula One car!”
I grinned. “I've heard he's a decent driver, but doesn't race formally because it would put him in the spotlight, and you already said he keeps a low profile. A genius, huh? Maybe he was just lucky and made a few really good decisions at just the right time.”
“Or maybe he really is a genius.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Jason checked his watch and dabbed at his forehead again with his handkerchief, looking decidedly nervous. “Oh boy, the meeting's about to start. You know, they say Mr. Sinclair often drops in on these meetings incognito. Because so few people actually know what he looks like, he's able to do that. Man, I sure hope he's not gonna be there today.”
“Relax, Jason. I'm sure he'll be receptive to your ideas if he is.”
“I'm new here. This is one of the most prestigious agencies in the country. I do not want to mess this up. This is my dream job! And, if Asher Sinclair is in there and I mess up or something… Oh God, I don't even want to think about it. I think I'm gonna throw up.”
I placed a reassuring hand on Jason's shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
“Relax, kid, relax. I'm sure you've got some good ideas. Present them with conviction and passion. Chances are you'll impress the team, and maybe even the boss himself if he's in there.”
“I actually hope he isn't.”
“Just relax, Jason. Take a few breaths.”
“All right, I'm trying, I'm trying. I really shouldn't have had that third coffee before this.”
I laughed warmly. “No, you probably shouldn't have,” I agreed with a chuckle. “Come on, I think the meeting's about to get started. Let's go find a seat.”
***
I was sitting at the back of the boardroom keeping as low of a profile as I could. To that point, I'd been pretty unimpressed with anything that had been presented. The line of athletic outdoor watches from the Harry Winston Company had been performing, quite frankly, abysmally in the market. I needed to know why, and I needed to correct it.
Jason had presented a few pretty decent ideas considering they’d only given him a couple days of notice, but none of them struck me as being revolutionary or bold enough to tackle the issue of poor sales.
The problem was, as I saw it, everyone was continuing to run with the same theme we already had running—a theme I had originally conceived, but also one that had not performed as I’d hoped. I’m not immune to falling a little short sometimes. However, this particular shortcoming was proving to be costly—not just financially, but also to the reputation of my PR firm.
I was about to quietly leave through the door to my left, feeling frustrated with the lack of creative ideas, when the next presenter stood and made her way to the front of the boardroom. I couldn't help but stare. There was something about this woman that hit me like a punch to the gut.
She was beautiful—that much was obvious—but not in a traditional sense. I didn't particularly care for “conventional” women and this woman was anything but conventional. My eyes traced her petite frame, admiring the generous curves she had in all the right places.
When she turned and looked up, her striking blue eyes mesmerized me. They captivated from beneath finely-arched eyebrows and a mane of jet-black hair, which was tied up impeccably for this occasion—very businesslike, but still begging to be untied and let loose. Her sense of style was unquestionable. This was a woman who knew just what to wear to grab everyone's attention, but not in a revealing way. Everything about her was just the right mix of formal and bold with a splash of sexy. I was intrigued from the moment I laid eyes on her—very intrigued.
I leaned back in my chair and grinned, aiming the smile at her even though I was fully aware she wasn’t looking in my direction and probably couldn't even see me while the projector shone in her eyes—which, might I add, gave them an almost ethereal sparkle.
She brought up the main image of the poster and billboard campaign we'd been running for the Harry Winston watches—the campaign I had created. There was a photograph of a rugged male model, who looked like a cross between Indiana Jones and the Marlboro Man, driving a jeep through a desert with a beautiful woman under his arm and a hunting rifle situated just so on the backseat.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began as she pointed at the image on the projector screen with a laser pointer, “I would like to present to you a great, revolutionary advertising campaign.”
I raised my eyebrows, as I'm sure everyone else in the room did. Then she delivered the punchline.
“Revolutionary and great if the year was 1982.”
A few uncomfortable chuckles rippled around the room.
“Allow me to be blunt,” she said flatly. “The watches aren't selling because this campaign sucks. It feels tired, it feels worn-out, it feels like it's been done a million times before. How many times have you seen images exactly like this one trying to sell products exactly like this one, only repackaged?
“And, that's what we're doing here, aren't we? There's nothing particularly revolutionary about the Harry Winston athletic watches, is there? Granted, they're beautiful and well-made, but the bottom line is that an athletic watch is an athletic watch. There's only so much variety one can have.
“And, as you all know, selling is all about marketing. It’s about the image that both the product and the company producing that product convey. That's what the customer is buying. They are not buying a watch; they are buying a lifestyle, a statement, an image. And to be perfectly upfront, right now the image and the lifestyle we're selling is the same old image that countless other advertising campaigns have tried to sell before.
“What sets this line of watches apart from those of the competitors? At the moment, not very much. That's why the Harry Winston Company pays us—the best damn PR firm in the United States—to handle this for them. And what have we done? We've let them down.”
She paused for effect, to let everything she'd just said sink in—and it did. After a few moments, she continued.
“Now that I've told you everything that's wrong with the current campaign, let me tell you what I think we can do to change it, and to make it actually work. First of all, we have to completely drop this Marlboro Muppet, Raiders of the Lost Dork shtick. It's lame, it's dated, and it's overdone.
“We need something new, something fresh, something crisp. Something that's going to sell this image, this lifestyle—because, remember, that is what we're ultimately selling the public on: not simply a watch. I've been thinking a lot about this, and I have an idea that will totally kick start the heart of this campaign. Not only revive it, but turn it into a full-on monster.”
I chuckled, I couldn’t help it. This unconventional woman had just proven that her appearance wasn’t all that was unpredictable about her. After all, she’d just thrown a Mötley Crüe reference in and I wondered if anyone else had picked it up. It seemed there was more to this woman than the serious, go-getter image she was currently projecting.
Still, as attractive as I found her, I wasn't there to think about that sort of thing. I needed to concentrate on her ideas. And over the next 20 minutes, she presented some excellent ideas on how to turn the campaign around. When she was done, I was more impressed than I had been by an idea in quite some time.
After the meeting was over, I waited at the back of the room for her to pack up her briefcase before I approached her.
“Hi,” I said, extending a hand. “I really enjoyed your presentation. You have some rather interesting ideas.”
“Thanks,” she said glancing up at me with a smile—immediately sending ripples of electricity coursing across my skin.
“I'm sorry, I don't think we've met,” she said. “I'm Lilah Maxwell, and you are?”
“Andrew,” I replied. “Tell me, do you really think Asher Sinclair's campaign for these Harry Winston watches is that, er, lame? I mean, he put it together himself and word is he’s pretty good at what he does.”
She shrugged. “Maybe he did, but I call things like I see them and I don't pull punches for anyone. Even if he is the CEO of Sinclair. And even if he is the genius everyone says he is, on this particular occasion, he dropped the ball a bit. It happens to the best of us.
“However, while it's not my company, my job is my priority and I want to see whatever company I work for do the absolute best it can. I want to do my job to the best of my ability. If that steps on Mr. Sinclair’s ego a little, so be it. After all, my career is on the line as much as the firm's reputation.
“I've taken a personal interest in this campaign, and I intend to work my fingers to the bone to turn it around. We need to rectify the damage that’s been done with the Marlboro Man wannabe persona. And you saw my presentation—there’s a lot of damage.”
“Maybe he was under a lot of stress when he came up with this campaign.”
“Well, if he can't handle the pressure, he should make way for someone who can,” she replied. “That would be what’s best for the agency.”
“Oh, I don't think he has any problems handling the pressure,” I replied. “It's just that he sometimes has a little too much on his plate. He takes a very personal interest in everything the firm does.”
“Maybe he shouldn't,” she retorted. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of work to do on this campaign.”
She picked up her briefcase and turned around to leave the now empty boardroom. Before she could, I stepped between her and the doorway.
“Before you go,” I said, my heartrate starting to increase with a sudden and unexpected nervousness. “I’d like to speak with you about something.”
She looked up at me with something mysterious sparkling in her gorgeous eyes. “Oh yeah? And what might that be?”
“My name's not really Andrew. It’s Asher. Asher Sinclair. And I must admit, Ms. Maxwell, you've impressed me. I want to hire you as an aide to work in my office on high profile campaigns.”