Page 1 of Her Nightshade

1

Ana

Iwoke up in a cold sweat in my New York City apartment. Memories came flooding back, just as they always did in my dreams. We used to live in New York before Jake was elected president. Back when we were a happy little family. And then he ruined it all.

I had to stop dwelling on the affair—it had nearly broken me. Sleeping with thatdiablaSarah, risking not just our family but Sloane’s life in the process. She had manipulated him so thoroughly, and he’d been too fucking blind to see it. If Callan hadn’t pieced it all together and exposed Leo’s involvement, who knows what might have happened? Now Leo was rotting in jail, just like Sarah—exactly where they both deserved to be.

I spent nearly six months in Madrid with my mother, trying to escape the memories and the relentless media frenzy. I got dragged through the mud right alongside Jake, despite not having done a thing. As if being a better wife, some moresubservient, compliant woman, would have prevented it. What a load of sexist bullshit. Blaming the victim, especially a woman, didn’t surprise me. Society hadn’t learned a thing, always taking one step forward and two steps back.

I had to pull myself out of the spiral, one I constantly found myself in. Instead of screaming my rage to the world and getting branded the angry feminist, I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t speak ill of Jake to the public; I was taking the high road. Words always got twisted so I didn’t bother. But behind closed doors, he was nothing more thanun pedazo de mierda.

Okay, I’m spiraling again.I need a breath of fresh air.

I grabbed my bathrobe and draped it over my shoulders as I stepped out onto the terrace, watching the sunrise over Manhattan. I had been looking for a place in Brooklyn, but then ended up finding the most charming apartment in Greenwich Village, complete with a spare bedroom for when Sloane and Callan visited.

Sloane. I missed my daughter. We were so close, and living across the country from her was difficult. I made sure she was settled in Los Angeles for school, but I never really worried about her. She was such a strong, independent young woman, and Callan was a wonderful addition to her life. She promised to visit during school breaks, and I promised not to bug her too much, even though I was already planning multiple trips out there within the next few months.

But as much as I missed Sloane, I was enjoying my solitude. I hadn’t lived alone in twenty years, and there was a sense of freedom in doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Especially not having to endure the scrutiny that came with being the First Lady.

Once people got word I was living in the city, I started getting invited to events, premieres, appearances; I even got invited to afashion gala that very night. I wasn’t sure if I’d go, but it was nice knowing the option was there if I wanted to.

And even though I was aformerFirst Lady, I still needed some sort of protection. Miles, my trusty bodyguard for the past six months, was a man of few words. When he did speak, he was funny as hell. He towered over me at 6’4”, with dark blonde hair and the face of a male model. He was referred to me by Callan, and he’d been by my side ever since the scandal broke. Miles had traveled with me all the way to Spain and back to New York, where he now lived in the apartment directly below mine. So even though I was living alone, I wasn’treallyalone, and I found some comfort in that fact.

My apartment was spacious and filled with natural light streaming through the living room and bedrooms. The decor was a mixture of vintage and modern elements, with minimalist furniture alongside mid-century pieces. Artwork from local BIPOC artists brought vibrant pops of color to the walls. It was a space that reflected me, where my personality flowed through every room.

After Sloane moved to Los Angeles, I became the caretaker of her houseplants, making me a new plant mom. They were now my only responsibility, aside from myself, and I was enjoying my new little hobby.

As I watered my Monstera Deliciosa, a knock at the door startled me. It could only be one person; no one else had the code to access my floor.

“Miles,” I greeted him, opening the door to find him standing there with a hanger draped in fabric, the word ‘Versace’ labeled across the front.

“This came for you. A gift from Brad. He said it’s for tonight,” Miles stated, waiting for me to invite him in.

I sighed heavily. I’d mentioned the gala to my friend and stylist, Brad, and now he was taking it upon himself to dress me.I told him I wasn’t even sure if I was going, but he was persistent.I guess now I have to.

“Okay. Come in. You can hang it in the closet,por favor,” I instructed, motioning towards my bedroom.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, already heading straight there.

Even after six months of me telling him to call me Ana, Miles never strayed from “ma’am.”

He returned a moment later, lingering by the front door as I went back to tending my plant.

“I think you should go, Ana. I know you said maybe. But you might have fun. It might be good for you,” he said quietly before turning and leaving.

As the door shut behind him, I sat there in stunned silence. That was the most he had ever said to me in the span of one day. And he called me Ana.Shit. Now I really have to go.

* * *

I sat in a black car, waiting in line with others to enter the gala. I was starting to get nervous; I still wasn’t sure if I was ready to face the world again. As proud as I was of my strength, the last six months were hard. I was still piecing myself back together, and now I was being thrust into the spotlight again.Why did I let anyone talk me into this? Am I ready?I hated feeling so unsure of myself.

Thirty minutes later, there I was, sitting at a table full of celebrities, a glass of champagne in hand. Oscar winners, pop stars, rock stars—they were all around me, offering kind words and small talk, but I could see the pity in their eyes. It was overwhelming, and I was more than ready to leave.

Miles stood by the wall, his gaze scanning the room before landing on me. We locked eyes and I gave him a small nod, signaling that I was almost ready to go.

Then someone sat down next to me. I recognized him instantly: Charlie Ashford. He started out in a British boy band and later branched out on his own. He must’ve been in his late twenties now, insanely handsome, with brown wavy hair styled deliberately messy, and eyes the color of emeralds. He was cool—toocool—and I had no idea what to say when he smiled at me, his sharp jawline momentarily distracting me.

“Ana Martin, wow,” he said with a shy chuckle.

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