Page 4 of The Senator: Raphael

How can they demand I walk down the aisle with someone I don’t even love? And for what? To give another woman a chance to leave me? Not a single woman in my life sticks around long enough for me to savor the happiness. Sure, it wasn’t always their fault, but I resigned myself years ago to the fact that there will never be a happily ever after for me. So, why bother? Why put my heart out there, even if am just faking it?

I breathe once, twice, three times. I stare at my father’s home office door for a long moment before grabbing the handle and opening it. I know this will be a difficult conversation. After I ignored his calls yesterday, after the lunch with the women’s association, I don’t expect this will be a walk in the park. My father is like that. You do what he says, when he tells you to do it, and the way he wants it. No exceptions.

“Finally, you decide to show your face around here,” he sneers.

I struggle not to roll my eyes. I learned not to when I was a kid and my father made me pay for my insolence. Just once. It took just one punishment to not do it ever again. But sometimes I just can’t resist challenging him, even if the consequences are brutal. God only knows how many times I ended up with bruises when I was a teenager.

“I was working on a plan after yesterday’s meeting, and I put my phone away. I needed to focus,” I lie.

I sit down on the brown leather couch next to his desk. This house hasn’t changed since I was a kid. Arches and stuccos give this place the Mediterranean feel I’ve always loved. It’s why I bought a similar style for myself. Growing up with my father wasn’t easy, but I still have good memories of my childhood here.

“Don’t you pay someone to do that?” His cold stare pins me to the couch.

My father gives me chills sometimes. Physically we are very similar. Same brown hair—at least until the gray overtook him a few years ago—green eyes, height. He’s a bit bigger than me, but he’s still fit, considering his almost seventy years. The stark difference between us is the coldness in his eyes. I can’t be that detached when I talk to someone I care about.

“Yes, but some things I want to process personally before talking to my staff. I want to be sure to tell them exactly what I want. Saves me the headaches later.” I try to keep my composure. Showing nervousness in front of him is like waving a raw steak in front of a shark. You will end up in pieces.

He stares at me for a couple of long moments, but then he lets me breathe. I’m not off the hook yet, but at least this part is over. Still, I’m sure the worst is yet to come.

“You lost another zero-point five percent this week.” His stern voice is like a punch in the gut.

Here we go. He lays out the reason why he was calling me last night.

“I know. I’m working on that. I have the endorsement from Jeff Johnson. Keep it quiet. We haven’t gone public with that yet.” I try my best to downplay this achievement.

Jeff Johnson is a former vice president of the United States. It was hard to get him on my side, especially because I’m running as an independent and his old party is far from thrilled to get involved with a wild card, but I played that card well. It took me years of nurturing the relationship to be able to cash in on all the favors I did for him. I’m proud of this endorsement, but I can’t show my father. I don’t want to give him an opening to say I should have divided my efforts on a wider strategy, not played all my cards on that hand.

I never divert my eyes from his face. If I had, I would have missed the slight widening of his eyes. It was just a flash before regaining his composure, but I saw it. He’s impressed. Pride inflates my chest, but again, I can’t show it.

“Is he willing to support you in the next steps of your career too?” he asks after a long silence that I don’t dare to break.

Becoming the president of the United States of America. I know where my father is aiming to place me. I’ve known he was playing the long game since he suggested years ago I become a politician. He can’t do it himself, so he’s counting on me. My father has an “honest job” as a contractor. He deals with big projects like malls and airports around the world.

His company is thriving, but it’s just a cover. If you dig deeper—and trust me, the FBI has been trying to for forty years now—his business is not so transparent and legal. He’s never involved me in this work and there’s a reason for that. He has other plans for me, and he wants me clean. He wants me to lead one of the most powerful countries in the world. Why? He hasn’t told me yet.

“Like I said, he’s supporting me as a senator. The next step is a mere formality. I’m playing this right. I’m not leaving anything to chance.” I try to sound confident without bordering on arrogant.

“I hope this boosts your ratings because right now, your campaign strategy sucks.”

Too much to hope for a pat on the back and aGood job, son.“Well, unless there are more surprises in the immediate future, this endorsement should do the trick.” I start to feel annoyed.

“There is always a surprise,” he states grumpily and his tone gets my attention. He never complains, and his gruffness means something’s happened that he couldn’t stop.

“Spit it out, Dad. Keeping secrets is not going to help me.” My stomach clenches in a painful vise.

“The dinner with the investor next week is cancelled. I got tipped off that the FBI is digging into one of their companies and it doesn’t look good. They’re going to confiscate a bunch of stuff and I don’t want you involved in this shit. Especially if the FBI can track the money to your campaign.”

Now I understand his concern. “Shit,” I whisper. It’s beyond me how my father can get a tip-off from a government agency, but this sounds like one of his unofficial businesses.

I really needed that money for my campaign. One of the problems of running without a party is that you are always short of cash compared to your opponents. You need connections with rich people who see you as good investment. My father is a good source of those connections.

“Which one did you choose to marry?” he asks me out of the blue.

I snap my head in his direction. “What?”

“I sent Cindy a list of women to choose from, to marry and boost your credibility. Which one did you pick?” His voice is firm, and I know this is not a simple question, it’s an order.

I should have known my father was behind this farce. “I didn’t choose anyone because it’s not necessary. I’m fine just how I am,” I snap and immediately regret it. The fury simmering in my father’s eyes makes me uncomfortable. I’m not scared he’s going to hit me—he stopped doing that a long time ago—but there’s a lot of other things he can do to make my life a living hell.

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