Page 22 of The Love You Fight For
That man is insufferable.
To act as though my experience is worthless? The disrespectfulway he shoved my folder into the drawer? The casual way he shot me down? It’s enough to make me want to commit a felony.
I’m used to men treating me like I’m lesser. Like my big breasts and high heels automatically denote subpar intelligence. I’m used to it, yes, but that doesn’t make it any easier to handle. Especially when it’s coming from an immature neanderthal like Ashton fucking Cartwright. The man bought a copy of the SAT and still had to pay someone else to retake it for him when he tanked. He’s old money nepotism to the highest degree, and I hate him for it.
I hate even more that, on the surface, I appear to be the same.
I don’t bother knocking when I get to my father’s office, and it calms my mood slightly to see his campaign finance manager jump back from where she’d been leaning on his desk. I narrow my eyes at her and smile.
“You may leave, Brenda.” I gesture to the door.
She smooths her hands over her skirt and acts offended.
“It’s Denise,” she corrects.
I raise a brow dismissively and nod toward the door again, and she scurries out. I turn my smile at my father.
“Daddy, isn’t it unwise to start flirting with the staff this early in the campaign? I would hate to lose Brenda the same way we lost Matilda. What would the media think?”
Both names I used were wrong, but my father doesn’t bother correcting me. He ignores my statement entirely and barely glances in my direction as he flicks his eyes to his computer screen with a sigh.
“Good morning, Samantha. What can I do for you right now?”
“I’d like to discuss Ashton Cartwright with you,” I say, getting right to the point. “Specifically, I’d like to discuss my task as Ashton’s assistant when I believe my skills would be better suited for a more important role on the campaign team.”
My father finally looks at me. His smile is patronizing. His eyes are cold. At times like this, I know he hates me just as much as I hate him. That isn’t what bothers me, though. What bothers me is that he probably knows how much I hate him, and knowing he knowsmakes it harder to carry out the act. It also makes it more dangerous.
“Your job as Ashton’s assistant is very important, Samantha. Helping my campaign manager is helping me, and you had no complaints about it last week.”
“That was when I assumed Ashton and I would be workingtogetherto help you win, but he’s shown no interest in what I have to say. My data from the previous senate campaigns is invaluable. The work I did to get you the youth vote should be proof enough that my suggestions are worthy of consideration. Ashton refuses to see me as little more than the hired help.”
My father leans back in his desk chair and folds his hands in his lap, the movement too similar to the one Ashton carried out moments earlier. Men like them? They’re all the same.
“Is there a reason you want so badly to be part of this campaign, Samantha?”
His question catches me off guard, and my skin crawls. I can only hope that he reads my shock as offense and not guilt.
“My only concern has always been helping you to succeed,” I say firmly. “When you succeed, we all succeed.”
The lie tastes bitter in my mouth, like bile, but I hold eye contact. I don’t flinch.
My father takes a breath before speaking and implements a dramatic pause while he looks me over. I already know that I’m not going to like what he has to say.
“Samantha, I made Ashton my campaign manager for a reason. I trust him. You should, too. You were very helpful in my previous campaigns, I will admit, but you’re older now, and politics is no place for a woman of your breeding. Harper women are not politicians. They are not made for working in these sorts of roles. I indulged your political science and business management follies while you were at Georgetown because a good education makes a woman like you more valuable, but you’re nearly thirty. It’s time you start prioritizing things more fitting for a woman of your social standing.”
I barely hear him over the sound of my livid heartbeat in my head.
A woman of mybreeding? Makes a womanmore valuable?
I’m not fucking livestock, yet he’s talking about me as if I were. I almost laugh in his face. I almost shout at him.Nearly thirty? I’m twenty-fucking-six, and I graduated at the top of my university class with honors, beating out hundreds of men of similar “social standing.” That’s not folly. That’s fucking intelligence, determination, and hard work.
I want to throw a tantrum. I want to pick up his computer and bash it over his head. Instead, I take a subtle deep breath and force a smile.
“Daddy,” I say coolly. “Forgive me if I’ve misunderstood your implications with my tiny woman brain. You can’t possibly be suggesting you’ve demoted me on this campaign because you want me to start prioritizing more...domestic...tasks.”
This time, his smile is full teeth.
“That’s precisely what I’m saying, Samantha. And I think you should start with Ashton.”
