The fucked up thing about performing a life is how quickly the performance becomes the life.
Six months into marriage, Michael and I had developed a routine that felt almost normal if you didn't think too hard about the surgical modifications and identity fraud underlying it. Morning coffee in the private dining room of the Governor's Mansion, him reading the Post on his tablet while I reviewed policy briefs and event schedules, both of us trading observations about the political landscape with the easy shorthand of people who spoke the same language.
"The education committee is going to gut the after-school funding," I said, highlighting a section of the draft bill. "They're calling it 'streamlining,' but it's just Harrington protecting his private tutoring donor base."
Michael looked up with that sharp focus I'd come to appreciate. "What if we reframe it as workforce development? Parents can't work second shifts if their kids have nowhere to go after three PM."
"That might work with the moderates." I made a note. "Though Harrington will still fight it."
"Let him. He's vulnerable on this." Michael set down his tablet, warming to the argument. "His own district has the highest percentage of working single mothers in the state. How's he going to vote against childcare and then ask them for votes?"
"He'll call it government overreach and hope nobody reads past the headline."
"Then we make sure they read past the headline." He grinned, the expression transforming his face into something younger, more playful. "You write the op-ed. We'll place it in his hometown paper. We'll see how he likes explaining his vote at the town hall."
"Devious. I like it."
"You taught me well." He reached across to refill my coffee without being asked, the small gesture of domestic consideration that had become second nature. "Though Casey thinks we should wait until after the budget vote. Time it for maximum damage."
Casey. Always Casey. Even in our marriage, even in our private quarters, her invisible hand guided every decision.
"Casey's probably right," I admitted, hating that it was true.
"Then we'll do it her way." Michael made a note on his tablet, already moving forward. "Problem solved."
"Speaking of problems," I said, pushing Casey out of my mind, "your infrastructure speech needs work. You buried the lead in the third paragraph."
"The lead about rural broadband?"
"The lead about economic mobility. Nobody cares about broadband in the abstract. They care about their kids getting jobs that don't require moving to cities they can't afford."
Michael pulled up the speech on his tablet, scrolling through. "Show me."
I moved around the table to stand behind him, leaning over his shoulder to point at the relevant section. My breasts pressed against his shoulders, and he shifted his weight to settle into their softness. The comfortable intimacy caused my nipples to harden involuntarily.
"See? You're talking about technology when you should be talking about futures," I continued, hoping Michael wouldn't notice the effect he was having on my body. "Reframe it like this: 'Every child in this state deserves the same economic opportunities, whether they live in the capital or in towns too small for stoplights.' Then you hit them with the broadband as the solution."
"That's better." He made notes, his shoulder warm against my chest. "What else?"
We spent the next twenty minutes restructuring the speech, our back-and-forth taking on the rhythm of intellectual sparring we'd developed over months of policy work. He'd challenge my framing, I'd push back on his assumptions, we'd arrive at something better than either of us had started with.
This was what worked between us. Partnership. Respect. The comfortable collaboration of two people who genuinely liked each other, even if the foundation was transactional.
"I need to get ready for the budget meeting," Michael said eventually, glancing at his watch. "But first-"
He pulled me down onto his lap, kissing me with the casual affection of someone who'd earned the right to that intimacy. I kissed back, feeling the familiar warmth of his hands on my waist, the solid presence of his body against mine.
Not desire. But something softer. The comfort of being wanted, being chosen, being kept.
"Tonight?" he murmured against my mouth.
"Tonight," I agreed.
The day followed its predictable choreography. I dressed in Valentino-cream silk blouse with a pussy bow at the neck, tailored navy pencil skirt that photographed well. The outfit said "serious but not threatening," "feminine but professional," "visible but not distracting"-all the contradictions a First Lady was supposed to embody.
Hair and makeup took forty-five minutes to look effortless. Diamond studs. Three-inch heels-elegant but walkable, expensive but not ostentatious.
Children's wing dedication at St. Mary's Hospital. I read to patients while photographers captured the moment. Lunch with the Governor's Spouses Coalition discussing literacy initiatives. A community center ribbon-cutting in the afternoon. Smile. Wave. Look interested. Repeat.
By five I was back at the mansion, feet aching from the heels, face tired from broadcasting warmth for hundreds of strangers. I changed into a casual dress as soon as I could, needing to shed the day's performance along with the Valentino.
Michael came home around seven, triumph written across his face as he loosened his tie. "Budget passed. Harrington tried to pull some last-minute amendments, but we had the votes locked. Crushed him."
I was in the mansion's main kitchen-I'd dismissed the household staff an hour earlier, wanting to try my hand at the pasta primavera Michael had mentioned last week. Playing house in the Governor's Mansion, pretending normalcy was possible. The cooking wasn't going well, but the attempt felt important somehow. A way to inhabit the domestic wife role beyond just public performance.
"That's great," I said, attempting to keep the pasta from sticking. "How badly did he lose?"
"Badly enough that he stormed out before the final vote." Michael dropped his briefcase by the door, moving into the kitchen with a predatory look in his eye. "Casey said he's going to try to sink the education bill to retaliate. Good luck with that."
He came up behind me, his hands finding my hips, pulling me back against him hard. I could feel his arousal already, pressing insistent through his suit pants.
"Michael, the pasta-"
"Fuck the pasta."
His hand fisted in my hair, bending me forward over the marble counter. The stone was cold against my palms. He pushed my dress up roughly, bunching the fabric around my waist, then yanked my panties and gaff down to my knees in one sharp motion.
I've been thinking about this all through those negotiations," he said, his voice rough with victory. "Watching Harrington fold. Knowing we had the votes locked. Wanting to come home and fuck you."
This wasn't just about attraction anymore. It had become political dominance bleeding into sexual dominance. Power channeled from one arena to another.
I heard him fumbling one-handed with a tube of something. The snap of a cap. Then his fingers-slick, insistent-working me open with urgency. The intrusion burned but I breathed through it, relaxing into the pressure the way I'd learned to.
"You ready?"
Was I ever? "Yes."
He pushed inside in one steady thrust, his hand still tangled in my hair, holding me in place. The fullness was immediate and overwhelming, my body protesting even as it yielded. I braced against the counter, breathing through the stretch, the deep ache of being filled.
Michael set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against my ass, grunting with each thrust. Nothing gentle about it. Nothing romantic. Just raw physical need channeled into conquest, political victory transmuted into sexual dominance.
My breath came in short gasps. The sensation was intense-pressure and heat and friction that registered as almost-pleasure, my rewired body responding despite the absence of desire. I could feel myself getting harder, the hormones doing their strange work of separating physical response from emotional want.
"God, you feel good," Michael groaned, his free hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise.
I didn't respond. Just focused on breathing, on the peculiar reality of my body finding pleasure in something my mind still couldn't quite accept. The friction built sensation that spread through me in waves, my cock leaking against my thigh, physical arousal that had nothing to do with wanting this and everything to do with nerve endings that didn't care about context.
His pace increased, more urgent, chasing his finish. The counter edge dug into my thighs. My hair pulled at the roots. The sensations overwhelmed-too much pressure, too much fullness, too much stimulation in places I'd learned to accommodate.
When he came, it was with a shout that would have brought the staff running if anyone had been there. He stayed buried inside me for a long moment, breathing hard against my back, his grip finally loosening.
"Fuck," he said. "I needed that."
He pulled out carefully, releasing my hair. I straightened slowly, my body protesting. Michael was already tucking himself back into his pants, smoothing his shirt, returning to civilized gubernatorial presentation.
"Was that okay?" he asked, suddenly concerned. "I was rough. That was different."
"It's fine." I pulled my panties back up, pushed my dress down, readjusted my gaff to hide my penis away again. "You were celebrating."
He pulled me close, kissing me with genuine affection that felt jarring after the impersonal intensity. "I'm lucky to have you."
"Go clean up," I said, turning off the stove.
In the bathroom, I stood at the sink for a long moment, letting the water run cold over my wrists. My reflection looked composed. Put-together. Completely unruffled by what had just happened in the kitchen.
The strange truth was that my body had responded. Had found physical pleasure in the act even while my mind remained somewhere else entirely. The hormones had rewired those pathways, separating sensation from desire in ways that made this possible. I could get hard, could come, could experience what registered physiologically as pleasure-all without actually wanting any of it.
Because I didn't want this. Didn't want him. Didn't want to be bent over counters in the Governor's Mansion and taken like property, even property that was valued and cared for.
But I could do it. Could make it work. Could find the physical pleasure that made the performance sustainable while keeping my actual self somewhere distant and protected.
That was enough. Had to be enough. Because this was the bargain I'd made.
When I returned to the kitchen, Michael had changed into casual clothes and was examining the abandoned pasta with skepticism.
"Should we just order in?" he asked.
"Probably safer."
We ordered from the Italian place around the corner and opened wine and spent the evening working on his infrastructure speech, the earlier intimacy fading into the comfortable partnership that characterized most of our marriage. Michael made jokes about my ruthless editing. I mocked his tendency toward political clichés. We revised the speech into something genuinely good, both of us contributing, both of us satisfied with the result.
A week after our budget victory, I was in the mansion's family office reviewing my schedule for the next month, trying to resist throwing the tablet across the room.
Three charity galas. Four ribbon-cutting ceremonies. A literacy roundtable where I'd smile and nod while suburban mothers discussed reading programs I'd already analyzed in policy briefs they'd never see. A hospital wing dedication. Two school visits. An endless parade of appearances where I'd be pleasant and inspirational while someone else did the actual work.
This was the part of being First Lady that made the whole thing feel like some horrible joke. I could draft legislation that would transform early childhood education. Instead, I'd be photographed reading to kindergarteners in designer dresses while looking maternal and engaged.
Michael's voice carried from his office down the hall, on the phone with someone, his tone clipped and frustrated. When he hung up, I heard him pound his fist on the desk.
"Evita?" He called down the hall, voice agitated. "Can you come look at this? Harrington's being a dick again."
I walked to his office, grateful for the interruption. Finally. Something that mattered.
"He's planning a press conference tomorrow," Michael said, settling behind his desk while I took one of the leather chairs across from him. "He's going to oppose the education bill publicly. If he flips, we lose three other moderates in our caucus."
I set down my tablet, my mind already working the angles. "This is retaliation for the budget fight. He needs to save face with his donors after you crushed him last week."
"Probably," Michael agreed. "But the result's the same. We lose him, we lose the bill. Casey thinks we should go harder-apply pressure, make it clear there are consequences for breaking with the caucus."
"That'll backfire," I said, warming to the strategy. This was what I was good at-reading people, understanding motivations, finding the path that turned opponents into allies. "Harrington's already wounded from the budget vote. If you try to strong-arm him now, he'll dig in harder just to prove he's not your puppet."
I pulled up Harrington's voting record on my tablet. "But if you can show him you understand his position, find common ground within the caucus, give him a way to support the bill that looks like his idea instead of your demand-that's how you win him over. Build the relationship first, make him feel heard, and the vote follows."
Michael listened, actually considered what I was saying.
"That makes sense," he said slowly. "You really do understand people. I'll reach out to Harrington this afternoon, see if we can find a path forward together."
The validation settled warm in my chest. After a morning of reviewing charity gala seating charts, being valued for actual political insight felt like remembering who I used to be.
We spent the next hour developing the approach-finding language that would appeal to Harrington's concerns without seeming weak, identifying policy modifications that would give him a win to take back to his donors. When Michael finally left for his afternoon meetings, I felt useful. Essential, even.
I returned to the family office, ready to tackle the ceremonial schedule with slightly less resentment.
Twenty minutes later, Casey appeared in the doorway.
"We need to talk, Evie." She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, her expression calm and implacable. "About the Harrington situation."
Evie. Not Evita-the diminutive she'd started using weeks ago, casual and deliberate. A nickname she'd decided I should have, never asking if I wanted it. Just another small way she shaped my identity without my input.
"Michael's handling it. We discussed the approach-"
"I know. He told me about your strategy." Casey settled into the chair across from me. "Your soft sell about building relationships and finding common ground. It's very thoughtful. It's also not going to work this time."
"You don't know that-"
"I do know that." Her voice was matter-of-fact, clinical. "Your approach works when you're dealing with reasonable people who can be persuaded. Harrington isn't reasonable right now-he's wounded and angry from the budget humiliation. This requires force, not finesse."
"So you want Michael to threaten him."
"I want Michael to make the smart play." Casey leaned back in her chair. "Which is why you're going to call him in the next fifteen minutes and convince him to take a different approach."
The presumption of it took my breath away. "No. We already decided-"
"You decided. And you were wrong." Casey's tone was patient, like explaining something obvious to a child. "This is how it works, Evie. You can have your little strategy sessions with Michael, make him feel like you're a valuable advisor. But when it actually matters? When the stakes are real? You defer to me."
"Michael values my input-"
"Michael humors you because he's kind and he loves you." She pulled out her tablet, already moving to business. "But Harrington's already made his choice. He's going to that press conference unless we give him a reason not to. And reasons require leverage, not understanding."
"So here's what happens," Casey continued, her voice dropping. "You call Michael in the next fifteen minutes. You tell him you've been thinking about it, and actually my approach makes more sense. You help him understand that sometimes we need to enforce caucus discipline, not negotiate with it."
"And if I don't?"
Casey set down her tablet and looked at me directly. "Then Harrington holds his press conference, the bill dies, and Michael's education initiative becomes his first major legislative failure. Bad for him, bad for the administration." She paused. "Remember that you and the Governor are only useful to me as long as you're on an upward trajectory. Do something to alter that, who knows what might get revealed. Your manufactured identity. The surgical history. The arranged nature of your marriage. All the things that make for fascinating expose journalism."
"You wouldn't. You'd go down too-"
"Oh sweetie, you know me better than that. I've got so much plausible deniability it would make your head spin."
I glared at her in silence, wondering how I ever let myself be with such a person. How'd she been able to hide this side of herself from me, even in our most intimate moments.
Casey stood, smoothing her skirt. "You've become his wife, his trusted advisor. When you tell him to be ruthless, it carries weight. It says even the person who usually advocates compassion knows this requires force."
She moved toward the door, then paused. "Oh, and Evie? After this is settled, we should start thinking about making a few more changes. The presidential campaign is coming and we'll need to appeal to all the right demographics."
The words landed with ominous weight, but before I could ask what she meant, she was already leaving.
"Don't worry, Mrs. Rivera," she called over her shoulder. "I'll handle the logistics. I always do."
I sat fuming for twenty minutes, running the familiar calculation.
I'd had it with Casey's control. With the pet names and the "Evies" and everything she'd made me do, everything she'd turned me into. I could just walk away. Expose everything. Call lawyers, call my father, call the fucking FBI. Burn it all down and walk back into whatever life waited on the other side.
Or maybe I didn't need to make the big gesture. Just leave-pack my things, disappear, reclaim some version of Evan Cross. Hell, I'd even take some version of Yvonne at this point.
It was the same spiral I'd traced dozens of times over the past fourteen months. After the donor at last month's fundraiser whose hand had lingered too long on my lower back, sliding toward my ass until I'd stepped away before I punched him. After spending two hours getting hair and makeup perfect for a hospital dedication where I'd smiled and cut a ribbon. After every time I felt the pinch of my underwire or the ache of my feet in four inch heels.
But then I'd remember yesterday's session with Michael, actually implementing my changes to the rural infrastructure bill. Watching him cite my research during interviews, work that would connect families to opportunities they'd never have otherwise. The satisfaction of mattering again, of doing work that improved lives instead of just looking good for cameras.
I could walk away. And then what? Return to delivering liquor? Apply for jobs I'd never get because this version of me had no pedigree? Live in studio apartments and watch from the outside while Casey shaped national politics? Spend the rest of my life explaining my surgical modifications to doctors while having no career, no purpose, no relevance?
This again.
This same calculation I'd run every day since Casey first offered me the way back. Different trigger each time, same conclusion. Every escape route led back to the same destination: irrelevance. Obscurity. The slow suffocation of not mattering.
The math never changed. Deal with Casey's control, the physical performance, the constant awareness that my political influence existed only within parameters she allowed-or walk away and lose even that limited power.
Political relevance in chains, or freedom in obscurity.
The choice was always obvious.
I called Michael twenty minutes later and convinced him to take Casey's approach.
He was reluctant at first, but I explained it the way she would have wanted-not as threats, but as clarity. As understanding what actually motivated people versus what we wished motivated them. As being smart instead of being nice.
By the time we hung up, he was convinced. The results came later that afternoon-Harrington folding, the press conference canceled, three other moderates falling in line.
Michael was thrilled when he returned to the residence that evening. "You were right, Evie," he said, pulling me close in the mansion's private quarters. "Casey said you called it perfectly. That you really understood what the situation required."
The nickname. He'd picked it up from Casey, following her lead the way he followed her lead on everything. Even my name wasn't my own choice anymore-just another thing Casey had decided and Michael had adopted without question.
The roar from the convention floor vibrated through the backstage walls like thunder. Twenty thousand people chanting Michael's name, stamping their feet, drowning out even the amplified voice booming through speakers positioned every twenty feet. Presidential nomination acceptance speeches always generated this kind of energy-democratic chaos performed for cameras, crowds convinced they were witnessing history rather than just another ambitious politician reaching for power.
I stood in the wings, watching the teleprompter feed on a nearby monitor. Michael hit his marks flawlessly, pivoting from economic policy to foreign affairs with the polish of someone who'd been preparing for this moment his entire career. The teleprompter text scrolled past-words I'd helped craft, policy frameworks I'd developed, messaging that bore my fingerprints even if my name would never appear in the credits.
My surgically feminized face had settled completely over the past two years-refined nose, sculpted cheekbones, softened jawline, features ethnically ambiguous enough to let people see what they wanted. The long dark hair fell in perfect waves past my shoulders, styled by professionals who'd arrived at five AM to ensure every detail was flawless. The deep blue Vera Wang dress hung perfectly, expensive silk custom-tailored.
Completely unrecognizable as Evan Cross. That person had been erased so thoroughly he might as well have never existed.
I shifted my weight, feeling the Louboutin heel press into my arch. Four inches of Italian craftsmanship that I'd learned to navigate like they were extensions of my own feet.
Casey appeared at my elbow, managing three crises simultaneously via bluetooth earpiece while checking her tablet. She'd become even more formidable over the past two years-Michael's Chief of Staff, the architect of his improbable rise, the strategic genius everyone credited with the nomination.
"You look perfect, Evie," she said, barely glancing up. Her eyes flicked over me with clinical assessment, lingering briefly on my silhouette. "Remember-natural, confident. Protective but not showy. Let the moment speak for itself."
"Two minutes," an assistant called.
"...and that's why I stand before you tonight," Michael's voice carried across the arena, "not just as your nominee, but as someone who believes in the fundamental promise of America-that with hard work, dedication, and the support of those we love, anything is possible."
His voice dropped into that intimate register that made twenty thousand people feel like he was speaking directly to each of them. "Speaking of love, I couldn't have done any of this without the love and support of my wonderful wife, Evita."
That was my cue.
I stepped through the curtain into blinding lights and overwhelming sound. Twenty thousand people on their feet, cheering, celebrating, convinced they were witnessing history. The cameras tracked my movement across the stage, capturing every detail in perfect high definition.
The silk flowed around me as I walked, the careful draping designed to showcase rather than hide. Each step measured, controlled, one hand settling naturally on my stomach while the other waved to the crowd.
Michael stood at the podium smiling, and when I reached him his hand moved to my lower back-then the other placed intentionally where it would draw the crowd's attention.
His palm cradled the unmistakable swell of pregnancy, and the crowd's reaction shifted immediately.
Softer. More enthusiastic. The cheers took on a different quality-not just political enthusiasm but genuine warmth for the young family on stage, the future they represented, the promise embodied in the visible evidence of new life.
I stood there with Michael's hand protective on my belly-the weighted prosthetic that had become part of my body over the last five months. My other hand moved to rest gently over his, the gesture reading as maternal affection, as partnership, as the perfect image of American family values.
Somewhere in a private medical facility, a surrogate was carrying the actual pregnancy. Michael's biological child, carefully hidden from cameras and questions. When the baby was born in four months, she would appear in my arms like I'd carried her myself, and no one would ever know the truth.
Casey was meticulous about everything she did, but had been downright obsessive about the medical details-reviewing genetic screening reports herself multiple times, asking the fertility clinic questions about fetal development markers that went beyond her typical thoroughness. At the time I'd assumed she was just being Casey, controlling every variable down to the molecular level.
The pregnancy hormones coursing through my veins had done their work-my breasts swollen and tender, larger than they'd been even with the implants. My face carried that particular glow that came from elevated estrogen. Everything about my body said "pregnant woman" to anyone who looked.
Everything except the actual fetus.
The balloons dropped. Red, white, and blue cascading from the ceiling while the crowd chanted Michael's name. He pulled me close and kissed me for the cameras, his hand still cradling the prosthetic that represented Casey's perfect strategic vision.
Another lock on the cage. The most permanent one yet.
We walked offstage together to thunderous applause, Michael's arm around my waist, both of us waving. The future President and his pregnant wife, building the dynasty that would reshape American politics.
Behind us, invisible in the wings, Casey watched with satisfaction.
The performance had become the life.
The greenroom after the speech was controlled chaos. Staffers rushing between meetings, donors demanding face time, reporters shouting questions. Michael was pulled immediately into the leadership suite for calls that would run until dawn.
I found a quiet corner and collapsed into a chair, my feet screaming in the heels, my back aching from the prosthetic's weight. The adrenaline was fading, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
Casey appeared an hour later with Michael, both of them energized despite the late hour. We gathered in the private office adjacent to the greenroom-the three of us, a rare moment of calm in the post-convention chaos.
"The polling numbers are going to be incredible," Casey said, reviewing something on her tablet. "Your beautiful growing family is dominating coverage. A new Camelot. Exactly what we needed."
Her phone chimed. She glanced at the screen, then looked up at Michael and me. "Latest results from the medical team."
Michael raised his hand for the tablet. Casey paused, then smiled. "Of course, Governor."
He took it, his eyes scanning the report. His face transformed-pure, uncomplicated joy spreading across his features. "It's a girl." He looked up at me, then at Casey, his voice thick with emotion. "We're having a daughter."
He pulled me into a hug, laughing with delight. "A daughter, Evita. Can you believe it?"
Over his shoulder, I glanced at Casey.
She was staring at Michael with an expression I'd never seen on her face before. Not the professional satisfaction of a plan executed perfectly. Not the measured pleasure of strategic victory. Something raw. Unguarded. Fierce and possessive and achingly vulnerable all at once.
A single tear slid down her cheek before she caught it, wiped it away quickly with the back of her hand.
The mask snapped back into place so fast I almost thought I'd imagined it. But I hadn't. I'd seen something real break through Casey's perfect control, something she hadn't meant to show.
Something… maternal.
"That's wonderful," Casey said, her voice steady again. "Congratulations to you both."
Michael was still talking about nursery plans and name ideas, completely absorbed in his joy. But I couldn't stop looking at Casey, my mind working through what I'd just witnessed.
I waited until the next morning to confront her. Michael had early meetings-always early meetings-and I found Casey in the campaign office, coordinating post-convention logistics.
"We need to talk."
She glanced up, reading my expression. "Give us the room," she told the staffers, and they scattered immediately.
When the door closed, I didn't waste time. The look on her face I'd caught last night had been replaying in my mind ever since. That hadn't been strategic satisfaction. That was a mother hearing about her daughter for the first time.
"She's yours, isn't she? You're the egg donor."
Casey studied me for a long moment. Then she nodded once, no apology in the gesture.
"Of course."
The casual admission knocked the breath from my lungs. "You used me-"
"I used your body to perform a pregnancy that serves all our interests," Casey interrupted, her voice clinical. "The genetics needed to be right, Evie. My intelligence combined with Michael's political instincts. That's what creates a dynasty."
She said it like it was obvious. Like using my body as a stage for her biological legacy was simply smart planning.
"Does Michael know?"
"He knows I selected the donor. He trusts me to handle the details." Casey returned to her tablet, already moving past this conversation. "You didn't need to know. It doesn't change your role."
"I'm going to be playing mother to your biological child!"
"The surrogate is handling the actual pregnancy. You're handling raising her. Everyone has their role."
I wanted to scream at her. To rage about manipulation and consent and the thousand violations embedded in what she'd done. But the words stuck in my throat.
Casey looked up, and for just a moment the mask dropped again-that same fierce maternal possessiveness I'd glimpsed last night. "I gave him something you couldn't. A daughter who'll be brilliant and strategic and completely devastating to her enemies. She'll change the world."
Then the clinical distance returned. "Oh, and we'll need to start you on the lactation protocol next month. The endocrinologist will adjust your hormones so you'll be ready to nurse when she's born. It's important for the optics-nursing mothers photograph beautifully, and it'll strengthen the bond."
The prosthetic belly suddenly felt like it weighed fifty pounds. I wasn't just performing pregnancy anymore. Wouldn't just hold Casey's biological child and call her mine. But my body would feed her. My breasts would produce milk for a daughter that was Casey's in every genetic sense, and mine only in performance.
"You're going to make me nurse your baby," I said, hearing the hollow disbelief in my own voice.
"I'm going to ensure you can fulfill the role you agreed to." Casey stood, gathering her things. "The lactation protocol is standard for adoptive mothers. Your body is already primed from the pregnancy hormones. It's just the next logical step."
She moved toward the door, then paused. Casey tilted her head slightly-that particular angle that always meant she'd already won, that the conversation was over not because we'd reached agreement but because resistance was pointless.
"You're going to love her, Evan. When she's born. Deep down, you're too decent a person not to. You won't be able to help it when you hold her for the first time and the cameras capture that moment. You agreed to become this because you're someone who'd rather have power in chains than freedom in obscurity. The baby is just the lock that makes it permanent. You were already trapped by your own ambition. She just makes sure you never forget it."
She was right. We both knew it.
I'd spent a decade learning Casey's tells. The micro-pause before she delivered unwelcome news. The way her voice dropped when she was positioning someone. That head tilt that meant she'd already won. I could read every calculation behind those dark eyes, anticipate her moves three steps ahead. Or thought I could.
It's funny how you can know someone's tells so intimately and still let them destroy you.