David
The stack of papers on my desk mocked me. Campaign brochures, charity proposals, and parole hearing briefs—Andrew’s meticulously crafted attempt to repaint Michael as a “reformed man.” I clenched my fists, the weight of his manipulation pressing down on me like a vice.
I’d spent the past hour on calls, trying to dismantle the narrative Andrew was spinning. No matter what I did, it felt like quicksand.
“This is going south,” I muttered, slamming the phone down harder than I intended. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. My chest felt tight, the kind of tension that no amount of work could shake.
Out of nowhere, I thought of Laura. Of her soft embrace, her gentle smile, and the way her hand instinctively found my arm when she needed reassurance. I hadn’t even noticed
