Eleanor Pov
I had to hold it together. Again. Like I always did.
Just like I did the night of the inauguration, when the cameras caught every blink, every breath. Just like at the gala, when he approached Devon while my spine ached from the heels I wore too long for the image we curated. Composure had become my armour. My weapon. My curse.
I swallowed hard and smoothed the lapel of my tailored navy suit, fingers trembling only slightly before I tucked them away behind that polished exterior. God, this suit. It had been hand-stitched for today's custom silk lining, sharp, feminine silhouette, the colour of midnight thunder. It gave the illusion of control, power, and poise.
But no fabric, no tailoring, could prepare me for what stood before me.
Jim Halvorsen.
My history. My mistake. M
