Rising To Power

CHAPTER 6

The next few days blurred into an exhausting whirlwind of meetings, events, and media appearances. It was as if Maybelline had become the centerpiece of some meticulously staged political circus. Her father, Governor Prescott, kept her in the spotlight, parading her like an accessory for his campaign’s success. No matter how much she resented it, she had learned by now that silence was often the safest choice. The more she spoke, the more she revealed, and the more she revealed, the closer they came to knowing just how much she despised the charade they were forcing her to play.

But today felt different. Today, she stood at the edge of a precipice. Something inside her had shifted. The weight of the situation no longer felt suffocating—it felt like an invitation to freedom, even if it was only an illusion. She could see the cracks in the polished facade of her life, and she knew exactly where she’d need to place her foot to make it all come tumbling down.

At the moment, though, the cracks weren’t quite wide enough for her to slip through. Her father’s hand on her arm, guiding her through another political gala, felt heavier than ever. As they walked across the glittering ballroom of yet another high-dollar fundraiser, she couldn’t help but notice how everyone around them spoke in whispers, exchanging pleasantries like actors performing a scripted scene. Prescott, ever the charmer, was in his element—his loud laugh filling the space, his broad hand clapping the backs of donors like they were brothers in arms. The crowd lapped it up. But Maybelline? She felt out of place, as though she were playing a part she hadn’t auditioned for.

Beside her, Cassandra was, predictably, the picture of charm. She wasn’t just a step-sister; she was the perfect political daughter. Her smile was flawless, her hair a cascade of golden curls that bounced with every step, and her eyes gleamed with that unsettling mix of ambition and malice. She made no secret of the fact that she was enjoying Maybelline’s discomfort.

"Isn't it just lovely, darling?" Cassandra whispered, her voice sweet but laced with sarcasm. "You look so… appropriate."

Maybelline didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. Cassandra knew exactly what she was doing—provoking her, pushing her buttons in front of the cameras. It was all part of the show.

They made their way to the front of the room, where her father stood, holding court with a group of wealthy supporters. Prescott spotted them as soon as they entered, his face lighting up with his signature grin.

“Maybelline!” he called, extending his hand like a politician with too much energy. “You’re a vision, as always.”

Maybelline nodded but said nothing. She didn’t trust her voice, not in this room full of sharks circling around their next meal. The press had been following her every move since the announcement, and her father made sure to keep her in the spotlight, even if it meant dragging her into conversations with strangers who only saw her as a commodity, a stepping stone to their own political gains.

“Have you met Mr. Laurent?” her father asked, turning to introduce her to a tall man standing next to him. Timothée Laurent. The name sent a jolt through her. She’d seen him only once since the announcement—at the gala where her father had unveiled their engagement. Since then, he’d been largely absent from her life, a shadow in the background, yet his presence loomed over her every moment.

Timothée stepped forward, his hand extended, his face the picture of politeness. “Maybelline,” he said smoothly, “it’s a pleasure.”

She shook his hand, her fingers barely grazing his. The touch felt cold, distant, as if he were untouchable—far beyond her reach. Timothée Laurent was a man who didn’t need to try. Everything about him exuded power. From his carefully tousled dark hair to the tailored suit that seemed to be molded to his body, he was the epitome of control. The kind of man who didn’t ask questions but instead bought the answers.

Maybelline didn’t know what to make of him. His quiet composure both intrigued and unnerved her. He didn’t seem to care about the political theatrics around them. He didn’t laugh too loudly or slap anyone’s back. Instead, he simply stood, observing, as if waiting for something.

"Your father speaks highly of you," Timothée continued, his voice low and rich. "He’s very proud, I gather."

Maybelline didn’t respond immediately. She had learned not to speak too quickly in situations like this. Words, once spoken, could never be taken back. She gave a polite nod, though it felt like a betrayal of everything she wanted to say.

“That’s kind of him,” she said finally, her tone flat. “Though I don’t always agree with his definition of ‘proud.’”

Timothée’s lips twitched into the barest of smiles. “I’m sure he’s trying his best.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she held her ground. “Is he?”

Before the conversation could go further, a hand clapped on her father’s shoulder, and a voice broke through the air.

“Governor Prescott! You’re looking as dashing as ever.” The man, an older figure with silver hair and sharp eyes, greeted them with an exaggerated smile.

Her father immediately shifted gears, turning his attention to the newcomer with that same practiced grin he wore like armor. “Ah, Senator Williams! You flatter me.”

The two men exchanged pleasantries, and Maybelline was left standing beside Timothée, feeling a strange mix of discomfort and curiosity. Timothée had stepped back slightly, allowing her the space to breathe, but there was something about him that kept her on edge.

She looked at him again, studying him more closely this time. His storm-gray eyes were unreadable, his face an impassive mask. But something in the way he held himself—too composed, too perfect—made her question whether there was more to him than the polished exterior.

“Do you always attend these events?” she asked, trying to fill the silence. “Or are you just here for the announcement?”

Timothée glanced at her, his expression unchanged. “I tend to avoid the spotlight. But I make exceptions for important people.”

Maybelline raised an eyebrow, intrigued by his words. “Important people?”

He didn’t elaborate, instead shifting his gaze toward her father, who was now engaged in deep conversation with Senator Williams. "I’m sure your father has his reasons for this evening, just as you do for keeping your distance."

His words weren’t just an observation—they were a challenge. Maybelline felt the walls around her close in again, as though she were standing in the center of some elaborate chess game where every move mattered. Her every decision, her every glance, was being scrutinized. But the worst part was knowing she had no choice. She had no control.

Yet, deep down, something rebellious stirred within her. She had to find a way out of this, even if it meant playing the game her father had set before her. The only question was whether she was willing to sacrifice everything for it.

As the night wore on, the crowd grew more insistent, pushing them toward the center of the ballroom. Her father was once again at the microphone, taking his place as the master of ceremonies. But Maybelline couldn’t shake the feeling that every person in the room was silently waiting for her to make her next move—whether she knew it or not.

And Timothée? He watched her, like a spectator to her every move. Whether it was fascination or calculation, she couldn’t tell.