Vice (H.S)

CHAPTER 19 - THE CAMPAIGN

"Lights. Do we have someone to fix those lights?" someone calls from the hallway.

Mother woke me up this morning with the exciting news that a surprise live interview with the governor and his fiancée is scheduled for this evening. I wasn't very excited.

The house is pure chaos. PAs rush from room to room, perfecting the picture. Cameras clutter every available surface and thick black cords lie like snakes across the hardwood floor. Our formal dining room has been transformed, a new green silk sofa pushed against the far wall and flowers covering every side table in view. Thick, dark curtains frame the room and, from behind the large film camera center-stage, a group of more than 50 people huddle out of sight.

I feel like a bug under a microscope.

A short, sharp-faced woman keeps dipping in to powder my nose, pursing her lips as she works. My skin is thick with camera-friendly makeup, bold colors that will show contrast well on black-and-white television. It feels awful and I can't wait to scrub the paint off once this is all over.

Niall walks in, avoiding my gaze as he settles beside me on the sofa. We haven't spoken since that day in the garden, since he drunkenly kissed me and threatened my life by driving intoxicated.

"Howdy, folks," our interviewer greets us, shaking hands politely. After having his face touched up by the same tiny woman, he finds his seat in a plush chair opposite the pair of us.

"I won't take up too much of your time," he promises. "We'll do this thing quick and dirty, what do ya say?" he smiles at me and I return the gesture but it's slow, unsure. I recognize him, and not from local news.

What's his name?

A large microphone is placed on the coffee table in front of us, more so in front of Niall. I get the feeling I'm missing something, something big. But before I can voice my concern aloud, we're rolling, broadcasting live.

The room goes quiet.

Mother glares from the corner of the room, her smile wide. How is that possible? The woman glares and smiles at the same time. She points to her teeth, tapping her shiny, red nail against the enamel.

Smile, she's telling me silently. Smile like your life depends on it.

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"Governor, I want to thank you for inviting me into your home this evening," the interviewer begins. My home, I think. You're welcome.

"It's my pleasure, Don." Niall grins beside me. The liquor is strong on his breath but luckily that won't show up on camera. And the interviewer either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

Don. That's his name. I recognize him.

He lobs softballs at Niall, tough questions about the economy and employment rates. Every few questions he turns to me, acknowledging my presence, offering small niceties about my appearance, my poise and grace.

I am a prop.

My job is to sit on this couch beside my fiancé, be still, look pretty, stay quiet. I know this is my role. I play it well, after all this time. But it stings just the same.

I manage to zone out, smile plastered on my face until the mid-show commercial break. Niall rises, walking out of the room, presumably in search of bourbon. The interviewer reviews his notecards and I lean towards him, away from the shrewd woman touching up my makeup.

"I recognize you." He looks up, meeting my gaze. He offers his hand, a smug look on his face.

"Don Hunt," he introduces himself. "Sunday Night News."

Don Hunt. I knew I recognized him. But he isn't a local news anchor, he's a national news correspondent. This is his Sunday night weekly report. He's using his once-a-week timeslot to interview the governor of California. And me, although he hasn't so much as looked at me in the last 5 minutes.

A nervous feeling begins to grow in my chest, radiating throughout my limbs, pricking my fingers with sweat.

Niall returns. Why he doesn't need screen makeup, I don't understand. He looks terrible. Exhausted and sloppy. But maybe I'm the only one who sees that.

The commercial break ends and the interview continues.

"Welcome back, America. If you're just joining us, I am here with Governor Niall Horan of California and his fiancée, Miss Banks. I want to congratulate you again on your engagement. The two of you make a beautiful couple."

Niall puts his hand on my knee and I do my best not to shiver, curl away from his touch. Make it look normal, I instruct my breathing. He touches you all the time, and you like it. Lean into it.

So, I do. I tuck into his side, taking his hand in mine. He startles, his reaction time only slightly slowed from drink. He picks up his smile again in no time.

"Yes," he answers quickly. "We're very happy."

"How have the wedding plans been coming along?"

I brace myself for whatever Niall is about to come up with, whatever lie he has planned. But it doesn't come.

"We actually have been preoccupied with some other plans lately. The wedding is still a priority, but... there's something bigger in the works."

"Oh?" Don Hunt leans in eagerly, drinking in each and every one of Niall's words. I find that I am enraptured as well. Where is he going with this?

"The truth is, for some time now we have been working very hard, working together." No, we haven't, I think. What is he getting at?

"I'm on the edge of my seat, Governor. What is this secret project?"

"I thought tonight would be the perfect opportunity, here, with you, in our home—" my home, "to throw my hat into the ring."

Hunt leans further forward. "Are you... are you saying what I think you're saying?"

What?

What could they possibly mean?

I find that I am completely lost in this exchange. But I continue smiling as if I am in on the joke, my gaze flitting softly between my fiancé and the television personality in front of me.

Niall turns to me and despite the grin gracing his pink lips, the look in his eyes is vacant, empty. He drops my hand, reaching across to exchange a firm handshake with our host.

"I am officially announcing my candidacy for president of the United States."

The room erupts in cheers and applause but my vision goes dark.

He has now tied himself to me, inextricably. We are linked on national television. There is no way out, I realize. And somewhere, someplace deep inside of me, a cold, heavy sound rings out from the depths. Like metal, grating across concrete.

It is the sound of chains.

I am trapped.

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