James
Sunday mornings in the Eastbrook penthouse are cathedral-quiet — the kind of silence that echoes off marble floors and reminds me I have 11,000 square feet all to myself.
Well, almost. There’s Maria, who folds my socks into tight military rolls. Hector, who has my coffee ready before I open my eyes and Florence, who manages the place like a general with a clipboard and the calm of a woman who prays before she yells.
“You’re not coming to church again?” Mom asks, standing in the doorway of the breakfast solarium, Bible to her chest.
I glance up from my phone, where the yacht club group chat is spiraling into a crisis over who’s bringing what kind of rosé. “You can’t pray away family sins, Mom. Besides, if God wanted me in church, He wouldn’t have invented Bloody Marys.”
“James.”
I smirk, get up, and kiss her cheek. “I love you. Tell Jesus I said hi.”
She sighs. The tired kind, not the angry kind but there’s still a smile behind it. My mother’s the kind of Christian who volunteers and never puts her name on a check. She’s also smart enough to know miracles don’t happen before noon — especially not with me.
“I’m heading to the yacht club,” I say, grabbing my sunglasses. “Tell Florence not to rearrange the library again. I had the poetry section exactly the way I liked it.”
“Most twenty-three-year-olds don’t have poetry sections, sweetheart.”
I grin. “Most twenty-three-year-olds aren’t Eastbrooks.”
Downstairs, the doorman tips his hat, and I slide into the back of the town car. The leather’s already warm. On the seat beside me is a glossy magazine.
Dad’s face stares back.
RICHARD EASTBROOK: THE RIGHTFUL FUTURE OF AMERICA?
My chest tightens. I flip the page. Another op-ed. Another perfect quote. Another flawless legacy.
One day, I think.
One day, that’ll be me.
I close the magazine and lean back as the car glides toward the marina. Outside, the skyline splits the haze, sharp and silver.
_____________________________________
Danalie
It’s my first Sunday off in eight weeks, and I already broke my rule.
I promised myself I’d do one thing today that wasn’t work. Just one. And somehow, that thing turned into visiting la jefa herself.
“Mi abuela,” I mutter, hopping into the 6 train. “You win.”
The car is suspiciously empty. I open Notes and type: Fix MTA funding — 96th escalators dead again, Union Square overcrowded, rats braver than ever.
I transfer lines. Nearly miss my stop. Still beat the tamales to the table.
“Mira, mira! Look who decided to show up before Christmas,” Miguel yells, opening the door.
The smell hits me first — cumin, cinnamon, masa, love. Moms at the stove. My tías are locked in gossip combat. Valentina tugs at my skirt and whispers, “Can I vote for you yet?”
God, I love this place.
Abuelo’s in his usual spot. Wheelchair angled toward the TV, volume muted, eyes sharp.
Uncle Jorge grunts from the couch. “Tell Reyes the damn neighbors keep blocking my driveway.”
I roll my eyes. “Perfect. I’ll pitch it: Gracídaz 2025: Driveway justice for all.”
He laughs, grumbling into his tamale. I slip beside Abuelo and take his hand. It's trembling.
“They don’t tell me,” he says quietly. “About the bills. About the heat.”
My throat tightens. “You let us worry about that, okay? I promised you.”
He nods; eyes glassy.
“I’ll work the hardest,” I whisper. “So, no one has to choose between food and healthcare again.”
He squeezes my hand. In that moment, nothing else matters. Not the campaign. Not the polls. Not the pressure.
Just promise. Just purpose. Just family.
______________________________________
James
It’s well past midnight by the time I step back into the penthouse. My hair’s windblown, shirt untucked, and I’m still buzzing from the champagne and the ocean spray. We took Sunny’s new sixty-footer out past the harbor lights. Music. Laughter. Sara’s lips on my neck like we hadn’t broken up three times already.
I turn the corner and nearly walk into Sophie.
She’s back from her European boarding school — the one Dad insisted on, because its where European royalty send their children, and in his opinion, Eastbrooks are nothing less.
“Back from your latest exile on water?”
“It was just a boat ride.”
“Uh-huh.” She flashes her screen. “Sara asks if you’ve reached home” she turns her phone towards me.
I glance at the text. Of course. News travels fast.
“We have a great arrangement,” I say with a shrug. “Low expectations. Good benefits. Besides, the girl who can steal my heart hasn’t been invented yet.”
Sophie snorts. “I don’t know if Sara sees it that way,” she says, rolling her twelfth-grader eyes at me. “God! You and your impossible standards.”
“When did you become my relationship therapist?” I shoot back, nudging her shoulder. “The girl who can handle all this”—I gesture at our house, our family “needs to have the patience of a saint and the jawline of a Bond villain.”
We walk through the corridor together, our laughter bouncing off the marble. As we pass Dad’s study, we hear the low drone of cable news.
Sophie lowers her voice. “His standards are even worse. Be careful, Jamie.”
Before I can respond, Dad’s voice calls out. “James.”
I step into the study. He doesn’t turn to look — his eyes are locked on the TV.
Onscreen, a woman commands a roaring crowd. Dark hair, conviction in every word.
Danalie Gracídaz- what kind of name is that?
“The enemy,” Dad says, voice cool. “She’s more dangerous than Reyes himself. That one—she’s poison.” He sighs, that loud disappointed one “She’ll turn the entire young generation into socialists. They tell me Gen Z is eating her up. Her speech from last night got six million views overnight—whatever the hell that means. This country used to be run by men like Reagan, Eisenhower, hell, even Truman not a bunch of yuppies trying to capture every goddamn moment of their lives on TikTok while sipping fair-trade espresso and preaching moral purity from their parents’ basements”
I watch her. Watch the way the crowd leans forward, how she speaks like the truth belongs to her. I immediately hate it. I hate how certain she sounds when she says things like 'Tax the billionaires' — as if they don't already pay more than their share. 'Close down offshore accounts' — like those funds are some stolen treasures and not the result of generations of men who innovated and forged ahead. 'Free healthcare, raises for teachers' — where exactly does she think that money comes from? Why is it always on the shoulders of those at the top to subsidize the freeloaders?
And yet, I can’t look away. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion. Horrifying. Unavoidable. Gripping.
She’s mesmerizing — infuriating, magnetic, impossible to ignore. I’m repulsed. I’m intrigued. And for the first time in a long time, I feel something I can’t quite name.
The whole house is dark and I should be asleep too, I’m in bed with my laptop open, replaying the clip.
Danalie Gracídaz, in grainy livestream pixels, commanding the stage like it was built for her. Every word out of her socialist mouth grates on my nerves—impossible demands, overblown outrage, slogans that sound like they were written by a freshman poli-sci major with a savior complex. I hate every syllable. I keep watching.
There’s a pull in my chest I don’t understand. Like gravity’s malfunctioning. Like the part of me trained to dismiss people like her didn’t get the memo.
I pause on a frame—her eyes lit up, chin raised, defiant. She’s not my type. Not even close. I’ve dated model-perfect women—blonde, poised, effortlessly graceful and then there’s her—this five-foot-three burst of fire with tanned skin, jet-black hair, and eyes that don’t sparkle, they blaze. Her smile doesn’t flirt. It challenges. Her voice doesn’t ask to be heard. It commands.
She’s too loud. Too bold. Too much. Why am I still watching this. What the hell is wrong with me? She’s everything I’m supposed to hate.
_________________________
Danalie
The kitchen smells like roasted jalapeños, melted sugar, and whatever war the microwave just lost against leftover mole. The party’s over, but somehow all the women are still on their feet. My feet ache in these beat-up huaraches, but no one else is complaining, so I don’t either.
Mamá is elbow-deep in soapy water, humming a Pedro Infante song. Tía Lupe is scraping off burnt cheese from the bottom of a pan like it insulted her children. Meanwhile, my cousins and I form the unofficial cleanup crew—dish dryers, plate stackers, crumb chasers.
“Why is it,” I say, balancing a stack of greasy tamale wrappers, “that we are the only ones doing this? The men eat like kings, then vanish like ghosts.”
Alma snorts. “They’re in the living room talking about fútbol and pretending to have back pain.”
“I swear,” I mutter.
“Beta,” Tía Lupe cuts in, smiling without turning. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
The collective groan is deafening.
Maya tosses her dish towel like a flag of protest. “Tía, we’re in 2025.”
“And yet the men are still on the couch,” I add, arching a brow.
“I hope my man’s heart is accessible through his mind,” I say, rinsing a glass with flair. “And not his digestive tract.”
That earns me a slow clap from Maya, but Alia smirks wickedly. “Says the girl who dated Kyle the human dissertation.”
“Oh no, here we go,” I mutter.
“He was a PhD in post-colonial narratives and still thought salsa came in mild only.”
“He brought a copy of The Wretched of the Earth to our beach day,” Maya adds.
I roll my eyes. “Okay, he wasn’t... exciting. At least he cared about stuff. He was thoughtful.”
“He was the color beige personified,” Alia says. “Meanwhile, I don’t care if a man’s favorite book is a restaurant menu—just give me someone with a private jet and an offshore account.”
She unlocks her phone with the confidence of someone seeking sin. A few swipes, and she lights up.
“Boom. Look who’s trending again.”
She turns her screen toward us. The air stills.
It’s him. James Eastbrook.
Blond, shirt half-unbuttoned, flashing that smug Kennedy-meets-Calvin Klein grin from the deck of a yacht off the New York harbor. He’s flanked by models, all long legs and curated apathy, holding what might be champagne or pure narcissism in a flute.
Alma whistles. “Dios mío.”
“Isn’t that your rival’s son?” Maya asks, eyes flicking to me with too much amusement.
My stomach tightens. “Yup.”
“He looks …. presidential, even when he’s misbehaving,” Alia says, enlarging a photo of him with salt-kissed hair and aviators tucked into his collar.
“He looks like everything that’s wrong with the world,” I mutter. “Has probably never worked a real day in his life. Thinks he’s fair because he tips well. Isn’t racist because he’s got one Black celebrity friend. Isn’t sexist because he ‘lets’ his date split the bill. The kind of guy who says ‘This is America—the land of opportunity, all you have to do is hustle.’ Ask him about minimum wage, Black Lives Matter, abortion rights? He flips faster than a pancake at a campaign brunch.”
I hear loud groans and protests as I hit the power button. “Seriously, you all need better taste.”
“Relax,” Maya teases. “No one’s asking you to marry him.”
“Good,” I say. “Because someone like him could never be my type.”
They all look at me like I’ve just told them I prefer instant coffee over café de olla.
“Dani, you’re no fun,” Alma says. “You’re going to die surrounded by ideology and outrage.”
“And ice cream,” Mamá calls from behind the fridge door. “Anyone want ice cream?”
“Yes!” everyone yells.
“Dani” she says, already handing me the tub. “Go ask the men which flavor they want.”
I plant my hands on my hips. “Nope. I am not their waitress.”
Mamá doesn’t blink. “Then Alma, you go.”
“I just sat down!” but she gets up and goes because we are ‘good girls’ and that’s what we are taught to do.
LATER THAT NIGHT – ABUELA’S GUEST ROOM
We’re packed in like tamales—Maya in the bottom bunk, Alma on a floor mattress, and me curled against the wall under a quilt that smells faintly of mothballs and cinnamon. The fan ticks above us, blades wobbling slightly, cutting through the heavy summer night.
My phone lights up under the blanket.
I tap open Instagram, just... out of curiosity.
There he is. James Eastbrook. Again.
Shirtless now. Golden tan. Perfect teeth. His hair is wet, like he just came out of the ocean or possibly a shampoo commercial. In one photo, he’s laughing—genuinely, not posed. In another, he’s pouring wine for someone off-frame, jaw sharp, forearms tanned and veined.
I bite my lip.
I’m sure he’s vapid as hell. Probably thinks activism is a type of gym.
I scroll.
There’s a close-up. Him in a suit. Loosening his tie with that arrogant smile, like he owns whatever room he walks into.
God, you’re disgusting, I think but I can’t look away.
_________________________
Chapter 2: Damage Control
James
The Eastbrook lounge smells like bergamot and scandal.
Sunlight slices through the silk curtains in precise, presidential lines. The coffee is lukewarm. The headlines are on fire.
EASTBROOK VP PICK IN SEX SCANDAL WITH 20-YEAR-OLD INTERN
‘GROOMING’ ALLEGATIONS RATTLE CAMPAIGN
FAMILY VALUES???
Mom doesn’t touch her toast. Her usually perfect chignon is fraying at the edges, like her nerves. She stares at the paper folded beside her espresso.
“This is going to ruin us,” she says, voice low but shaking.
I stir my coffee, slowly. Deliberately. “It won’t.”
She looks at me—sharp, watery eyes. “I told your father. I told him. We were fine. Private. Safe. Why did he have to run?”
“Because he believes he can fix things.”
She snorts bitterly. “No, James. He believes in being right. That’s different.” She lifts the espresso, hands trembling slightly. “This isn’t just some business headline we can bury. This is... national.”
I place my hand over hers. “I won’t let anything happen to the family name. I’ll help him. In every way I can.”
She exhales. Her fingers squeeze mine for just a second. “Promise me you won’t be careless. Promise me you won’t let this devour you, too.”
I nod.
But I don’t make promises I can’t keep.
LATER – FATHER’S STUDY
The air is tense with money and desperation. Leather chairs groan under the weight of billion-dollar egos. Everyone’s dressed like a scandal hasn’t happened—tie knots crisp, suits fresh, smiles fake.
Dad stands by the fireplace, arms folded, jaw set. He hasn’t spoken in ten minutes. Letting the silence hang like smoke.
“He’s denying everything,” one aide says. “Claims the girl fabricated it for attention.”
“She has text receipts,” another counters. “The media has them. CNNs already called it predatory.”
“We need to pivot,” barks someone from digital strategy. “Start floating attack stories about the Democrats. Something big. Distract and drown.”
“No,” says Dad’s chief of staff. “That’ll reek of desperation.”
“I think it’s a good idea,” I cut in.
They all turn to me like I’ve grown antlers.
Dad blinks. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, not us doing the dirt-slinging,” I say carefully, pacing. “But I could infiltrate. Get inside the other side’s operation.”
There’s a pause. A silence thick with unspoken are you serious?
One of the older aides laughs. “You think the Democrats won’t recognize you, James? You’re basically a walking campaign ad for your father.”
“Exactly,” I say, eyes sparking. “They’ll know me. They’ll think there’s a rift. They’ll think they’re gaining an Eastbrook defector. A strategic asset.”
Murmurs rise.
“Too risky,” someone mutters.
“Or brilliant,” another says. “He plays the disgraced son, angry at his father, willing to expose secrets...”
“Imagine the media coverage,” I say. “‘Heir defects.’ We let that run wild. Meanwhile, I’m inside. Observing. Learning. Feeding back anything useful.”
My father speaks at last. Quiet, steady.
“What if they don’t take you in?”
I smile. “They will. I know just the person to get me in.”
_____________________
Danalie
The plan for the day is simple: hit doors by ten, flip at least three undecideds, don’t get sunburnt. But that all goes out the window the second Tara bursts into the room like she’s been launched from a cannon.
“It’s everywhere,” she announces, holding her phone up like it’s a detonator. “CNN. MSNBC. Even Page Six, for Christ’s sake.”
Everyone freezes.
“What’s everywhere?” I ask, coffee halfway to my mouth.
“James Eastbrook. The golden boy just fell. Disowned. Disinherited. Probably dethroned. Full-on Shakespeare.”
Aides start shouting over each other.
“TMZ says his dad kicked him out of the penthouse—”
“Twitter’s saying it’s a political split—”
“No, it’s a secret love affair. Some intern? A stripper? Or maybe he’s gay and Richard couldn’t handle it.”
Zoe snorts. “One Reddit thread says he punched a donor and ran off with this male gardener.”
“Maybe he told his dad he believes in socialized healthcare” I comment and receive a few laughs. Then get back to my phone.
BREAKING: Rift in the Eastbrook Empire. Family Statement Hints at ‘Betrayal’. Another headline screams: Was It Love or Politics That Tore Them Apart?
Our door-to-door campaign meeting has officially turned into a gossip-fueled strategy war room. The energy in the office shifts. There’s electricity in the air—excitement, speculation, a hunger for what this could mean. The enemy’s crown prince just publicly face-planted. That matters.
Then my phone buzzes again. Not a push alert.
Senator Reyes.
I slip out into the hallway.
“Danalie,” he says, voice low, calm, measured. “What do you make of this?”
I lean against the wall, watching the chaos through the window. “I think we wait. Let the media spiral. We stay quiet. When they ask, we say every family deserves time to sort out personal issues. We don’t need to make a private tragedy into a political weapon.”
There’s a pause. Then: “Agreed.”
I hesitate. My mouth moves before I can stop it. “That said… if the fallout really is over ideology—if James walked away from that empire because he couldn’t stomach what it stood for anymore. If the rumors are true and he fell for someone from the wrong side of the zip code or biological code - it could play well. Eventually. We have to be cautious.”
Reyes signs “We’ll follow your lead. Keep me posted.”
I hang up.
Back inside, the headlines are still multiplying. Speculation is everywhere. People whisper and joke, half in awe, half in disbelief. No one knows what’s true yet but I do know this: if James Eastbrook really broke ranks—if he actually tore himself from that machine—we need to know why.
Sometimes, the most dangerous move a man like him can make… is telling the truth.
