Chapter Text
The flash of cameras came in staccato bursts, like distant lightning across a cloudless sky. Rumi stood a half-step behind her aunt, hands clasped gently at her waist, her chin lifted at just the right angle for the press to capture a profile of composure. She wore a cream blouse and a modest pleated blue skirt, chosen not by her, but by Celine’s campaign stylist, a balance of youthful grace and unthreatening femininity.
Celine stood at the podium in a crimson blazer that matched her lipstick and the banners behind her. She radiated authority, every gesture choreographed for maximum gravitas. To the public, she was a trailblazer, a symbol of discipline, order, and national pride. To Rumi, she was a fortress, high walls, locked gates, and cold shadows.
“Our youth are the heartbeat of our future,” Celine said, voice ringing through the open plaza. “With the right guidance, they can grow into strong leaders, grounded in traditional values, in purpose, and in family.”
The audience applauded on cue, a sea of nodding heads and raised phones.
It was a typical campaign crowd, clean-cut, flag-waving, teeth-white smiles polished by decades of polite contempt. Men in pressed polos and khakis. Women with pearl earrings and folded hands. Teenage boys with eyes that lingered too long, who looked at her like a prize and not a person. Everyone so sure of their place in the world, so convinced they were on the right side of something grand.
But she saw what lay beneath the surface.
There was a flicker in their eyes when something disrupted the image. When a young girl stepped up to ask an unapproved question about student debt, or when an older black man spoke passionately about community reinvestment, or when two women dared to hold hands too close to the stage.
The smiles turned stiff. The eyes went hard. The kindness in their voices became clipped, condescending.
Security approached that couple, quietly, of course. Politely. Asking them to “step aside for press flow.” There were no slurs, no shouting. Just a weaponized smile and an unspoken message. You don't belong here.
Celine saw them. Rumi knew she had. But she never acknowledged it, not a glance, not a shift in expression. Just the continuation of her speech about “values” and “family” and “the next generation.”
And Rumi said nothing. She smiled, just as rehearsed, her cheeks aching from the effort. She stood still and silent beside her aunt, the good niece, the perfect accessory. A quiet symbol of promise and purity. She heard the silent meaning behind the words. Not too loud. Not too visible. Not too queer.
Rumi swallowed the rising discomfort in her throat. The word family echoed in her chest like an accusation.
Celine’s speech continued, an elegant performance of responsibility and tradition. Rumi barely heard any of it. The applause, the flashing lights, the echo of her aunt’s voice. It all passed over her like a dream. Her body was there, but her mind drifted, thinking about the perfectly pinned bun in her hair that pulled too tightly at her scalp, the clean manicured nails, the way her skirt didn’t quite feel like her own.
Smile softer. Stand taller. Speak clearly, but never too boldly. Never say too much. Never be too much.
When the speech ended, the press surged forward. Celine raised one hand to acknowledge them, then gestured subtly toward Rumi, like presenting a ribboned gift.
“I’d like to introduce my niece, Rumi,” she said with a warm, practiced smile. “A brilliant young woman. I’m so proud of her.”
The cameras turned toward her. A reporter from the Washington Daily stepped forward.
“Rumi, what’s it like working so closely with your aunt? Do you hope to follow in her footsteps?”
Rumi smiled. Always the smile first. Then the answer. “It’s an honor,” she said, voice steady and polite even though every part of her wanted to shrink away from their attention. Afraid that if they looked too close they’d see too much. “I’ve learned so much about integrity, discipline, and the importance of public service. My aunt has been… a huge influence on who I am.”
That much, at least, was true. Just not in the way they thought. The words still felt like a mask slipping into place. Truth was, she often felt like a shadow in Celine’s towering presence, her own dreams quieted beneath layers of obligation. A reflection of who she should be rather than an image of who she was.
The reporter nodded, satisfied. “And how do you handle the pressure of being in the public eye at such a young age?”
Rumi’s throat tightened. She glanced at her aunt, who was already moving on to greet donors with a practiced smile. “It’s challenging,” Rumi said, blinking back the urge to break apart. “But it’s also a privilege to serve and represent our community.”
Rumi smiled at them. Took pictures. Shook hands. Said all the right things.
The microphone clicked off. The moment ended.
Celine’s eyes met hers across the crowd, sharp, approving.
As the media moved on, Rumi let her smile fall away and took a breath, the weight of the day settling in her bones. She exhaled so quietly she hoped no one noticed.
The buzz of cameras faded as reporters dispersed, leaving a quieter hum of conversations and footsteps on the stone plaza. Celine moved quickly through the crowd, a practiced smile still in place, and caught Rumi’s arm gently but firmly.
“You did well,” she said, her voice low enough for only Rumi to hear. “But remember, next time, project your voice more. Be sure of yourself. You’re not some shy girl anymore. People need to see strength.”
Rumi nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Yes, Aunt Celine.”
Celine’s eyes softened for a moment, but the steel underneath was unmistakable. “Good. And we’ll need to talk about the fundraiser dinner on Wednesday. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Rumi’s stomach twisted. She already knew what that meant. Another carefully curated introduction to a “respectable” young man, a calculated move to shore up Celine’s political alliances.
She forced another smile, folding her hands as they walked side by side toward the waiting car. “Yes, Aunt Celine.”
Smile softer. Stand taller. Speak clearly, but never too boldly. Never say too much. Never be too much.
As the city lights began to flicker on around them, Rumi felt the familiar ache of a cage closing around her chest.
Once they arrived at the mansion Rumi disappeared to her room. The night was quiet except for the faint hum of the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. She immediately walked into the ensuite bathroom, flipping on the vanity lights as she went.
The bathroom was warm and too bright, the lightbulbs above the mirror humming with artificial energy that made everything feel staged. Like she was back under the campaign lights, smiling on cue.
Rumi stared at her reflection.
Her makeup had begun to smudge, just barely. The corners of her eyeliner softened, mascara clung in tiny flakes beneath her lower lashes. Her lipstick faded to a dry outline. Still, she looked composed. Presentable. Like someone who’d just spent the day smiling for cameras and shaking hands with people who called her “articulate” and “graceful” like it was a compliment, like it meant anything.
She reached for a cotton pad and soaked it in micellar water. The first swipe across her cheek left a pale streak behind, as if erasing part of herself.
One by one, she wiped away the mask. Foundation. Eyeliner. Blush. Her skin underneath was pink and raw in spots, more vulnerable in the silence. Without contour or concealer, her cheekbones softened. Her eyes looked younger. Sadder.
She stared at herself. Not the polished version Celine approved of. Not the girl in press photos or at podiums. Just her. Bare faced and alone.
Rumi unbuttoned the blouse, slowly. Slid it off her shoulders and folded it over the towel rack like it might wrinkle wrong if she let it fall. Then the skirt. The stockings. One layer at a time until nothing was left but skin and silence.
The steam from the sink warmed her chest as she splashed water on her face, refreshing, but not enough to make her feel clean.
Rumi leaned forward, bracing her hands on either side of the porcelain basin.
Her eyes caught a faded bruise and a memory beneath the surface began to stir, a shadow of a conversation long past.
“Bisexual?” Her aunt’s voice echoed in her mind, sharp and cold. “You’re confused. You need stability.”
Rumi remembered the sting of those words, spoken one afternoon when she was sixteen, clutching a trembling sketchbook filled with portraits of girls she admired, secret confessions in graphite and color.
“But I-” she tried to speak, voice small and raw.
For a moment, Celine’s face was unreadable. Then she stepped forward, closing the distance with a measured calm that made Rumi’s skin crawl. She reached out and gripped Rumi’s arm, not roughly, but firmly enough to leave a faint bruise. “People like that… they don’t build lasting lives.”
“But I’m not confused,” Rumi said, voice shaking. “I know who I am.”
Celine’s grip tightened just a fraction, her eyes darkening. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t understand the consequences. You’re lucky I’m protecting you.”
She released Rumi’s arm, but the coldness lingered. Then, with the faintest smile, her tone softened, calculated to confuse and soothe.
“We’re family. And family doesn’t embarrass each other. You’ll thank me someday.”
That was the day she’d tucked her sketchbooks away in the back of her closet, hiding pieces of herself she dared not show. Years had passed, but the weight of those words still pressed on her chest. She reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, fingertips trembling.
Rumi turned off the light and left the bathroom in darkness.
She padded softly across the cold tile, the silence of the mansion thick as velvet. Celine had gone to her study to review polling numbers or donor lists, or maybe just to bask in the echo chamber of her own perfection. She didn’t dress again, just crawled into bed, makeup gone, hair loose, skin bare and honest.
Rumi stared at the ceiling, one hand resting lightly over her ribs where the latest bruise had begun to yellow, slow and sore.
“You’ll thank me someday.”
She tried to believe that. Tried to turn those words into something protective, loving even. But there was no comfort in them. Only control. Her mind drifted back to the moment she said it out loud. I’m bisexual . It had been like ripping her heart from her chest and offering it up in her hands, still beating, painful and bleeding.
And Celine crushed it without even raising her voice.
Rumi pressed her palm against her sternum, as if she could smooth the ache from inside. Held her breath until it started to hurt just so when she exhaled she could feel some sort of relief from the pressure.
Maybe it was true. Maybe she was just confused.
She thought about the way she looked at women sometimes. About how her breath caught when someone smiled at her in a way that felt like an invitation. How her heart beat faster watching performances where the female backup dancers flirted with each other. How sometimes her dreams left her blushing and guilty in the morning, with no boys in sight.
She always hid that part. Made excuses. Told herself it was just artistic admiration. That she just wanted to be those girls, not touch them. Not kiss them. Not trace her fingers down their bare shoulders to their chest and…
She turned sharply onto her side, biting her lip until it hurt.
“People like that don’t build lasting lives.”
That line echoed louder than the rest.
She thought of the way Celine touched her arm, tight, bruising, without a flicker of emotion. Not anger. Not passion. Just cold, mechanical control. Like a machine correcting a defective part.
Maybe it was better to bury it. Stay quiet. Be good. Smile softer. Stand taller. Speak clearly, but never too boldly. Never say too much. Never be too much.
If I could just be normal... if I could just stop wanting more than I should... maybe she’d love me the way she says she does.
Rumi blinked hard, willing the tears away before they could spill. Crying would do her no good anyways.
She reached over and picked up her phone. Her lockscreen was a campaign photo, her and Celine side by side, both smiling, both immaculate. Thousands of likes. So many comments about how lucky Rumi was.
She locked it again without opening any of the apps, unable to look at that version of herself. She was getting good at feeding them the lines they liked but was starting not to recognize the girl in the mirror anymore.
Somewhere below her window, a car engine started. A siren wailed in the distance. The city moved on, even when she didn’t. When her phone buzzed on the nightstand, she didn’t check it right away. She already knew what it was.
Another calendar reminder she hadn’t set herself.
So instead Rumi just curled further in on herself, body bare, hair loose, eyes too tired for someone her age.