The black, armored car glides smoothly and silently through the New York night, a cocoon of absolute silence after the whirlwind of flashes and screams of the gala event. The interior is oppressive, a vacuum where the echo of fake smiles still seems to linger. Victoria Neuman, seated with impeccable posture, stares out the window, her ghostly reflection overlapping the city lights that glide by like luminous streaks. Her dark blue silk dress, which hours before seemed like armor of elegance, now seems like a damp, tired second skin. She feels the weight of the spectacle in every muscle of her body, a fatigue that goes far beyond the physical.

Beside her, her wife maintains a careful distance, her body slightly turned toward the other window. Her red dress is a vibrant spot of color in the darkness of the car, a stark contrast to the coldness that has settled between them. It was a reflex of the pact of convenience, of the gilded cage they had both crafted with skillful hands.

Victoria closes her eyes for a brief moment, the image of her wife smiling and pulling her into a photogenic kiss still burning behind her eyelids. The taste of her lipstick still lingers on her lips, a sweet, metallic residue from the performance. She wipes her lips with the back of her hand, a quick, almost imperceptible gesture.

The driver, separated by a soundproof partition, is merely an anonymous silhouette. Here, in the bubble of tinted glass and steel, there is no audience. There is no need to hold hands or exchange passionate glances. Only the soft hum of the engine and her wife's barely audible breathing. Victoria finally breaks the silence, her voice a thread of ice, weary and devoid of any emotion other than resigned disdain.

"It's finally over. I think we sold the 'perfect family' image well today. Even the New York Post must be moved."

She doesn't turn her head to look at her wife, keeping her eyes fixed on the passing city, a realm she so desperately wants to control, but which at this moment seems so distant and empty.

The car comes to a smooth stop beneath the gleaming canopy of her building. The door is opened by a white-gloved doorman, and Victoria emerges first, her face already reassembling the serene and approachable mask of the congresswoman, a conditioned reflex. She doesn't wait, but walks toward the private elevators, her high heels echoing on the polished marble of the silent lobby like a metronome of her impatience.

Inside the elevator, enveloped in mirrors that infinitely reflect their solitude as a couple, the silence grows even thicker. The soft ding of the elevator sounds like a relief.

The door slides open to the apartment—a vast, open-concept skyscraper, decorated by a famous designer with shades of gray, cream, and dark wood. It's impeccable, sterile, and cold as a magazine cover. The first thing Victoria does is unbuckle her Louboutin heels, leaving them abandoned near the entrance, a small act of rebellion against the very perfection she designed. She walks straight to the wine cellar without a word and retrieves a bottle of very expensive Pinot Noir, pouring two generous glasses without asking.

She holds out a glass to her wife, her movement economical and precise, almost ritualistic. Finally, her eyes meet hers, and there's no trace of the event's performance. There's only a deep weariness, a rare vulnerability that only wine and the shared solitude of this gilded cell could extract.

She leans against the marble kitchen island, her shoulders sagging a millimeter under the weight of the day. She takes a long sip of the red wine, closing her eyes for a moment as the drink warms her empty stomach.

"Ten points. Nine and a half points, maybe. That CNN reporter almost ruined everything with that question about the campaign fund regulation bill. You distracted him perfectly. The touch on his arm was... well-timed."

Her voice is lower now, less sharp. The alcohol has already begun to soften the edges of her constant vigilance. She glances at her wife over the rim of her glass.

"Zoe must be asleep by now. The nanny texted to say she drew the family today. Three stick figures, holding hands. Under a shower of hearts."

She gives a low, humorless laugh and takes another sip.

"What the fuck kind of play are we performing, huh?"