He Smeared His Campaign Wife on Live TV

Oliver's thumb tapped the glowing blue glass.

The screen flashed green.

"Release queued," Chloe announced, tapping the face of her smartwatch. "Thirty minutes until it hits the syndicates."

I didn't scream. I didn't slap the tablet out of his hand. I just watched the confirmation checkmark reflect in my son's eyes.

"Thirty minutes," I said.

"Mum, don't make this harder than it is," Oliver muttered. He shoved his hands into his pockets, refusing to meet my gaze. "It is a temporary measure."

"A temporary measure to diagnose your mother with a mental illness."

"It protects Dad's poll numbers. The voters need a reason for the teleprompter glitch. This gives them one."

"You sold my sanity for four points in the polls."

"I secured the election," Oliver shot back, his voice rising. "You taught me to neutralize threats. You are acting like a threat right now."

I let out a short, dry laugh. "I see."

I adjusted the strap of my handbag over my shoulder. "Good luck with the press junket, Oliver. You will need it."

I turned and walked out of the reception room, leaving him staring at the yellow pawn receipt on the glass table.

The drive back to the campaign residence took exactly fourteen minutes. The house sat silent. No phones ringing. No staffers shouting over the television.

I walked straight into the open-plan kitchen. The massive oak dining table dominated the space. The ring light was already clamped to its heavy steel tripod, angled to catch the morning sun through the bay windows.

Sunday Family Livestream.

Eighteen years of curating the perfect image. Every Saturday night, I prepared the kitchen. I arranged the flowers. I made sure the lighting caught the silver rims of the coffee cups just right. I built the Mayor Ashcroft family brand with my own two hands.

I walked to the head of the table. Julian's silver-rimmed coffee cup sat centred on the woven placemat.

I picked it up. The ceramic felt heavy in my hand. I dropped it into the stainless steel sink. It hit the metal basin with a sharp, ugly clang.

Next was Oliver's porcelain egg cup. I tossed it straight into the rubbish bin. It shattered against a discarded juice bottle.

Then came the linen napkins. I had stood over the ironing board for an hour yesterday, pressing crisp edges into the stiff white fabric. I gathered all three, crumpled them into a tight ball, and shoved them into the dark corner of the pantry.

Three empty placemats remained. Bare. Lifeless. An empty shell.

I grabbed the black dry-erase marker from the fridge door. On the weekly schedule whiteboard, I drew a thick, permanent line straight through the words Sunday Family Livestream.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I opened the campaign app, navigated to the eleven-day crisis schedule, and tapped the permissions tab.

Revoke cloud access: Julian Ashcroft.

Revoke cloud access: Oliver Ashcroft.

Revoke cloud access: Chloe.

Deleted.

The front door swung open, hitting the rubber wall stop with a loud thud.

"Evelyn, the PR team is losing their minds," Julian barked, loosening his navy tie as he marched into the kitchen. Oliver trailed behind him, his eyes glued to a glowing phone screen.

Julian stopped short. He stared at the empty oak table. He looked up at the ring light, then back down at the bare woven mats.

"What is this?" Julian asked. "Where is the spread? The broadcast crew gets here in an hour to film the morning shoot."

"There is no spread," I answered, crossing my arms.

"Stop playing games." Julian pointed a stiff finger at the empty space. "Get the silver cups out. Put the pastries on the tiered stand. We need to look like a functioning household before the reporters swarm the lawn."

"Do it yourself," I told him.

Julian scoffed. "I don't know where the props are kept."

"They aren't props, Julian. They are our dishes. The ones you eat off every single morning. The coffee beans are in the left cabinet. The grinder is on the worktop. The linen napkins are in the drawer."

Julian stared at me blankly. "I don't have time for a scavenger hunt. The makeup team is waiting in the living room."

"Then go let them powder your face."

"Evelyn, stop this tantrum," Julian commanded, his tone hardening. "You are embarrassing yourself."

"I am embarrassing myself?" I laughed, a short, sharp sound. "You stood on national television and told the city I was mentally unstable. You threw me to the wolves to cover up your own incompetence."

"I protected the campaign!" Julian shouted, slamming his hand against the granite island. The sound echoed off the high ceilings. "I did what I had to do to survive the news cycle. You left me no choice when you stole the server drive."

Oliver finally looked up from his screen. "Mum, just set it up. Dad's numbers are already slipping. If we cancel the livestream, it contradicts the stability angle we just pushed."

"The stability angle," I repeated, turning to my son. "Is that what we are calling it now?"

"Yes," Oliver insisted. "The voters want to see us eating breakfast together. They want the illusion of normalcy. Just put the cups back on the table."

"No."

"Mum, please." Oliver stepped forward. "We have a schedule to keep."

"You don't have a schedule anymore," I said. "Check your phone."

Oliver frowned. He swiped his thumb across his screen. "Wait. The cloud drive is empty."

Julian pulled his device from his slacks. He tapped the screen twice. His frown deepened into a scowl. "Why am I locked out of the crisis folder?"

"Because you don't have clearance."

"I am the candidate!" Julian yelled. "Restore my access right now. We have three press conferences tomorrow."

"Write your own speeches," I told him.

"I don't know the talking points!"

"Then read the municipal code." I reached into my handbag and pulled out the tarnished brass St. Jude's badge.

I grabbed a discarded linen napkin from the worktop, the one with Julian's dried orange marmalade smeared across the edge. I folded the sticky fabric around the heavy metal pin.

I walked over and pressed the bundle flat against Julian's chest.

He reflexively grabbed it. "What is this rubbish?"

"Oliver's childhood badge," I told him. "I found it in the pocket of my cashmere coat. The one Chloe was wearing."

Julian froze. The muscles in his jaw locked tight. He looked down at the orange stain, then at the brass peeking through the folds. The colour drained from his face.

"Where did you get this?" Julian whispered.

"I told you. From Chloe's pocket."

"Evelyn, let me explain," Julian started, his voice instantly losing its authoritative edge. He reached out to touch my arm.

I stepped back, avoiding his hand. "There is nothing to explain. You just told a hundred thousand people that we have been publicly separated for eighteen months."

"That was crisis management," Julian argued, tossing the napkin onto the island. "It was Chloe's idea to buy us time. The zoning board scandal was going to ruin me."

"Well, her idea worked." I gestured toward the empty table. "If we are separated, the cameras shouldn't catch my hands fixing your collar anymore. They shouldn't see me pouring your coffee."