Mr. President

By: Katy Evans

Pulitzer and Nobel prize winners and faces you see in the blockbuster films of the year …

They somehow disappear with Matt Hamilton sharing this same room.

He’s at the far end, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair dark and gleaming under the lights. He’s wearing a perfect black suit and a tie the color of platinum, his shirt crisp white and contrasting against the gold-kissed hue of his skin.

My mouth dries up and my body seems to start working a little harder to pump the blood through my system.

It’s not easy to lose track of Hamilton, he’s the darling of the media.

From the rebellious teenager, to the private college guy, to the man he’s become. The youngest contender in history, my mother says he represents the golden years his father gifted us with—growth, jobs, peace. I want that. Every one of the thousands of supporters here tonight wants that.

As we wade through the glittering crowd, the air scented with the most expensive perfumes, I greet some of my mother’s acquaintances, all dressed to impress. The famous always gravitated toward the Hamiltons, their presence silent endorsements. It’s been nine years since the last time I saw Matt, give or take. (I actually know the exact time, but I want to pretend I didn’t count so religiously.)

He’s taller than he even seemed on TV, looming over the others by a good few inches.

And god.

He’s all man.

Sable hair. Espresso eyes. A Greek god’s body.

Confidence streaks out of every pore.

Even the black suit he wears is perfect.

If there was ever a man with an air around him of privilege and success, Matthew Hamilton is it.

The Hamiltons have been influential since they were born. Bloodlines dating back to English lords and ladies. They called him prince when his father was alive, now he’s about to take the king’s throne.

When People magazine called him “the Sexiest Man Alive,” Forbes called him the “Most Successful Businessman.” He disappeared for a few years after law school—quietly building, expanding his family’s real estate empire. Judging by the amount of press vans outside the inaugural party ballroom, the world is being taken by storm with his return.

Every headline today had the name Hamilton on it.

I’ve never seen so many important people together in one place in my life.

I can’t believe all of them came out in support.

The enormity of Matt’s reach hits me, and I’m suddenly awed that I could even snag an invitation to his kickoff party in the first place.

In Women of the World, we assist women going through rough moments in their lives—divorce, health problems, and trauma. The spirit of the organization is helpful and humble. Here, it’s along the same lines—everyone united for a common cause—but the air here is extraordinarily powerful.

The people here are the movers and shakers of the world. And tonight, their world revolves around Matthew Hamilton.

Matt is suddenly enveloped by an actress. She’s doting on him and wearing the skimpiest dress to flash her toned muscles and perky ass and breasts.

My stomach twists around in part envy, part awe. I have no idea what I could talk to that woman about, but I’m star-struck all the same.

“He’s so handsome,” my mother whispers as we head his way.

My nervousness increases. There are already too many people around him, waiting for an introduction. I watch him shake hands, the firmness of his grip, the way he makes eye contact. So … direct.

The knot in my stomach keeps tightening.

“I think I’ll just take a seat over there,” I whisper to my mother and point to a sitting area with the least number of people milling about.

“Oh, Charlotte,” I hear her say.

“I’ve already met him, let the others have their chance!”

I don’t let her protest anymore and instantly cut to my secluded spot. From there, I scan the crowd.

It’s so easy for me to strike up conversation with people at work, but this crowd would intimidate anyone. I spot J. Lo in a designer white dress at the corner of the room. I look down at my yellow-gold dress and wonder why I chose such a stand-out color when it would be better to blend in. Maybe I thought “fake it till you make it” would work. That I would look as sophisticated as everybody else here and soon feel that way.

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