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𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄
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Cora flipped through a copy of Harper's Bazaar, trying to ignore the conversation in the cabin over which despite being held in full view of her, was one she had been explicitly excluded from.
Logan had called Roman and Shiv forward to discuss the game plan for the donor event, leaving Cora in the sole company of Olivia, who spent the first haul of the flight documenting nearly every nook and cranny of the private plane she could without receiving the ire of Gerri or Logan. Cora had heard her filming a Tiktok in the bathroom earlier, instantly coming down with a pounding headache.
Shiv suggested water, eliciting a harsh bark of laughter from Roman. Cora side-eyed them both. Drinking in front of anyone was a no go, it went unsaid, but that hadn't stopped her from sneaking at her flask when she found herself unwatched. This remained to be quite a feat, given that Olivia had made it her mission to haunt Cora like a bad smell, making her the only person who was even mildly interested in keeping Cora company.
It was abundantly clear that everyone around her was trying to ignore the elephant in the room, or the plane, depending on how specific you wanted to get. Cora had become the equivalent of a bug that others were too polite to squash, lest it dirty their hands. She was Gregged, sequestered to the fringes until someone marched her out in conversation for some bitchy small talk. Only five minutes before boarding she'd overheard Hugo say "she's still here?" to Tom, who politely steered the conversation to a less polarising topic: the Gaza Strip.
She was being passive aggressively managed into non-existence. Cora had been not so subtly instructed by Gerri to dress modestly, this was a Republican event after all, there would be no skimpy slip dresses with aggressively necklines, no showing a little leg. Cora was fine with hiding the shame of the compression sock currently strapped around her ankle, but the rest felt personal, she supposed that was the point.
The end result was that she ended up looking like a Shiv clone in her tailored slacks and cashmere sweater, the pressed collar of her button up peeking out below her neck like the leaves of a houseplant, desperately snaking towards sunlight. It was very politician's wife, pragmatic and stifled.
Her one solace remained her fling with Kendall, a silent but aggressive 'fuck you' to the muzzle she was saddled with. The only downside was his radio silence over text, but she was about to change that.
