America, has a Problem

FFP (Fuck Family Photos!)

It's breakfast.

Aella Roy is wrapped up in her giant coat, well, it isn't huge--but its thick, woolen, and she keeps it tied around her waist. She still looks small, despite how it fits her snugly. To her father she looks like her jacket is swallowing her whole, her skirt is a little too girlish. A little short, in her sister's opinion. Her heels aren't kitten heels today.

They're stilettos, just like Shiv's. Only black, and now--now, she stands taller than Roman Roy than more than a few inches. It is bugging him. He's commented on it five times. He's stolen her toast because of it. But that's okay--she doesn't really care. For most of the night she's been awake, she's looked into the man she's waiting to see pop up at breakfast. Shiv's dangerous man, Roman's wingman, and the man who'd popped a pill down her throat, and given her a bit of attention.

She's been researching, as much as she can at least. Googling only does so much, and she doesn't think he has social media, besides his campaign-controlled page.

He's a Virginian. Born and raised.

He's not from money, not her kind of money--not her "new" "fifty to twenty" years new money. He isn't from old money either. Google estimates his net worth to be around eleven million. He's been in politics for awhile. Ten years to be exact. Before that, he lived another life--he taught. He graduated from William & Mary. His parents aren't anyone notable.

His mother is dead, died five years ago.

She had been a stay-at-home type.

His father owned a small, not badly sized, towing company.

They lived outside of Chesapeake.

So he was upper middle class. Modest. Nowhere near her. Nowhere close to what her father was, or what he had originally been.

Aella had laid in her bed, scrolling through his campaign website, photos of him with regular people--hillbillies in the countryside, they all looked out of place next to him in his now, his now nicely tailored suits. The occasional red tie. The occasional pin.

There are quotes, clips from his rallies.

She stalks his public instagram page--the fake one, the one available for greedy people like her, trying to pay attention to Mencken, or begging him to check his DMs. It wasn't like she'd ever message him. But still

A mere 34.7K

Not bad for a "dark horse" Virginian Senator, just now making national news for his thoughts on Welfare and fucking Abortion.

Her public instagram, which she barely operated, or used--tending to just prune her personal page, had barely reached 100k, only hitting the number after Kendall's big throw down, and Shiv's public letter.

There are some photos of him with a short woman, a stout woman with middle length brunette hair. She looks proper, his age. Wrinkles curling around her eyes. Her nails are manicured, slightly outgrown, but red. A dark red. She wants you to think she's done them herself, but she hasn't. She isn't a girl. her hair is curled out at the ends, otherwise straight. She wears her hair in a strict side part, like her sister's, but more straight. Longer. All of her dresses are long. The sleeves sometimes lacy.

She has a modest wedding ring.

So does he.

A Van-Cleef bracelet.

Aella wonders when, or if he bought it for her.
She wonders if she met him during high school, maybe even college.

They apparently share a son, a brown haired kid, around the ages of six? Maybe seven? Aella isn't exactly sure which. They never say. But he doesn't look that big.He just has a mop of I brown hair, the same shade as his mother's. Maybe a bit darker. Maybe it's his--she can't find many photos of him as a younger man. She wishes the kid luck. Good fucking luck.