The stationery was elegant, and plainly bespoke, the thick paper embossed with the gilded initials of the sender. It was heavy, for what it was, but nothing compared to the heaviness in Roslyn’s heart. Though the invitation was the first to arrive, she knew that it would most assuredly not be the last.

Justin had won the election. She had hoped he would, just as any good wife would hope for her husband’s ambitions to bear fruit. She had hoped he would, just as any citizen who desired the best for the country. But for herself, quite selfishly, a part of her had clung desperately to the hope that he might not win, that their life would remain their own for at least another few years. There would be no freedom from scrutiny now, no quiet.

Her husband had won, but she had lost.

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