Tris


    My hair is swept into an elegant updo, not a strand out of ce. My makeup is wless but subdued, emphasizing my cheekbones and brightening my eyes without looking too dramatic. The dress is a conservative knee-length sheath in navy blue, with a matching zer that nips in at the waist.


    The stylist primps me onest time as we pull up to the venue. "Perfect. Very dignified."


    Dignified. Not creative, not unique, not artistic. Just... dignified. Like I''m attending a funeral for my personality.


    "The shoes pinch,” I say, shifting ufortably in the nude pumps they''ve squeezed me into. I''m used to ts or boots, not these three-and-a-half-inch torture devices,


    "Beauty is pain," the stylist replies with a shrug. "You''ll get used to them."


    I''m not sure I want to get used to them. Or to the heavy pearl earrings weighing down my earlobes, or the insanely tight shapewear squeezing my ribs, or the false eyshes.


    The studio is in a sleek high-rise downtown. Arthur is waiting for me by the door, handsome as always in an impable designer suit, although he''s wearing a baseball hat and sunsses to protect his identity.


    There''s no time for greetings as we''re ushered inside, but once the doors are shut behind us, Arthur removes his disguise and turns to me with a soft smile.


    "You look beautiful," he murmurs as I remove my own disguise-a silk scarf around my hair and a huge pair of sunsses. He moves to peck me on the cheek, but the stylist growls behind me, and he pulls away. Can''t ruin the makeup, of course.


    I do feel beautiful, I have to admit. Just... incredibly ufortable and not like myself at all.


    The photoshoot is set up on the top floor. As soon as we step off the elevator, a woman in a severe ck pantsuit approaches us.


    "Alpha President," she says, nodding respectfully to Arthur before turning to me. "And you must be Iris. I''m Vivian, head of PR for the Presidential Office."


    I extend my hand. "Nice to meet you."


    Vivian''s handshake is brief and businesslike. She then circles me slowly, taking in every detail of my appearance.


    "The dress is a good choice," she says to the stylist, who''s hovering nearby. "Conservative but ttering. But there''s a bit of shine on your nose."


    “I knew I should have gone with the matte primer," the stylist mutters, digging through her kit for powder.


    I stand there, passive as a doll, while they fuss over me. Arthur has been pulled away, and theck of his presence at my side makes me feel even more vulnerable.


    Once we''re ready, the photographer positions Arthur and me in front of a neutral backdrop, instructing us on how to pose. It sounds simple, but somehow I keep getting it wrong.


    "No, no," the photographer sighs after the fifth attempt. "Your shoulders are tense. You need to look natural, like you''refortable with the Alpha President."


    "I amfortable with him.


    "Let''s try a different pose. Alpha President, put your arm around her waist. Iris, lean into him slightly. Yes, like


    that. Now, both of you look toward ine. Alpha President, chhup. Irls, chin down. No, not that much down. Just a subtle yes, there. Now smile. No, that''s too forced. Rx your mouth a bit. There we go."


    On and on it goes. Stand here. Look there. Smile more. Smil less. Touch his arm. Don''t touch his arm. Tilt your head. No, the other way. Suck in. Shoulders back.


    Be different.


    By the time the photoshoot is done, my body aches and I feel like I''m going to cry just from sheer exhaustion. And I''m pretty sure the photographer hates my guts.


    Thankfully, the interview is set up in a different part of the studio, withfortable-looking armchairs arranged around a coffee table. But of course I''m instructed not to lean back, to remain perched on the edge of the chair, legs crossed demurely at the ankles, hands just so, neck lo...


    Holy shit, I need a painkiller.


    "So," the interviewer begins, "the nation has been buzzing since your announcement, Alpha President. Tell us, how did you and Iris first meet?"


    Arthurunches into the sanitized version of our history-meeting when we were younger, reconnecting yearster, discovering Miles was his son. He leaves out the gritty details without batting an eye.