Chapter 1

The campaign headquarters of Bottemly for America occupied three gleaming floors of a glass tower in downtown Washington, D.C., and on most days the building radiated confidence. Staffers moved briskly through halls carrying tablets and polling binders, television appearances blared across mounted screens, and interns treated Chadwick Bottemly like a political messiah descended from the heavens in an Italian suit.

Tonight, however, the mood felt more like a funeral.

Muted cable news anchors dissected his collapsing numbers while exhausted campaign strategists avoided eye contact around the conference table. Half-empty coffee cups and abandoned briefing folders littered every available surface. Even the giant illuminated campaign slogan - A STRONGER TOMORROW - seemed to mock him now.

Twenty-five points.

Twenty-five.

Chadwick stared at the polling memo in disbelief for what had to be the twentieth time that evening. He'd won the primaries decisively. Dominated every debate. Raised more money than anyone in modern campaign history. Every consultant in America had insisted he was the inevitable nominee.

And now he was getting demolished by a man who looked like he hosted regional barbecue competitions on basic cable.

"What am I to do?" Chadwick muttered, tossing the polling packet onto the desk. "I'm twenty-five points down across every major polling service. This is unsurmountable."

Across the room, Emily Bottemly lounged elegantly atop the edge of his desk like a woman entirely unbothered by impending political catastrophe.

"It's a good thing for you America doesn't know who the real brains behind this operation are," she chuckled.

"Ha. Ha. Ha," Chadwick replied flatly.

Emily rolled her eyes.

Even after seven years of marriage, Chadwick still found it irritating how composed she remained under pressure. Nothing rattled her. Not donor panic. Not media attacks. Not polling collapses. If nuclear war started tomorrow, Emily would probably sip espresso and critique the launch aesthetics.

"It's actually quite simple," she said calmly. "I know exactly what you have to do."

Chadwick leaned back dramatically in his chair.

"Oh good. Please enlighten us with your great wisdom, Braniac."

The look Emily gave him immediately erased the smugness from his face.

Her expression sharpened with almost predatory irritation, and Chadwick felt a strange flutter low in his stomach despite himself. Emily rarely lost patience with him, which somehow made those moments far more effective.

"So what's the big difference between you and old Willy?" she asked.

Chadwick blinked.

"What?"

"Wha t's the difference between you and Will Carter?"

"I don't know. Policy? Experience?"

Emily stared at him blankly.

"Are you actually an idiot?"

Chadwick looked around instinctively toward the office windows. Thankfully, the shades were closed. The idea of a staffer witnessing him getting verbally dismantled by his supermodel wife felt oddly compromising.

A little embarrassed and, annoyingly, more than a little turned on by her sudden dominance, Chadwick stood and wandered toward her. He rested his head dramatically against her shoulder.

"I'm vulnerable right now," he groaned. "Be supportive."

Emily immediately shoved him backward.

"Not right now, you dumb idiot. You're missing the point."

He sighed theatrically and flopped into the chair opposite her.

"Then explain the point."

Emily crossed her legs slowly.

"The point," she said carefully, "is that Will Carter looks relatable."

"That's because he's overweight."

"Yes."

& quot;He looks like he eats six hotdogs before bed."

"Yes."

"He 's got a front butt."

Emily pinched the bridge of her nose.

"You are unbelievably dense."

Chadwick smirked slightly.

"Thank you."

"He may be a great big fat ass," Emily continued, "but he's going to be the next President. Not you."

The words landed harder than Chadwick expected.

His smirk disappeared.

Emily softened only slightly.

"Look at you," she said, gesturing toward him. "You're handsome, disciplined, polished... and completely inaccessible to average voters."

"That's absurd."

"No, it's politics."

Chadwick frowned.

He hated when she was right.

Which unfortunately was often.

"You've got visible abs," Emily continued. "You eat vegan bowls and drink espresso that tastes like burnt dirt. You look like a luxury fitness brand."

"And?"

" And America doesn't trust people who voluntarily enjoy kale."

"That's unfair."

"That's accurate."

She stood and began pacing around the office slowly, speaking like a campaign consultant presenting a strategy deck.

"Meanwhile Carter eats ribs at county fairs, drinks beer with construction workers, and has the physique of a retired football coach."

"Because he lacks discipline."

"Because he looks human."

Chadwick folded his arms stubbornly.

"So what? You want me to become obese to win Wisconsin?"

Emily paused.

Then smiled slowly.

"Well..."

Chadwick narrowed his eyes immediately.

"Oh no."

"No, no," she laughed. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'm saying you need to make yourself more accessible."

"Accessible."
"Yes."

"You mean fat."

"I mean relatable."

"You literally just described his stomach."

Emily grinned.

"And voters love his stomach."

"That sentence makes me physically ill."

"See? That right there is why you're losing Ohio."

Chadwick groaned and leaned backward in his chair.

"This country is hopeless."

"This country likes cheeseburgers."

Silence lingered for several moments.

Then Emily leaned forward slightly.

"You don't need to transform overnight. Just loosen up your image. Go to burger places. Drink beer. Eat normal food in public. Look like somebody who's experienced a drive-thru."

Chadwick raised an eyebrow.

"You think that's honestly enough?"

"It's a start."

"And if it doesn't work?"

"Then you're still losing by twenty-five points, so who cares?"

He hated how reasonable that sounded.

Emily sat back down across from him and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

"Think about it. Right now voters see you as too perfect. Too polished. Too controlled. Carter, meanwhile, looks like somebody's loud uncle who grills steaks in cargo shorts."

"That's not presidential."

"Apparently it is."

Chadwick sighed heavily.

The worst part was that the polling supported every word she said. Focus groups consistently described Carter as "comfortable," "familiar," and "real." Meanwhile Chadwick got words like "intense," "robotic," and devastatingly, "probably judges people at restaurants."

Finally he looked up at her.

"Okay," he admitted reluctantly. "Maybe I could loosen things up a little."

Emily's smile widened instantly.

"Good."

"B ut only for a month," he added quickly. "If the numbers don't improve, we pivot hard into economic messaging."

"Of course, honey."

There was something almost too pleased in her voice.

Like she'd already won an argument he didn't fully understand yet.

Chadwick narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"You're enjoying this."

"A little."

"Why?"

Emily tilted her head innocently.

"I think it'll be good for you."

"That sounds ominous."

"You take yourself too seriously."

"I'm running for President."

"And you're acting like the first man in history to do so without ever touching fried food."

Chadwick snorted despite himself.

Emily stood and walked toward the mini bar near the office wall. She retrieved two glasses and poured bourbon into each.

Chadwick stared.

"You know I don't drink bourbon."

"Exactly."

She handed him a glass anyway.

"For research purposes."

He accepted it reluctantly.

The bourbon burned going down.

Emily watched with visible amusement.

"Oh, that was painful to watch."

"It tastes like gasoline."

"And yet millions of Americans voluntarily consume it every Friday night."

Chadwick grimaced while Emily laughed softly.

Then her expression shifted.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that Chadwick noticed.

"You know..." she said carefully, "there is something kind of appealing about the idea."

"What idea?"

Emily swirled the bourbon slowly in her glass.

"You loosening up."

"That's not an answer."

"You becoming less..." she gestured vaguely toward him, "...perfect."

Chadwick blinked.

"I'm sensing an insult."

"I'm sensing vanity."

"You married me."

"I know," she replied dryly. "And your abs have had a superiority complex ever since."

He laughed despite himself.

But something in the room had changed slightly now.

The teasing carried an undertone neither of them acknowledged directly.

Emily leaned back against the desk, crossing her arms beneath her chest thoughtfully.

"I mean honestly," she mused, "you'd probably look good with a little extra weight."

Chadwick nearly choked on his bourbon.

"What?"

"Not huge or anything," she clarified quickly. "Just... softer."

"Softer."

&q uot;Yes."

"That's horrifying."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

Emily looked unconvinced.

"You've been lean your entire adult life. Don't you ever get tired of obsessing over every calorie?"

"I don't obsess."

"You had a breakdown because a restaurant used butter."

"It was hidden butter."

Emily burst out laughing.

"Oh my God, you really are impossible."

Chadwick shook his head.

"This conversation has become deeply concerning."

"Relax," she said casually. "I'm just saying people like comfort. Warmth. Familiarity. Nobody trusts a politician who looks like he counts almonds."

"I do not count almonds."

"You absolutely count almonds."

He opened his mouth.

Then paused.

"...Only sometimes."

Emily grinned triumphantly.

"That's what I thought."

She moved closer again, resting one hand against his chest.

"You know what voters want? Somebody they can imagine sitting beside at a barbecue."

"I hate barbecues."

"I know."

"They're sticky."

"Exactly."

T he two of them laughed quietly together, the tension in the room gradually dissolving.

For the first time in weeks, Chadwick felt something resembling hope.

Ridiculous hope.

Greasy, carb-loaded hope.

But hope nonetheless.

Emily's hand drifted lower, flattening briefly against his perfectly toned stomach through the fabric of his dress shirt.

"You know," she murmured, almost teasingly, "it would be kind of funny watching you try to survive a month eating like a normal American."

Chadwick smirked.

"You'd enjoy that way too much."

"Probably."

&q uot;And if I gain weight?"

Emily bit her lip slightly before answering.

"Then maybe America falls in love with you."

There was a beat of silence.

Then another.

Both of them understood suddenly that the conversation had wandered somewhere stranger than campaign strategy.

Not fully inappropriate.

Not even entirely serious.

But there was undeniably something thrilling about imagining pristine, hyper-disciplined Chadwick Bottemly slowly surrendering to indulgence.

Emily seemed especially fascinated by the idea.

Which Chadwick found both alarming and oddly intoxicating.

"You're picturing this way too vividly," he accused.

Emily smiled innocently.

"I'm strategic."

"You're dangerous."

"Also true."

She stepped away again before the moment lingered too long.

"Alright," she announced briskly. "If we're doing this, we need a plan."

Chadwick groaned dramatically.

"There's a plan?"

"There's always a plan."

Emily grabbed a legal pad from the desk and clicked a pen.

"First: diners."

"Oh God."

"Second: tailgates."

"Worse."

"Third: state fairs."

"You're trying to kill me."

"Fourth: milkshakes."

"That one actually sounds tolerable."

Emily looked up sharply.

"Interesting."

&q uot;Don't read into that."

"Too late."

She scribbled notes anyway.

"Also beer tastings. Barbecue festivals. Pizza stops. Local bakeries. Football watch parties."

"You're building a cholesterol tour."

"I'm building electability."

Chadwick loosened his tie and laughed helplessly.

The absurdity of it all finally overwhelmed him.

Months of policy papers, economic proposals, geopolitical strategy...

...and apparently the solution might involve cheeseburgers and milkshakes.

American democracy truly was unbelievable.

Emily finished writing and looked up at him with sparkling eyes.

"You know," she said softly, "this might actually work."

Chadwick leaned back in his chair.

"And if it does?"

Emily smiled slowly.

"Then maybe America gets itself a slightly chubbier President."

Contemporary Fiction Betting/Competition Punishing/Forcing/Hypnosis Humiliation/Teasing Helpless/Weak/Dumpling Feeding/Stuffing Sexual acts/Love making Addictive Indulgant Male Straight Fit to Fat Friends/Roommates X-rated Illustrated novel

9 chapters, created 7 years , updated 4 days

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