“Hey, what’s up?” I ask, walking into the room decorated in shades of ivory and gold.

“I have something that could be big,” he says. “On Colson.”

He sounds like a cop who’s been on a stakeout all night and has finally gotten some movement. The excitement in his voice has me coming to a halt, my toes digging into the thick carpet.

“Go on.”

“I found several female executives who’d been fired or departed abruptly from one of Colson’s companies or another for suspicious reasons.”

“Okay. And?”

“And I started digging. They cited a toxic workplace culture.”

“Toxic how? Piers, roll it out faster.”

“They were all black women who claimed to have been fired or left his companies because they’d been asked to change their hair.”

“Their hair? Change it how?”

“They were told their hairstyle was ‘too black’ and asked to find a style more appropriate for the corporate culture. Some of them complied and spoke out after they found new positions. Some didn’t and found themselves with low scores at their next performance evaluation, and eventually pushed out altogether.”

Outrage on behalf of those women bubbles up inside of me. Outrage and understanding. I know what that’s like. Working in politics in DC, I know what it’s like to feel like the token and expected to speak on behalf of an entire community. I also know what it’s like to press and perm myself into the form most likely to succeed.

“I figure if Ruiz hires us,” Piers says, “we can use this against Colson in the general.”

“Oh, no, my friend. This is how we convince Ruiz he should hire us now. Our contact over in the CNN newsroom—we still have her?”

“We have several,” he says dryly. “We did elect the sitting president.”

I swallow the nerves that always threaten to rear when I have to speak in public. It used to be that I could shove Lennix out front and avoid the spotlight, but now it’s just me. Congressman Ruiz and the rest of the world seem to doubt that I can stand on my own. But this is no time to doubt myself.

Like Mama says, I descend from queens.

“Feed her this story,” I tell him, walking over to my closet to see if I have a particular jumpsuit from Lotus’ summer collection. “Then tell her I want to come on.”

“You do?” Piers’ astonishment is clear. Everyone knows how much I hate the camera.

“I do. Make it happen.”

I hang up without waiting for a response and immediately dial Kayla.

“’Bout time you called,” she says by way of greeting. “This is what you always do. You disappear.”

“Can we fight and make up later? I need your help.”

Those are magic words. The mother in her can’t resist desperation. “What’s up?”

“You still have that great stylist? The one who specializes in natural hair?”