"What do you think about this? Is this okay for your wedding?"
Lewinsky shoves his phone in my face, showing a photo of a tailored suit, just after I've wrapped my morning meetings. It's been a hectic day—expected, after what happened last night.
"Who says you're invited?" I ask, taking my seat at the table where my lunch is waiting.
"As if there's another person on this planet who can be your best man." He rolls his eyes and walks toward the full-length mirror in the corner, holding his phone up like he's virtually trying the suits on himself.
"That stunt last night is really getting a lot of attention. As your press secretary, I don't even know what to say," he adds.
I pick up my phone after taking a bite of food and send a message to Stannis.
[How is everything there?]
He responds quickly.
[Going smoothly, sir.]
Good.
"Whose idea was that, anyway?" Lewinsky keeps talking, his most reliable skill—which is exactly why he's my press secretary.
