Campaigning for her hear.., p.1
Campaigning For Her Heart, page 1
Campaigning For Her Heart
Zahra Woods
Published by Zahra Woods, 2025.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
CAMPAIGNING FOR HER HEART
First edition. December 5, 2025.
Copyright © 2025 Zahra Woods.
ISBN: 979-8232473617
Written by Zahra Woods.
Campaigning For Her Heart
Copyright 2025
(c) By Zahra Woods
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying from a self-publisher an authorized edition of this book and for complying with the copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and self-publishers with every read.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Chapter One
The pitch deck blurred at the edges.
Naomi blinked hard, trying to refocus on the slides she'd already perfected three times. Her chest had been tight all day, that familiar pressure she'd gotten good at ignoring, but she'd pushed through worse. The sushi she'd wolfed down at her desk sat like a stone in her gut.
Just finish this. One more hour. Then you can go home, take a hot shower, and sleep.
Except she couldn't remember the last time she'd actually slept through the night.
Her hands trembled as she scrolled to the next slide. She flexed her fingers, shook them out. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed too loud. When had they always been this loud?
Then her hands went numb.
At first, she thought, what? Low blood sugar? She'd skipped lunch. That had to be it. But her vision tunneled at the edges, the walls of her office pressing in. The air thickened, turning to syrup in her lungs.
She tried to breathe.
Couldn't.
Tried again.
Nothing.
Her body was fighting for oxygen that wouldn't come, her heart slamming against her ribs like it was trying to escape. The sound of her pulse filled her ears, frantic, deafening, drowning out everything else.
This is it. You're dying. This is how it ends. In your office at 9 PM, choking on your own ambition.
"Naomi?"
Her assistant's voice sounded like it was coming from underwater, distant, and distorted. Naomi tried to stand, to call for help, to do something, but her knees buckled. The room spun. The floor rushed up to meet her.
Strong hands caught her before she hit the ground.
"Oh my God, Naomi, can you hear me? I'm calling 911. Just breathe, okay? Just breathe."
But Naomi couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. Couldn't do anything but clutch her assistant's arms and try not to drown in her own panic.
By the time the paramedics arrived, she was on the floor, eyes wide open, body frozen in fear.
The ER doctor had kind eyes and terrible news.
"Anxiety-induced panic attack," he said, like it was simple. Like her body hadn't just staged a full-scale rebellion without her permission. "Your vitals are stable now, but Ms. Armstrong, this is your body telling you something. You need to listen."
Naomi had nodded. Said all the right things. Accepted the referral for a therapist she knew she wouldn't call.
Because she was fine.
She'd be fine.
She just needed to push through.
Except she wasn't fine.
The second panic attack came four days later during a client meeting. The third, at home in her pristine condo, staring at her laptop screen at midnight.
That's when her mother sat her down, literally took her by the shoulders, and made her sit, and said the words Naomi had been avoiding.
"Baby, you're burning out. And if you don't stop, you're going to burn up."
Naomi had tried to argue. She had deadlines. Responsibilities. A business she'd built from nothing.
Her mother had just looked at her with those eyes that saw too much and said, "What's it all for if you're not here to enjoy it?"
Naomi hadn't had an answer.
Three weeks later, Naomi stood in the driveway of a sprawling Vermont estate, her hands shaking for an entirely different reason.
You can do this. It's just a month. Four weeks. Twenty-eight days. You've survived worse.
Except she wasn't sure that was true anymore.
The estate rose before her like something out of a storybook, a stately stone house with ivy creeping up its façade, surrounded by rolling green hills that stretched toward a forest of evergreens in the distance. The late afternoon sun painted everything golden, and the air smelled like pine and fresh-cut grass and something sweet she couldn't name.
It was beautiful.
It was terrifying.
Naomi had spent the last fifteen years building a life that revolved around control. Schedules. Deadlines. Meetings that started on time and emails answered within the hour. She knew who she was in that world. Knew her value. Knew how to win.
But here? Standing in front of this too-perfect house with nothing but a suitcase and her mother's stern warning ringing in her ears?
She had no idea who she was supposed to be.
Just breathe. In. Out. You can do this.
She grabbed her suitcase from the trunk, hesitated, then grabbed her laptop bag too. Her phone was already tucked in her purse, silenced but not off. Baby steps.
The gravel crunched under her feet as she walked toward the front door. She raised her hand to knock, then paused.
What if this was a mistake? What if she couldn't do this? What if she got inside and realized that the problem wasn't work, it was her?
The door swung open before she could spiral further.
A lovely white woman in her seventies stood in the doorway, silver hair swept into a soft bun, flour dusting her apron, and the kind of smile that made you feel like you'd just come home.
"You must be Naomi! Oh, come in, come in. I'm Evelyn Smythe. Don't just stand there, dear, you look exhausted."
Naomi opened her mouth to protest, she was fine, she didn't need help, she could handle her own suitcase, but Evelyn was already ushering her inside with the gentle insistence of someone who'd raised children and wouldn't take no for an answer.
The interior was even better than the photos. Warm wood floors, plush furniture that looked like it had been chosen for comfort rather than style, and the smell, God, the smell. Vanilla. Fresh-baked bread. Something cinnamon and sweet.
Naomi's shoulders dropped half an inch without her permission.
"Richard!" Evelyn called toward the back of the house. "She's here!"
A man appeared from what looked like a study. Tall, lean, Black man with white hair and the kind of weathered face that came from years spent outdoors. He smiled at Naomi like they were old friends.
"Welcome, welcome. Let me get that for you." He took her suitcase before she could protest, already heading toward the stairs. "You're in the Rose Room. Best view in the house."
"I...thank you." Naomi's voice came out smaller than she intended.
Evelyn looped her arm through Naomi's, guiding her toward the kitchen. "Now, I've got tea brewing and fresh cookies cooling. You're going to sit, have something sweet, and tell me absolutely nothing about why you're here unless you want to. Deal?"
Naomi felt something crack in her chest.
Kindness. When was the last time someone had just been kind without wanting something in return?
"Deal." she whispered.
Naomi's room was perfect.
A large four-poster bed with a cream-colored duvet that looked like a cloud. A window seat overlooking the meadow. A fireplace that Richard had already stocked with wood "just in case the evenings get chilly." Fresh flowers on the nightstand.
She set her laptop bag in the corner. Stared at it. Picked up her phone.
Seven unread emails. Three texts from her junior assistant. One from her mother: Remember what we talked about. REST.
Naomi's finger hovered over the email app.
Just a quick check. Just to make sure everything's running smoothly. Five minutes.
But her mother's voice echoed in her head. What's it all for if you're not here to enjoy it?
Naomi took a breath.
Turned off her phone.
Shoved it in the nightstand drawer and closed it.
Her hands were shaking again, but this time from withdrawal, not panic.
This is good. This is what you need. Just breathe.
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the window at the fading sunlight, and let herself feel it, all of it. The exhaustion. The fear. The guilt of leaving her business in someone else's hands. The shame of not being strong enough to just push through.
And underneath it all, something else.
Relief.
God, when did everything get so heavy?
She'd spent years building a life of which she was proud. A business. A reputation. Independence. She'd told herself she didn't need anyone, didn't need rest, didn't need to slow down because slowing down meant falling behind.
But sitting here in this too-perfect room, with nothing but silence and the smell of vanilla in the air, Naomi realized something.
She was so tired of being strong.
Tired of being the one everyone relied on. Tired of having all the answers. Tired of pretending that success was enough to fill the empty spaces in her life.
She'd spent so long running toward something, she'd forgotten what it felt like just to stand still.
Maybe that's what I'm supposed to do here. Not find answers. Not fix anything. Just... stop.
The thought was terrifying.
And liberating.
Naomi pulled off her shoes, changed into comfortable clothes, and crawled under the duvet. The bed was as soft as it looked. The room was quiet. Outside, the world was settling into dusk.
And for the first time in months, maybe years, Naomi let herself rest.
Not because she'd earned it.
Not because she'd finished everything on her to-do list.
But because her body had finally convinced her she didn't have a choice.
One month, she told herself as sleep pulled her under. Just one month to remember what it feels like to be Naomi. Not the CEO. Not the problem-solver. Just... me.
Whoever that is.
Naomi woke to birdsong instead of an alarm for the seventh morning in a row.
It still felt strange. Wrong, almost. Like she was forgetting something important, breaking some unspoken rule about productivity and worth. But when she rolled over and saw sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains, painting patterns on the hardwood floor, she felt something she hadn't felt in years.
Peace.
Or at least, the beginning of it.
She'd fallen into a routine without meaning to. Wake up. Coffee or tea on the back patio with Evelyn, who never asked about work and always had a story about the garden or the foxes that came through at dawn. Lace up her sneakers. Run the trail that curved around the lake, her playlist a mix of early 2000s hip-hop and aggressive metal that Evelyn had politely called "energetic."
The running helped. It always had. But here, it was different. She wasn't running from anything, she was just running. Feeling her body move, her lungs work, her mind finally, finally quiet.
After the run, she'd shower, grab lunch, and then... nothing.
That was the hardest part. The nothing.
She'd read three books this week. Actual books, not industry reports or marketing case studies. She'd walked the grounds, explored the small lake, sat in the garden, and watched bees work the lavender. She'd eaten meals that tasted like love instead of fuel.
And she hadn't checked her email in five days.
Her mother had called on day three to check in. Naomi had assured her she was fine, that she was resting, that yes, her phone was off most of the time.
Her mother had cried. Happy tears, she'd said. But still.
Naomi hadn't realized how much she'd been worrying everyone until she stopped.
Now, as she laced up her running shoes and grabbed her headphones, she felt lighter. Not fixed, she wasn't naive enough to think a week could undo years of burnout, but lighter. Like maybe she'd made the right choice coming here.
One week down. Three to go. You're doing okay.
She slipped out the back door, careful not to let the screen slam, and stretched on the patio. The morning air was cool and sweet, and the estate was still wrapped in that perfect early-morning quiet.
She hit play on her playlist, and Kendrick Lamar filled her ears as she started down the path.
For the first time in a long time, Naomi smiled while she ran.
Not because she'd accomplished something.
Just because she could.
Wyatt braced himself half a second before the front door banged open and his almost-seventeen-year-old sister launched herself into his arms.
"Whoa! Hey there, firecracker." He caught her easily, laughing as he spun her once before setting her down. "You've gotten taller."
"You always say that." Emma beamed, her braces catching the afternoon light.
"Because it's always true." He kissed the top of her head. "Now let me grab my bag before you drag me through the house like last time."
"I wasn't dragging, I was being enthusiastic!" She was already halfway up the porch steps. "Come on! I'm showing you your room before anyone else steals you."
Wyatt chuckled, slinging his duffel over one shoulder. He'd barely made it to the porch when Luke stepped out, arms crossed, that familiar smirk firmly in place.
"Took you long enough. Traffic, or did you stop to shake hands with every voter between here and the capital?"
"Ha. Missed you too." Wyatt pulled his brother into a brief, back-thumping hug. "How's it feel to be officially a lawyer?"
"Like I'm about to make you look good on the campaign trail."
"I am the good one."
"You're the older one," Luke corrected. "There's a difference."
Before Wyatt could respond, their parents appeared in the doorway. Henry, silver-haired and solid, with the kind of presence that commanded respect without demanding it. Margaret, still elegant at seventy-two, her eyes bright with the kind of love that made Wyatt feel seventeen again.
"There's my boy," Margaret said, pulling him into a hug that smelled like lavender and home. "You look thin. Have they been feeding you on that campaign trail?"
"Mom." Wyatt laughed, but he hugged her back tight. "Good to see you too."
Henry clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. "Governor's going to look good on you. But not if you're skin and bones."
"I'm fine, Dad. Promise."
Richard and Evelyn appeared from the garden path, Evelyn still wearing her apron, Richard carrying pruning shears and a satisfied smile.
"There he is!" Evelyn wiped her hands on her apron and pulled Wyatt into a hug. "Our favorite politician."
"Favorite paying politician," Richard added with a wink.
Wyatt laughed. "Thanks for letting us take over the whole estate again. We appreciate it."
"Oh, don't thank us yet," Evelyn said, glancing at Emma, who was already tugging on Wyatt's sleeve. "You've got a month of that one."
"No one listens to me at home," Emma declared dramatically. "So now you're stuck."
"Lucky me," Wyatt said, but he was smiling.
And he meant it.
This, his family, this place, the noise and the laughter and the feeling of being home, this was what he'd been missing. What he needed before the real campaign chaos began.
Emma dragged him toward the stairs, chattering about her birthday plans and the bonfire she was already planning. Luke and Henry followed, their voices overlapping in easy conversation. Margaret linked her arm through Evelyn's, and the two women headed toward the kitchen, already planning dinner.
Wyatt let himself be pulled along, let the warmth of his family wrap around him like a favorite sweater.
For the next four weeks, he wasn't Candidate Stark.
He was just Wyatt.
And damn, it felt good.
Naomi was up before the sun fully cleared the trees.
She'd started waking earlier this week, not from anxiety but from genuine restfulness. Her body was finally catching up on years of missed sleep, and apparently, that meant she was now a morning person.
Who even am I anymore?
She laced up her sneakers, threw on her hoodie, and grabbed her phone and headphones. The estate was still quiet, wrapped in that peaceful pre-dawn hush that made everything feel like a secret.
Two nights ago, Evelyn had mentioned that the Stark family would be arriving for their annual vacation. Naomi had made a joke about Tony Stark that landed flat, then listened as Evelyn explained the tradition with obvious affection.
