Chapter 4: Reunion in the West Wing

The man at the head of the table wore his suit jacket open, sitting lazily.

He looked nothing like the pictures—relaxed, almost boyish. But there was an edge to him, a danger that set my nerves on fire. My heart thudded in my chest.

Through the thin swirling steam from the pizza box, that familiar face looked wild and unruly.

His hair was tousled, his tie loose. He looked more like Jamie than ever—reckless, alive, untamed. I almost forgot where I was.

The President propped his head on his hand, dipping a slice of pepperoni into ranch dressing with his fork.

It was such a Jamie move, I almost laughed. He caught my eye, smirked, and kept eating like nothing was out of the ordinary. That was just like him.

When he saw me standing, his eyes turned cold for a moment, but quickly returned to normal.

There was a flicker of something—recognition, maybe, or surprise. Then it was gone, replaced by the easy confidence I remembered so well. I wondered if he felt it too.

He raised his brows lazily and said:

“What are you staring at? Come over here—I’ve been waiting so long I’m starving.”

His voice was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of command. I hesitated, unsure whether to laugh or run. My mind raced.

I froze.

My feet felt glued to the floor. For a second, I wondered if I was dreaming. Was this really happening?

If this weren’t the White House, I’d really think this was just a casual Domino’s meetup.

The absurdity of it all hit me. I almost expected him to pull out a six-pack and start talking about football. That would’ve been easier.

What now? This person really does seem like Jamie Chen.

My heart pounded in my chest. If it was really him—if he remembered me—what would I say? What could I say?

I forced a half-hearted smile, sluggishly got up, and slowly walked over to him.

Each step felt heavier than the last. I kept my eyes on the floor, afraid to meet his gaze. Don’t trip, I told myself.

After thinking for a moment, I decided to greet him in the most ordinary way:

“Hey.”

My voice was small, uncertain. It felt strange, using such a casual greeting in a place like this. Still, it was all I had.

Jamie paused, put down his fork, and looked at me calmly.

He studied me for a long moment, as if weighing a thousand unspoken words. I waited, breath held.

My face was flushed from the pizza steam, and just as I was about to break the silence, Jamie smiled:

“Lillian, after three years, have you forgotten me?”

His voice was soft, almost gentle. Hearing my name in his mouth sent a jolt through me. I swallowed hard.

Lillian was my name back home.

It sounded foreign here, out of place. But hearing it from Jamie made it real again. For a second, I almost felt like myself.

I always felt something was off.

There was a tension in the air, a sense that something important was about to happen. My palms were sweaty.

If the person before me wasn’t Jamie, but someone else—even my worst enemy—I could throw myself at him, ruin his suit, and cry out my grievances:

“Why did you only come now!”

“Do you know how much I’ve suffered these three years!”

“Please, I’m begging you, save me!”

But he was Jamie.

And that changed everything. With him, I couldn’t be weak—not now, not ever. I wouldn’t let myself.

Facing him, I couldn’t help but feel a twisted awkwardness rise up inside me.

It was like being sixteen again, tongue-tied and hopeless, wanting to say everything but unable to say a word. My chest ached with things unsaid.

When I was eight, I was Jamie’s clingiest little tagalong.

I followed him everywhere, always two steps behind. He never seemed to mind, always letting me tag along, always looking out for me. I felt safe with him.

At sixteen, with Jamie’s silent approval, I fended off wave after wave of admirers for him; but when friends teased me about our relationship, I could only vaguely say, “just friends.”

I’d blush and stammer, insisting we were just friends, even as my heart raced every time he smiled at me. I was so obvious.

At nineteen, on New Year’s Eve at midnight, I was a little drunk, squatting by the sink at McDonald’s, opening his chat box, wanting to say, “I kind of miss you,” but in the end I deleted it and sent, “Happy New Year, friendship forever.”

I’d stared at the screen for ages, fingers trembling, before finally hitting send. It was easier to be safe than honest. I regretted it instantly.

Even at the moment of my accidental arrival here, as my life flashed before my eyes, all I could think was—

I haven’t even said goodbye to Jamie, and now I’m going to die.

The regret was sharp, almost unbearable. I’d always thought there would be more time. Turns out, there never is.

I thought I could always stay by Jamie’s side as a childhood friend, being that special but lukewarm presence.

It was a comfortable place to be—close, but not too close. Safe, but never quite enough. I told myself it was enough.

But I didn’t even make it through that summer.

Everything changed too fast. I lost him before I even realized what he meant to me. I never got to say the things I wanted.

I was lost in thought when the voice beside me grew louder.

Jamie’s voice cut through my reverie, bringing me back to the present. I blinked, startled.

“Hm? What?” I smiled politely to cover up my distraction.

I tried to play it cool, but my heart was pounding in my chest. He always could see through me.

Jamie glanced at me and asked, seemingly offhand:

“What were you just thinking about?”

His eyes were sharp, searching. He always could see right through me. I looked away, embarrassed.

I picked up my glass and took a sip of wine.

The liquid burned, but I welcomed the distraction. I needed something to ground me. Anything.

“Nothing. I’m just really surprised—I thought ending up here was weird enough, but I actually ran into you in this godforsaken time and place.”

I let out a shaky laugh, trying to keep things light. The truth was too heavy to say out loud. I couldn’t look at him.

I started talking freely, suppressing all my emotions.

Words tumbled out, filling the silence. It was easier than facing what I really felt. Safer.

Jamie gave me a meaningful look and said lightly:

“I’m surprised too.”

He smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. “I never thought I’d see you here.” For a second, I saw the old Jamie.

“Finally met someone familiar, only to find she’d already been claimed by the locals.”

His words stung, but I knew he didn’t mean them to hurt. It was just the truth—plain and simple. I looked down at my hands.

My lips parted in surprise, stunned for a few seconds, not quite understanding.

I searched his face for answers, but found only more questions. He was just as lost as I was.

Jamie smiled and poured me more wine.

He topped off my glass, his hand steady. “Drink up, Lillian. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” For once, I let him.

“Lillian, if I fight your boyfriend in the future, will you help me or him?”

He said it so casually, like it was just another game we used to play. But I knew there was more to it than that. He was testing me.

I was silent for a few seconds, steadied my breathing, then smiled:

“Oh, he’s not my boyfriend. I’m just the mistress.”

My words were sharp, but my smile was brittle. I wanted him to understand—wanted him to see how far I’d fallen. I needed him to know.

After I said that, I shrugged:

“You know, here, most of the time I don’t have a choice.”

It was the truth, plain and simple. Choice was a luxury I hadn’t had in a long time. Not in this world.

Because I’m a woman with bad luck, dropped into the wrong era.

I let the bitterness seep into my voice. Maybe he’d understand. Maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, it felt good to say it.

The problem isn’t landing here—it’s being a woman.

I met his eyes, daring him to disagree. But he just nodded, understanding flickering in his gaze. Maybe he got it after all.

And this is still a land far from modern society.

I looked around the grand room, all marble and gold. It felt ancient, untouched by time. Progress was just a word here—one that meant nothing to people like me. Some things never change.

Jamie looked at me for a long time, then asked:

“Is he good to you?”

His voice was soft, full of concern. It made my heart ache. For a second, I almost believed he could fix things.

This time I smiled sincerely:

“Not really. He’s an idiot.”

I let out a genuine laugh, the sound surprising even me. For a moment, the weight of the world lifted, just a little. It felt good.

The conversation ended there, and Jamie was obviously about seventy percent drunk.

He slouched in his chair, eyes glassy, a lazy smile on his lips. The wine bottle was nearly empty, and I could see the exhaustion settling in. He looked so young, so tired.

He propped his head up, eyes half closed, not saying anything more.

The silence between us was comfortable, almost familiar. I let myself relax, just for a moment. Just for tonight.

I quietly watched him for a while, then got up and asked an aide to escort me out of the West Wing.

The aide appeared at my side, silent and efficient. I followed him down the hall, glancing back at Jamie one last time. I didn’t want to leave.

I hadn’t even left the hall when the aide beside me was startled by a cold voice.

The sound echoed down the corridor, sharp as a whip. I turned, heart pounding. What now?

Turning back, I saw Jamie had woken up at some point.

He was sitting up now, eyes clear and focused. The drunken haze was gone, replaced by something fierce and determined. It scared me a little.

“Lillian.”

He called my name.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

His voice was low, almost pleading. I froze, unsure what to do. My feet wouldn’t move.

After a pause, he rephrased:

“Stay by my side. I’ll feel better.”

He tried to sound casual, but I could hear the vulnerability underneath. It was the first time he’d ever asked me for anything. I couldn’t say no.