Chapter 2: A Deal with the Devil

The moment I saw those comments, I was ready to finally stand up for myself—curse that old man with every ounce of venom I’d built up. I’d dreamed of spitting truth in the face of power, just once before they closed the door on me for good. My heart hammered at the idea.

But the endless scroll of messages showed me what it meant to have your fate sealed. It was as if the universe was streaming spoilers across my mind—every outcome already written, none ending well for me. I realized I wasn’t the protagonist; I was just a footnote, a name for people to smirk at and say, "That could never be me."

I glanced at the door—there was a shadow half-leaning outside. I recognized the polished loafers, the stiff posture—a career staffer who’d survived since the Carter years. Nothing gets past them. The White House is a sieve; secrets never last.

Someone really was listening in. And the city being surrounded? Also true. The National Guard hadn’t rolled tanks onto the Mall, but I’d seen the extra black SUVs, the Secret Service with their hands on earpieces, eyes scanning every window. Every exit was blocked. No one wins a staring contest with a hurricane. Not in D.C.

Looking at the old President’s clouded eyes, I faked a sweet smile. I’d practiced that smile in mirrors, in ballroom reflections, behind champagne glasses at donor galas. I knew how to let them see what they wanted—a woman who knows her place.

"You’re wise. I, too, believe the eldest son is both smart and strong, decent and talented—the best candidate for the job."

My voice was honey-laced, careful. The words tasted bitter, but I let them slide off my tongue with grace. You never show your cards in a room like this.

[Wait, what? The temptress changed her tune?]

[Too naive—don’t think acting nice will save you.]

[Can even smile at that wrinkled old man? Respect.]

[Low background, will do anything to survive—most people couldn’t pull this off.]

I could almost hear the social media threads lighting up: Twitter, Reddit, even those dusty old political forums where people still debate who really runs the country.

"You really think so?" The old President was surprised at first, then nodded. "It’s good you can see reason early. After I’m gone, no one will protect you. From then on, you’re on your own."

His words landed like a judge’s gavel. In this town, mercy always comes with strings attached.

Protect me? I rolled my eyes inwardly. The only thing he ever protected was his legacy—and maybe his secret scotch stash. My life, my reputation? Just collateral damage.

At sixteen, he dragged me into the White House, showered me with gifts and attention. I was just a girl from a town where Friday night meant football and Dairy Queen. He dazzled me with promises, pearls, and the full power of the White House garden. I remember the first time I wore one of the First Lady’s old gowns, how I spun in front of the mirror, laughing.

He’d lie beside me, complaining the First Lady was always power-hungry and scheming, never loving him—not like me, pure, kind, captivating. He’d shake his head and say, "That boy’s got no respect—for me or this country. Not like you, darlin’." He’d ask me to give him an obedient child.

It was always about him, his needs, his legacy. He played the wounded man—a master manipulator. I thought I was special, but he was just rerunning the same drama, night after night.

When my belly never showed, he adopted a staffer’s son for me to raise, claiming it would protect me in the future. The paperwork was handled quietly, notarized in the Blue Room—just another day in the nation’s most powerful house. Everyone played along. Sometimes I wondered if I was the only one who believed it was real.

He recruited some cabinet members to support me and my son, coaxing me into thinking I could stand up to the First Lady and her son. He’d summon me to late-night meetings, whispering about succession and influence. But in the end, every chess move was his. The rest of us were just pieces.

Only after seeing the live chat did I realize—the real power had always been with the First Lady’s family. The old President was stringing me along, putting on a soap opera for his own amusement. It’s the oldest trick in American politics—let them fight for scraps while you hold the purse strings.

Now that the show’s over, he tells me to fend for myself. Ha. In this city, no one does favors for free.

The old President coughed and fell asleep again. His breathing rattled, echoing off the marble tiles. I watched his eyelids flutter, thinking about how quickly the country would move on. Tomorrow, a new headline. Next week, a new villain.

I dragged my weak legs out of the room, only for a staffer to hurry over and report:

"Ms. Lane, something’s wrong—the third son has been taken away by people from the East Wing!"

I felt my heart drop. In the White House, the East Wing is the First Lady’s domain—a place where smiles are sharp as razors and nothing is ever what it seems.