Chapter 3: Surrender and Survival

When I arrived at the East Wing, Tyler was sprawled on a beanbag, gnawing on a drumstick—crumbs from a box of Popeyes scattered on the floor. The room looked more like a fancy kindergarten than a seat of power—brightly colored beanbags, cartoons flickering silently on the TV. The faint smell of lemon cleaner mixed with fried food. Tyler, oblivious to the world, was making a mess of the pristine furniture.

The First Lady wore a gentle, motherly smile, urging him to eat slowly, but her gaze was locked on me—hard as ice beneath the pearls. If Martha Stewart and a barracuda had a baby, it’d look a lot like her—power suit, pearls, and a smile sharp enough to cut glass.

She was like a python, coiled around Tyler, waiting for the chance to strike. In her presence, I felt like a rabbit in a field—aware that at any moment, the grass might move and everything could change.

Tyler, oblivious as ever, looked up, his round, chubby face smeared with grease. "Mom, I want more." His voice was soft as marshmallow fluff. I saw a flash of the boy I’d read bedtime stories to, before I understood how the world worked.

This kid—sports, music, debate, student council—none of it interested him. He could name every item on the White House dessert cart, but ask him about the Constitution and you’d get a blank stare. His only joy was eating. He’d memorize the menu at the White House gala faster than the guest list. Give him pie at a nuclear summit and he’d forget about the bombs. Even with a knife at his throat, he’d still be thinking about food.

I sometimes wondered if he’d even notice. It was because I was blinded by the ketchup around his mouth that I thought he could compete for the presidency. Looking at him now, so unbothered, so hungry, I realized I’d been chasing a fantasy. Maybe I just wanted to believe I had some say in how my story ended.

The chat was full of ridicule.

[Everyone, look, can my son be President?]

[Say what you will, the temptress really does love her kid.]

[So funny—side character, open your eyes. Does he look like a leader?]

It was brutal, but honest—like an old family member at Thanksgiving, never sugarcoating the truth.

One comment made my heart skip a beat:

[This fat kid dies horribly later—locked up by the main guy for years, gets so thin he’s unrecognizable, and is scared to death.]

The words made my blood run cold. I felt a chill despite the ornate radiator hissing nearby. Suddenly, my priorities snapped into focus: survival, not ambition.

The last bit of hesitation in me vanished. I took out all the paperwork and deeds for Tyler’s trust funds and properties. My hand shook so hard the envelopes nearly slipped, and I pressed my palm to the cool marble to steady myself. I slid the thick envelopes forward for the First Lady to see.

I smiled apologetically: "My son is dull, untalented, and has made no progress. He can’t handle these responsibilities—it’s better to return them to the eldest."

My voice was flat, the practiced apology of someone who’s been forced to give up her seat at the table one too many times.

"Recently there have been wild rumors that my son wants the presidency... it’s pure nonsense. He was born to a staffer and raised by a nobody like me. With such a background, even being a city mayor would be hard to convince anyone."

I glanced at the portrait of George Washington on the wall, thinking even he would raise an eyebrow at this level of political theater.

Before the First Lady could finish her act, I’d already laid my cards on the table. I wasn’t waiting to be played anymore. I was done auditioning for a role that was never mine.

She was surprised, even a bit dissatisfied. Her carefully composed expression slipped for just a second, a twitch of annoyance crossing her brow.

"Ms. Lane, you admit it? Not going to put up a fight anymore? That’s not like you."

She sounded almost disappointed, as if I’d robbed her of a scene she’d been rehearsing for weeks.

"It was all those people before who pushed me to go against you, making me have foolish delusions and drift away from you."

My voice cracked—just enough to sell the part. I needed her to believe I’d given up. Sometimes, survival is about knowing when to play dumb.

If I’d known earlier that the First Lady’s family basically controlled the capital, why would I have struggled in vain? There’s no shame in folding a losing hand—at least, not in my playbook.

I used the same tricks I’d used to please the old President, picked up a tissue to dab my face, and began to sob and wail. I let the tears come, smearing my mascara. The kind of crying that draws sympathy from the weak and contempt from the strong. In this house, sometimes they’re the same people.

"I have only just come to my senses, and wish to lead Tyler to always follow your lead. I just hope you won’t look down on us."

It was a performance worthy of an Emmy, if not a standing ovation.

[The temptress really can bend and stretch—a model for our generation.]

[Isn’t this just being shameless and thus invincible? What’s so great about that?]

"You really are something else, aren’t you?" the old housekeeper beside the First Lady snapped coldly. Her eyes said she’d rather mop up blood than another of my tears.

But the First Lady leaned forward, slowly raising her brows, looking me up and down with great interest, like a cat eyeing a mouse that’s finally stopped running. She was still dignified and imposing, making me seem all the more clumsy and pitiful.

"Do you know why, even though you provoked me so many times before, I never touched you?" She paused, letting her words settle. In the White House, pauses are weapons, too.

"Because you were all fighting over an old, wrinkled walnut of a man. With just a few sweet words, he could make you tear each other apart. I truly enjoyed watching the show."

She had the detached amusement of someone who’s never had to dirty her own hands. I felt my cheeks burn, but I didn’t look away.

With that, she waved her hand lightly. "Take your son and get out."

Her dismissal was as casual as shooing away a fly from her morning tea.

Tyler, still dazed, jumped down, ran to my side, and even grabbed a rotisserie chicken from a staffer’s hand before leaving, beaming with delight. His innocence was his shield. In that moment, I envied him.