Chapter 4: Ghosts of the White House

Leaving the East Wing, I felt lightheaded, my cheeks burning. The wind whipped down Pennsylvania Avenue, carrying the distant sound of sirens and the smell of wet pavement. The cold bit through my coat, but the shame on my face burned hotter than any March wind.

[The First Lady is the real main character—compared to her, the temptress is nothing.]

[So funny, fighting over an old man the First Lady didn’t even want, and still thinks she’s won.]

[Served the old man as the main squeeze for five years, thought she’d gained something, ended up with nothing.]

Every phone in the capital was probably buzzing with my name, dissecting my defeat, judging my choices. Reputation is currency here, and I was bankrupt. The tabloids would have a field day: "White House Mistress—Villain or Victim?" Fallon would crack jokes about my accent, my fashion, my audacity. But none of them would ever know the truth.

But I was just a farmer’s daughter. The guy I was engaged to was honest and simple, saving up to build me a two-bedroom house with a little porch. He had big hands and a gentle laugh, called me darlin’, and built that porch himself after shifts at the paper mill, whistling John Mellencamp under his breath. There was a future there—safe, boring, maybe even happy.

If not for the old President’s whim that day, going for a country drive… He picked me out like a prize pumpkin at the state fair. One moment I was worrying about prom dresses, the next I was in a limousine, headed for a life I’d never imagined.

I closed my eyes and let out a long sigh. The memories tasted like dust and lost summers—hazy, bittersweet, impossible to reclaim.

But the little hand holding mine only gripped tighter. His palm was small, sweaty, and so very real. In that grip was all the certainty I’d ever needed.

Only then did I notice—Tyler’s palm was also cold and damp with sweat. For all his love of snacks and cartoons, even he knew when the air in the room changed. He was my son, after all.

He looked up at me, his chubby face and big, grape-like eyes blinking. He had his father’s eyes, but the way he watched me—careful, uncertain—was all his own.

"Mom, that was scary in there... but you did good. Sometimes you gotta know when to fold, right?"

His voice was quiet, more serious than I’d ever heard it. The White House has a way of making kids grow up too fast. I was stunned.

It took me a second to find my voice. "What?"

Tyler looked around to make sure no one was near, stopped walking, and said seriously: "Mom, you did really well just now. A smart person knows when to back down."

He spoke with a wisdom beyond his years. I felt a tremor in my chest, a swell of pride and fear all at once. I stood frozen, like a statue by the lake in the park. People always said the White House was haunted—by history, by ghosts, by mistakes. Maybe I was the ghost this time, haunting my own son with caution.

Could it be Tyler isn’t clueless after all?

His next words confirmed it—he was no fool. Not anymore.

He then solemnly said: "Zach is older, I’m younger. Zach has the full support of Mrs. Xu’s family and the backing of veteran politicians. I, though raised by you, am always lacking in power."

He even got the family alliances right. Maybe those hours in the library hadn’t been about comic books after all.

His voice dropped to a whisper. "Mom, I’ve read all those books and history texts, but I dare not let anyone know. In the future, you must never say you want me to be President. Given today’s situation, our first priority is to stay alive."

The White House lawn stretched out before us, blanketed in slush and secrets. I squeezed his hand, a silent promise to be smarter—for both our sakes.

The chat was full of question marks.

[What? Tyler isn’t clueless?]

[Kid, what level are you? How are you changing the script?]

[Is this Tyler’s hidden side, only revealed because the temptress suddenly got smarter?]

...

So I was the only fool?

I let out a laugh, soft and shaky. Maybe the world had always underestimated both of us.