Chapter 5: The Reckoning

On the night the old President died, a fine, drizzling snow fell. The city was wrapped in a hush, snowflakes swirling under the streetlamps. I watched the world turn white from the shadowed portico, the hush of falling snow blanketing even the low hum of the city.

Early spring snow never lasts, dripping from the eaves, whispering the secrets of the White House. The gutters overflowed with icy melt, trickling down the limestone steps. Somewhere, church bells tolled the hour, muted by the weather and the weight of the day.

The snow water, icy cold, slid down my neck and spine. I shivered in my funeral-black dress, feeling the cold soak through to my bones. It felt right, somehow—penance for every wrong turn, every compromise.

I knelt among the ex-wives and girlfriends, all dolled up in black like extras in a prestige HBO miniseries, watching the doors open and close, officials and politicians coming and going in a flurry. Everyone was dressed for drama, a reality TV show with the highest stakes. The hallways echoed with sobs and whispered prayers, perfume mingling with old money and resentment.

At dusk, a staffer emerged, looking down at us with a lofty gaze. He was a lifer, gray at the temples, tie perfectly knotted. The kind of man who outlasts presidents and never forgets a face.

He held a long letter, reading out name after name. His voice was as flat as the C-SPAN broadcast, each name like a gavel strike. Every woman flinched as their fate was sealed. Buried with the President, sent to a remote estate, confined in the mansion for the rest of their days… It was the American version of exile—no need for dungeons when you have guesthouses in Vermont.

My name was not among them. It hung in the air, the silence around it heavier than any sentence. So what about me? To be thrown to the press, or left to rot?

I thought of the hungry paparazzi, the headlines waiting to be written. There’s always someone ready to profit from a fallen woman. The women who had huddled together were forcibly separated, each sent their own way, until only I was left. Security ushered them out in groups—some sobbing, some silent. The marble floor was cold under my knees.

The staffer looked at me with a complicated expression. His eyes flickered with something—maybe pity, maybe calculation. He’d seen too much to be surprised by anything.

"Ms. Lane, the new President wants to see you."

The words rang out, final and inescapable. My hands went numb. This time, the chat hesitated before popping up.

[Here it comes, here it comes—the main guy is ruthless, should just get it over with.]

[Should’ve been destroyed by the main guy’s mom, now only he can finish her off. Feels a bit unsatisfying.]

[Why do I feel something’s off? Why summon her alone?]

It felt like the whole world was waiting for my next move.

The inner office was warm, thick with the scent of expensive cologne, barely masking the tang of blood. The décor screamed old money—leather chairs, deep mahogany, a fireplace flickering even though it was almost spring. But beneath it all was the coppery smell of violence.

On the floor was a body—face-down, blood pooling on the Persian rug. The head was turned away, but I knew it was over. My stomach twisted, but I kept my face blank.

Zach stood with his back to me, wiping a cold, gleaming knife. His suit was immaculate, his stance relaxed. He looked more like a Wall Street executive than a man who’d just ended a life.

I hesitated, unsure if I should kneel. In the old days, they’d have called this a reckoning. But I was no medieval queen, and this was not a time for bows and curtsies. I fought the urge to drop to my knees, forcing myself to stand tall.

Facing death, the pride I’d always trampled reassembled itself. I thought about all the times I’d been told to be grateful, to know my place. For once, I decided not to listen. At my end—must I, the stepmother, kneel to a kid? It felt absurd, but nothing about this place made sense anymore.

I stood stiffly. My spine ached, but I didn’t move. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me beg.

Zach’s hand paused, then he suddenly said something I didn’t quite understand.

"Back in the Oval, you called me the smart one. Did you mean it, Ms. Lane?"

His tone was casual, but his eyes were deadly serious. I felt the air leave my lungs.

I stammered, "Mr. President, you’re smart and brave, both clever and tough—of course you’re good."

The words fell out of my mouth, rote and empty, but I hoped they’d be enough. The knife slid into its sheath, and I quietly breathed a sigh of relief. It was a small mercy, but I clung to it.

He turned around to face me, our eyes meeting. He was his father’s son, all sharp angles and cold calculation. But there was something else there, too—something that scared me more than the knife.

Under those sharp brows, his eyes were dark as obsidian, pressing down on me like thunderclouds, making it hard to breathe. I felt the air thicken, the room shrinking until it was just the two of us. My pulse pounded in my ears.

I couldn’t help but step back, accidentally stepping into the pool of blood. The slickness under my heel was a shock—reminding me that in this world, power always comes at a price.

Zach, unhurried, gently hooked his arm around my waist and pulled me close, nearly pressing me to his chest. The move was intimate, almost gentle, but there was nothing soft in his grip. I could feel his heartbeat, steady and unyielding.

He carried the scent of cologne I knew so well. It was the same brand his father wore—sharp, expensive, unforgettable. The smell of power, of memory, of endings and beginnings. Once it belonged to his father—now it belonged to him. It was a cruel inheritance, but an honest one.

[Wait, is this a hug?]

[So gross, can the temptress stay away from the main guy?]

[He just casually pulled her—why are you shamelessly throwing yourself into his arms?]

Even in this moment, I could hear the peanut gallery, the judgment never-ending. But there was no escaping it—not here, not ever.

"Are you willing?" Zach suddenly asked. The question was loaded, freighted with every compromise I’d ever made.

My whole life—entering the White House, vying for favor, fighting for the heir—I’ve always been led around. When have I ever had a choice? I thought about every sacrifice, every lie, every night spent awake, wondering if I’d made the right call. Did it matter?

But I still put on a humble smile and replied, "A father dies, a son succeeds; the eldest legitimate son takes over—that’s how it should be. I can’t hope for anything more."

It was the oldest answer in the book—a submission that might buy me one more day.

Zach gently pinched my chin, his gaze lingering on my face, musing: "Not bad. Father dies, son succeeds."

He spoke like he was tasting the words, rolling them around his mouth. It felt like judgment—and maybe, just maybe, forgiveness.

"When you seduced the President with that pitiful look, can you perform it for me as well?" His thumb pressed under my chin, forcing my gaze upward. The clock ticked. I didn’t know if I was about to be kissed, condemned, or both.