Chapter 1: Chemistry, Scandals, and a Presidential Explosion

My husband, Carter Whitman, became the first President of our new country while I was still messing around with chemistry in our garage.

Honestly, when the world was turning upside down, I was up to my elbows in beakers—literally—and half-listening to the news on a crackling radio. My hair was tied back with a pencil, my sneakers splattered with iodine. The day Carter was sworn in, I was hunched over a table, coaxing an unstable compound not to explode in my face. My brother burst in, waving the newspaper with Carter’s face plastered on the front page, and I barely looked up—just muttered, “Tell him to text me if he needs baking soda.”

After moving into the White House, I couldn’t help myself—before I knew it, I was ranking the staff by their chemistry quiz scores.

I couldn’t resist. The place was crawling with people who claimed to be experts, but I wanted to know who could actually balance an equation. So, I handed out pop quizzes. The butler nearly fainted when I asked him about Avogadro’s number, and the Secret Service agents started carrying pocket periodic tables just in case I cornered them in the hall.

No chemistry chops, no meeting with the President—simple as that!

I meant business. If you couldn’t tell me what a catalyst was, you could forget about getting on Carter’s calendar. It made for a lot of awkward silences in the West Wing, but at least the kitchen staff could now recite the difference between an acid and a base while flipping pancakes.

The next time I saw Carter—my not-so-dear husband—he’d already spent ten years on the frontlines. Now he was back as President.

He looked older, sharper around the edges, but he still had that stubborn tilt to his chin. Meanwhile, I was still in my old hoodie, stained with chemicals, tinkering away in the garage like nothing had changed. We were worlds apart, yet somehow still orbiting the same crazy sun.

And me? I’d just been stuck at home... developing explosives. You know, as one does.

I’d gone from baking cookies to brewing up batches of homemade fireworks. The neighbors stopped asking what I was doing after the third time the fire department showed up. My brother just shook his head and muttered, “Typical Savannah.”

With a boom, I accidentally blew up our brand-new President, Carter Whitman.

It was supposed to be a small test—just a little pop—but instead, the garage door blew clean off and Carter, who’d come home early, was caught in the blast zone. He stumbled out, looking like he’d been in a cartoon explosion.

His hair was singed, his face black as charcoal, and he pointed at me and yelled, “Savannah Lee! Didn’t you say you’d stay home and pray for me while I was off rebuilding the country? This is your idea of praying?”

He looked so ridiculous that I nearly laughed, but he was waving his arms like a wild man, so I just shrugged and tried to look apologetic. The smell of burnt hair and sulfur was so strong it made my eyes water.

"Yeah, pray for your mother, Carter." I muttered under my breath, rolling my eyes. Like I hadn’t heard about him and his new wife. The whole country knew, thanks to the tabloids and my brother’s habit of reading headlines out loud at breakfast.

Scumbag!

Honestly, I was more annoyed than heartbroken. I’d seen enough soap operas to know how this story went, and I wasn’t about to play the fool.

I told my brother to hurry up and kick him out. If Carter wanted drama, he could get it elsewhere.

My brother, never one to back down from a challenge, rolled up his sleeves and cracked his knuckles. “Don’t worry, sis, I got this,” he said, marching toward Carter like he was about to settle a bar fight.

But instead, my brother just rolled up his sleeves and, in one smooth move, tied me up and tossed me into Carter’s presidential limo.

Turns out, my brother was more interested in making peace than throwing punches. Before I knew it, he’d spun me around, tied my wrists with a necktie, and carried me out to the curb, dumping me in the back seat of Carter’s limo like a sack of potatoes. The Secret Service just watched, trying not to laugh.

"Sis, I read the stars last night. The President really is the chosen one! For the happiness of our whole family, just go along with it!"

He actually said that, looking dead serious, like he’d just gotten the message straight from the cosmos. “For the good of the Lee family!” he added, as if that explained everything. I wanted to smack him, but my hands were tied.

What?

I stared at him, open-mouthed. Was this real life? Was I being punked? I half expected Ashton Kutcher to pop out from behind a bush.

On the way to the White House, I thought over my entire life.

The limo’s leather seats squeaked every time we hit a bump. I watched the city blur past the tinted windows and wondered how I’d ended up here. Chemistry club president, valedictorian, reluctant First Lady—none of it made sense. I let out a sigh, wondering if I’d missed the day they taught “How to Survive in the White House” in school.

Back then, my brother and I used to give Carter so much crap for being useless! Who would’ve thought this guy would become President!

We’d called him "Clueless Carter" behind his back in high school. He once glued his hand to a desk during a science fair. Now he was running the country. Go figure.

Am I going to be okay from here on out?

I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or cry. Maybe both. I tried to picture myself living in the White House, but all I could think about was how many smoke detectors I’d set off.

I forced a smile at him. “Heh.”

It came out more like a nervous hiccup. My cheeks hurt from forcing it. Carter just raised an eyebrow, like he was trying to figure out if I was planning to poison his coffee.

Carter gave a weird little laugh. “Don’t worry, I won’t forget the favor you and your cousin did for me back then.”

He stretched the laugh out, making it sound like a villain in a B-movie. I half expected him to twirl an imaginary mustache. For a split second, I wondered if I was the damsel or the evil genius in this story.

It’s over.

I slumped in my seat, thinking, That’s it. I’m doomed. This is how the heroine gets written out in the second act.

As soon as I arrived at the White House, Carter’s new wife, Marissa Jennings, came swooping in to make her entrance.

She glided down the staircase like she was auditioning for The Bachelor, her smile bright enough to blind me. I could practically hear the soundtrack swell.

“Is this Savannah?” Marissa smiled sweetly, saying she wanted to greet me, but she didn’t even bother to shake my hand.

She gave me the once-over, lips pursed in a perfect little bow, and kept her hands folded like a beauty queen at a pageant. The air was thick with fake vanilla perfume.

Carter just smiled and told Marissa to “take good care” of me.

He said it with a straight face, but his eyes slid sideways, like he was hoping I wouldn’t throw a beaker at anyone. Marissa nodded, but I could tell she’d rather feed me to the White House squirrels.

Yeah, right. I don’t buy it for a second. Who did they think they were fooling? Did I look like I’d just fallen off the chemistry bus?

My assistant, Bonnie, had her own priorities. “Ma’am, this Marissa is quite pretty.”

Bonnie was always more interested in people’s looks than their intentions. She peered at Marissa like she was studying a rare orchid. I could see her mentally ranking us on some invisible scale.

“She even kind of looks like you did, you know, back in the day. Do you think... maybe the President’s always had a thing for you?”

Bonnie’s voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes wide with conspiracy-theory energy. She nudged me, as if I should be flattered. I just wanted to disappear into the nearest supply closet.

He liked me...?

The question echoed in my head, bouncing around like a loose marble. Did Carter ever really like me, or was I just convenient?

It’s over. He’s found a look-alike. According to the usual plot, I should be dead soon.

My mind spun through every soap opera I’d ever watched. Stand-ins, tragic endings, the works. I was doomed. I could practically hear the dramatic music swelling.

Sure enough, Carter named me First Lady, made Marissa Special Advisor, gave us equal rank, and put her in charge of the East Wing.

He made it sound like an honor, but it felt like being handed a participation trophy. Marissa got her own wing, her own staff, and a closet big enough to house a small army. I got to smile and wave at state dinners.

But Marissa was too eager to get rid of me. On my first day in the White House, she made me eat cornbread with boiled greens.

It was like being sentenced to culinary purgatory. The cornbread was dry, the greens limp and flavorless. I stared at my plate, the smell of overcooked vegetables making my stomach turn.

I can die, but I refuse to starve to death.

I poked at the food, imagining all the ways I could sneak a cheeseburger past security. My stomach growled in protest. I swore, if I had to live on boiled greens, I’d stage a coup myself.

So I grabbed my newly developed explosives and planned to go to her office for an explanation.

It wasn’t my most rational moment, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I stuffed a few smoke bombs in my bag, rehearsed my speech, and marched down the hall, ready for battle. I paused at the door, wondering if this was how wars started.

But when I got there, I saw Advisor Marissa gnawing on cornbread herself, her vegetables just as oil-free as mine.

She looked up, mouth full, and for a split second, I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. She chewed with the resigned air of someone who’d lost a bet.

“The country just unified, the budget is tight, everything is for the President,” Marissa said sweetly, looking so virtuous and kind.

She dabbed her lips with a napkin, voice dripping with good intentions. "We all have to make sacrifices," she said, as if reciting from a motivational poster.

“I know you come from money, and you’re probably not used to such plain food, but now that you’re First Lady, you have to show thrift and set an example for everyone.”

She smiled, all teeth, like she expected me to burst into applause. I bit my tongue, resisting the urge to ask if she’d ever heard of DoorDash. I mean, was I supposed to stand up and clap?

...

I stared at her, waiting for the punchline. Wasn’t she supposed to be the villain? Why was she playing the martyr?

Why aren’t you following the script?

I felt like I’d wandered onto the wrong set. Wasn’t there supposed to be a showdown? Instead, we were bonding over sad vegetables.

At this moment, I really regretted not watching more political dramas before winding up here. Now I don’t even know how to answer these pop quizzes.

I racked my brain for something clever to say, but all I could think about was how much I missed takeout. I should’ve binge-watched more Scandal and less MythBusters.

“I heard you were famous for your kindness, always helping the poor, sometimes even giving away your own food. Don’t worry, I’ll definitely learn from you from now on.”

She said it with a straight face, and I almost snorted. Where did people get these ideas about me? I barely shared fries in college. Was she for real?

How did I not know I was so virtuous?!

I glanced around, half-expecting a hidden camera. Was this some elaborate prank? Maybe my brother was behind it.

Probably my brother fell for some fake news somewhere.

That would be just like him, spreading rumors to boost my reputation. I made a mental note to interrogate him later.

“Yes, the First Lady has always been gentle and virtuous, a model for all women,” Carter’s figure slowly appeared from behind the office door, giving me a mysterious smile. “Didn’t you say before that if you could be with me forever, you’d be willing to eat plain food for a lifetime?”

He leaned against the doorframe, looking smug. I wanted to throw my cornbread at him. I definitely never said that, but he was milking it for all it was worth.

I didn’t! Don’t make things up!

I opened my mouth to protest, but the words got stuck. Instead, I glared at him, thinking, You wish, Mr. President. Not in this lifetime.

With the plot going this way, I had no choice but to nod stiffly and sneak back to my own suite.

Retreat was the better part of valor. I mumbled something about being tired and made a beeline for my room, slamming the door behind me for good measure.

The White House kitchen is hopeless. Can’t I just order DoorDash?

I stared at my phone, wondering if I could bribe a staffer to sneak me some real food. Maybe there was a secret underground delivery service for desperate First Ladies.

I had someone sneak out to buy me a barbecue sandwich, but Carter turned out to be the delivery guy—not really. “Savannah, I know I’ve wronged you. But right now, the budget really... has no money.”

He showed up with a brown paper bag, looking sheepish. "I know it’s not much, but it’s the best I could do," he said. I took the sandwich, but my appetite vanished.

He took my hand. “Don’t worry, the position of First Lady will definitely be yours.”

His hand was warm, but his words felt cold. I squeezed his fingers, searching his face for sincerity. Then I pulled my hand back, feeling a chill settle in my chest.

“But what about Marissa? Everyone outside says you favor her...”

I tried to keep my voice steady, but the question slipped out before I could stop it. I hated myself for sounding jealous.

“Savannah, Marissa just looks a little like you, and her uncle, Senator Jennings, forced me to marry her. You know, the Senator has a million supporters. Without him...”

He trailed off, looking at the floor. I knew the political game, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

“I know, I won’t be jealous. For the greater good...”

I forced a smile, trying to sound noble. Inside, I wanted to scream. Sacrifices for the greater good always seemed to fall on women’s shoulders. Why is it always us?

Carter hesitated, then finally said, “Good, as long as you’re not jealous.”

He looked relieved, but I felt hollow. I wondered if he even noticed.

How could I not be jealous?

I bit my lip, staring at the sandwich. I wanted to throw it at the wall, but instead, I just picked at the bread.

If I’d been a side character from the start, maybe I could have accepted it.

I wondered if things would be easier if I’d never cared. Maybe then I could just fade into the background and let Marissa have her happy ending.

But when I landed here, I was still a pampered young woman at home, and when I married Carter, he swore he’d only have me in this life.

I remembered our wedding day, the way he’d looked at me—like I was the only person in the world. I’d believed him. I’d believed every word.

But I’m not a lovesick fool. After a day of sadness, I went back to eating and drinking.

I gave myself twenty-four hours to wallow, then decided I wasn’t going to let anyone—especially Carter—see me fall apart. I ordered a milkshake and toasted myself for surviving.

Carter Whitman is only worth one day of my sadness.

After that, he was just another chapter in my story. I had better things to do than mope over a man, even if he was the President.

I kept to myself, secretly set up a little kitchen in the backyard, and had people sneak out every day to bring me good food.

I built a makeshift kitchen out of old grill parts and a hot plate, bribed the gardener to smuggle in groceries, and started holding secret midnight feasts for the staff who were brave enough to join me. Hey, everyone needs a little rebellion.

The White House staff had always had it rough, but since I arrived, they all got to eat meat with me, so my daily takeout was kept secret for a long time.

Word spread fast, but everyone kept quiet. The butler swore an oath on his mother’s grave, and even the Secret Service agents started hanging around my door at lunchtime, hoping for leftovers.

If Carter hadn’t insisted on summoning me to his room, I probably could’ve kept it up.

He started getting suspicious when the kitchen inventory didn’t match the menu. I played dumb, but I could tell he was onto me.

Maybe because I always claimed to have my period whenever Carter summoned me, one day he got angry and barged into my suite with a bunch of trusted aides.

He stormed in like a tornado, aides trailing behind him, all looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. I was halfway through a plate of ribs when he burst through the door.

“Savannah Lee! Are you messing with me? What woman has her period for twenty-eight days a month?!”

He sounded genuinely exasperated, waving his arms in the air. The aides exchanged glances, trying not to laugh. I just shrugged and kept chewing, daring him to say more.

Then he saw everyone in my suite gathered for a backyard barbecue.

The staff froze, caught mid-bite. One of the junior advisors tried to hide a sausage behind her back. Carter’s jaw dropped.

He coughed twice, signaling his aides to leave.

The room emptied in record time. Only Carter and I remained, the scent of grilled chicken lingering in the air.

Then he quietly told me, “You really kept this hidden, but if anyone finds out you’re secretly ordering takeout, the consequences could be serious.”

He leaned in, voice low. "There are people watching, Savannah. If this gets out, it could be bad for both of us."

“Really? How serious?” I stuffed a piece of grilled chicken into his mouth. “Is it good?”

He sputtered, caught off guard, but chewed anyway. I raised an eyebrow, waiting for his verdict.

Carter choked, unable to speak clearly.

He fanned his mouth, eyes watering. "Hot! Hot! Savannah, did you do that on purpose?!"

“I want to report the First Lady for secretly ordering takeout and living in luxury in the White House—an unpardonable crime!” Somehow, Advisor Marissa found out about my takeout and announced it in front of the whole staff.

She burst into the room, brandishing a printout of my DoorDash receipt like it was a smoking gun. The staff stared, mouths open. I sighed. So much for secrecy.

I pinched Bonnie hard. I told her I shouldn’t go out, but she insisted I should bond with Carter. Now, going out was just walking into a trap.

Bonnie yelped, rubbing her arm. "Sorry, ma’am," she whispered. "I thought it’d help!"

“The nation is newly established, even the President is frugal to save for the southern states. The whole White House is living hard for the country, but the First Lady uses the President’s favor to secretly order takeout and promote extravagance. This can’t be allowed to continue.”

Marissa’s voice rang out, righteous as ever. She looked at Carter, daring him to disagree. The staff shifted nervously, eyeing their shoes.

Carter looked at me speechlessly, his eyes saying I was hopeless. He hesitated for a long time before finally saying, “Really? Where’s the evidence?”

He raised an eyebrow, playing dumb. I could tell he was enjoying this a little too much.

“The evidence is in the First Lady’s suite. If the President has the staff search now, they’ll definitely find all kinds of delicacies.”

Marissa was practically giddy, bouncing on her heels. The staff started whispering, the tension thick enough to cut with a butter knife.

Carter stood up slowly. “Let’s go take a look together.”

He led the way, all presidential authority. I followed, my heart pounding, trying to look innocent.

I suspected Carter had deliberately leaked word about my takeout. Otherwise, why bring the whole staff to my suite?

It all felt too convenient, like he’d set the stage for a big reveal. I shot him a look, but he just smiled.

A public execution—he must be paving the way for Advisor Marissa.

The staff filed in, eyes wide. I braced myself for humiliation.

I had no choice but to follow. After a long search, they found nothing but cornbread.

They tore the place apart—closets, drawers, even under the bed. But all they found was a sad stack of cornbread. I tried not to smirk.

Carter winked at me. Playing the virtuous First Lady, I asked with concern, “Mr. President, do your eyes hurt?”

I batted my lashes, channeling my inner Southern belle. The staff snickered behind their hands.

He tilted his head, his brows furrowed, then rolled his eyes at me like a pro.

He was good at that. If eye-rolling were an Olympic sport, he’d take gold. I stifled a laugh.

Bonnie started crying like a busted hydrant. “Heaven and earth bear witness, Mr. President! Since our ma’am moved in, she’s been breaking cornbread in half to eat, afraid to waste even a penny of your money! Isn’t there some misunderstanding?”

She put on quite the show, tears streaming down her face. The staff looked guilty, shifting from foot to foot.

Bonnie jabbed me in the back.

I caught on. “Yes, Mr. President, why not check the other advisors’ suites?”

I tried to sound helpful, but my voice dripped with sarcasm. Carter nodded, barely hiding a grin.

Carter waved his hand. “Approved.”

He snapped his fingers, and the Secret Service sprang into action. It was like watching a SWAT team descend on a bake sale.

The Secret Service swept through the East Wing like a tornado, finally bringing out a small cabinet filled with barbecue grills and all sorts of unfinished delicacies.

The evidence was overwhelming—smoked ribs, half-eaten brisket, even a stash of imported chocolate. The staff gasped. Marissa’s face turned the color of boiled beets.

“Reporting to the President, this was found in Advisor Marissa’s suite.”

The agent held up a tray of cupcakes like he’d just uncovered a national security threat. The room fell silent.

......

You could hear a pin drop. Marissa looked like she wanted to melt into the floor.

The hall fell silent.

A heavy, awkward hush settled over everyone. Someone coughed. I tried not to smile.

After a while, a young staffer whispered, “Advisor Marissa is Senator Jennings’s niece. The Senator’s wealth is greater than the national treasury—it’s normal for her to have a private kitchen.”

The whispers started, growing louder. The staff exchanged glances, emboldened by the scandal. I caught someone stifling a giggle.

“Yeah, Advisor Marissa’s takeout is delivered straight from the Senator. The First Lady’s family is far away—she couldn’t even get delivery in D.C.”

Someone else chimed in, "Besides, everyone knows you can’t get decent barbecue outside the South."

“But Advisor Marissa is still the President’s advisor. The President said to be thrifty, but she acts like this.”

The crowd murmured in agreement. Marissa looked like she was about to cry.

Carter finally cleared his throat, chewed out Advisor Marissa for arrogance and indulgence—and for framing other staff—then ordered her confined to her suite.

He went full presidential, voice booming. "This behavior is unacceptable!" he declared. Marissa hung her head, and the staff nodded in approval.

Just like that, Advisor Marissa lost her standing, and I became the only First Lady.

It happened so fast, I barely had time to process it. One minute, I was the villain, the next, the heroine. The staff started treating me with new respect.

Of course, Carter blamed it on a brand-new government to cancel the First Lady’s grand ceremony. Honestly, I think he was just trying to appease Advisor Marissa and Senator Jennings, since the Senator still had power and he didn’t dare offend them too much.

The official story was all about budget cuts and national unity, but I knew better. Carter was always thinking three moves ahead.

Carter came to me again, repeating that the budget was really out of money and there were threats from all directions, so I had to put up with things for now.

He paced my room, running a hand through his hair. "Just give me a little more time, Savannah. We’re still cleaning up the mess."

I still nodded, playing the virtuous First Lady.

I smiled sweetly, doing my best impression of a politician’s wife. Inside, I was plotting my next experiment. Maybe something that would make the East Wing smell like bacon for a week.

I thought he’d stay and talk about starting over or how helpless he felt, but he just apologized and left.

He closed the door gently behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I stared at the ceiling, thinking, Well, that was anticlimactic.

After he left, I remembered Bonnie. “That day Advisor Marissa exposed my secret takeout—was that a setup you and Carter planned?”

I cornered Bonnie in the hallway, arms crossed. She tried to look innocent, but her eyes darted everywhere.

Bonnie was stunned. “Ma’am, you actually saw through it!”

She looked genuinely surprised, like she thought I’d fallen for it. I rolled my eyes. Seriously?

I just couldn’t be bothered to care. I’m not stupid!

I waved her off, too tired to argue. "Just tell me next time," I said.

“So, the President still cares about you. Look at all he’s done for you.”

Bonnie sounded almost wistful. I wondered if she’d been reading romance novels again.

Sounds like Carter really put in some effort.

I shrugged, not wanting to admit that it made me feel a little better.

“Even the President favoring Advisor Marissa—everyone says it’s because she looks a bit like you.”

Bonnie’s eyes sparkled, like she’d uncovered a juicy secret. I tried not to roll my eyes again.

But I still felt uneasy. This Marissa made it impossible for us to go back to the way things were.

Every time I saw her, it was like looking in a warped mirror. I wondered if Carter ever saw the difference.

Since Carter made me First Lady, I was determined to do the job well.

I threw myself into my new role, determined to leave my mark. If I couldn’t have love, I’d have legacy.

Bonnie said I should solidify my favor while Advisor Marissa was confined, just in case she caused trouble after being released.

She was always thinking ahead, plotting strategies like a general. I started taking notes.

I agreed, so I organized an open call.

I sent out invitations to every influential family in D.C., promising an opportunity no one could resist. The White House was buzzing with anticipation. I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d accidentally invented political speed dating.

All the candidates were daughters of influential families, similar in looks and temperament, and most importantly, their families had money.

They arrived in droves—polished, poised, and ready to compete. The halls were filled with perfume and nervous laughter.

I made a rule: if they donated to the government, they’d get a chance to spend a night with the President.

It was unconventional, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I framed it as a patriotic duty—"Support your country, support your President."

Their monthly nights with the President were set by how much they donated.

The more generous the donation, the more nights they got. It was like a charity auction, but with higher stakes.

We booked out twenty-nine nights—the extra day was Carter’s rest.

I made sure to pencil in a day off for him. Even Presidents need a break.

I was very satisfied with the freshly printed White House schedule. “Ladies who didn’t get chosen, don’t worry—there’s always next month. Or... if you don’t have enough money, you can pool your nights together?”

I held up the schedule, grinning. The candidates huddled together, whispering furiously. Some started pooling resources on the spot.

They looked at each other, then scrambled to grab all the slots for next month, too.

It was chaos—credit cards flying, cell phones buzzing. Bonnie watched, wide-eyed, taking notes for future reference.

A month later, just as I was counting the money, Carter kicked down the door again.

He didn’t even knock, just stormed in, looking like he’d swallowed a lemon. I calmly counted bills, pretending not to notice.

“You think you can just buy me for a night? Savannah, what am I, a gigolo?”

He threw his hands up, voice cracking. I tried not to laugh, but it was hard.

“Don’t talk, I’m not done counting.”

I waved him off, stacking bills with exaggerated care. He glared at me, but I could see the corners of his mouth twitching.

When I finished counting and stood up, I noticed Carter holding his lower back, glaring at me like he wanted to eat me alive.

He looked exhausted, slumped against the doorframe. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. He looked like he needed a nap and a therapist.

But his face was pale.

I frowned, wondering if he’d slept at all. He looked like he’d been run over by a bus.

“Tsk tsk, how about resting two days a month from now on?” I pulled out the schedule and decided to cut out the donor who paid the least.

I tapped my pen against the calendar, pretending to be thoughtful. Carter groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“Enough!” Carter tried to roar, but his hoarse voice was honestly a little pathetic.

He sounded more like a wounded puppy than the leader of the free world. I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

“Can you respect me a little? I’m the President! I’m the President! I’m the President! I’m not a gigolo!”

He stomped his foot for emphasis. I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. The repetition almost made me snort.

“So you’re just tired.” I patted his shoulder. “Mr. President, you have to work hard. As President, carrying on the family line is important. Even if you can’t, you have to at least try!”

I winked, teasing. He glared, but I could see a smile tugging at his lips. Inside, I was half-daring him to make a comeback.

Before I could finish, Carter picked me up and tossed me onto the bed.

He swept me off my feet—literally—and dumped me on the mattress. I yelped, startled.

“I’ll show you if I can.”

He loomed over me, eyes dark. I tried to wriggle away, but he pinned me with a look.

“Hey, hey, don’t be impulsive! Take a breath, okay?”

I held up my hands in surrender, but he just laughed and walked out, slamming the door behind him. Drama king.

Luckily, he just threw me on the bed and then calmed down, storming out with a dramatic wave of his hand. I lay there, catching my breath, and wondered if I’d just survived a presidential tantrum. Typical.

Another month later, the candidates all crowded before me, begging not to serve Carter anymore.

They crowded into my suite, faces pale, hands clasped in supplication. I tried to look sympathetic, but inside I was thinking, Welcome to my world, ladies.

They said they couldn’t take it.

"We’re exhausted," one whispered. "Please, First Lady, have mercy."

“Who plays cards all night and wins every hand? We really can’t afford to lose any more money.”

Turns out, Carter had been fleecing them at poker. I made a mental note to ban gambling in the West Wing.

“The First Lady takes money by day, the President takes money by night—our families are being cleaned out!”

I had to admit, it was a pretty efficient system. Maybe too efficient. I almost felt proud.

I checked with Carter, who said I could handle it—as long as the candidates did something useful for the country.

He shrugged, leaving it up to me. "Just keep them busy," he said. "And out of my hair."

I thought about it—fine, bring them all to the West Wing to learn chemistry.

If I had to suffer, so did everyone else. I rounded them up and announced the start of Chemistry Boot Camp. Misery loves company, right?

I’d been soaked; no way was anyone else staying dry.

It was only fair. If I had to learn the hard way, so did they.

So I used my twelve years of chemistry knowledge to write a ‘Chemistry Manual’ from memory and distributed it throughout the White House for the candidates to study.

I stayed up late, scribbling equations and diagrams. Bonnie helped me staple the pages together. The candidates groaned, but I saw a few secretly excited.

“The President said, from now on, the monthly candidate rankings are based on exam scores. Those who score well can get an extra meat course.”

I posted the rules on the bulletin board. Suddenly, everyone was a model student. The promise of steak was a powerful motivator.

Maybe I underestimated Carter’s stinginess. These candidates, driven by their love of meat, managed to survive the first monthly exam.

They studied late into the night, quizzing each other in the hallways. I heard rumors of black-market study guides.

Jenna Harris came in first with a score of twenty-three.

She beamed with pride, waving her test paper like a trophy. I made a note to keep an eye on her.

I kept my word and promoted Jenna to Senior Advisor.

She got a new office, a bigger desk, and a shiny nameplate. The other candidates watched with envy.

Seeing Senior Advisor Harris get real benefits, everyone worked even harder.

The competition was fierce. I started getting requests for extra tutoring. I felt like a chemistry rock star.

In the second monthly exam, five people scored over twenty.

I handed out meat dishes like medals. The kitchen staff started asking for a cut.

Not only that, the candidates started stopping me after class to ask about homework and extra questions.

They ambushed me in the hallways, notebooks in hand. I felt like a college TA during finals week.

It was a mixed bag. Although I lost my free time and couldn’t secretly order takeout anymore, the good thing was that Carter barely got to talk to me when he came by.

I was always surrounded by students, dodging questions about stoichiometry and lab safety. Carter tried to cut in a few times, but the candidates blocked him at every turn.

The candidates saw me as their meal ticket and ignored Carter.

He looked baffled, standing in the doorway with a plate of cookies, forgotten. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

This made Carter so angry he lifted Advisor Marissa’s confinement.

He stormed into her suite, announced her freedom, and told her to "do something useful." I braced myself for round two.

The first thing Marissa did after being released was come to my suite to settle the score.

She burst in, eyes blazing. I looked up from my lesson plan, unimpressed.

She yelled, “Savannah, what are you! You ordered takeout yourself and framed me!”

She pointed an accusing finger, voice trembling. I waited for her to run out of steam.

But she was stopped outside by the candidates asking chemistry questions, with Senior Advisor Harris leading the good students defending my dignity as their teacher.

They formed a human barricade, notebooks raised like shields. Marissa looked bewildered, outnumbered and outgunned.

“Great! Not content with monopolizing the President’s heart, you’ve even bewitched the whole staff! What tricks are you using?!”

She stamped her foot, voice rising. I shrugged, holding up a test paper.

I smiled and handed her a chemistry test. “This is it. If you can score thirty, I’ll give you my position as First Lady.”

I slid the paper across the table, daring her to take the challenge.

“I’m Senator Jennings’s daughter—raised on books. Do you think I’m afraid of you?”

She grabbed a pen, determination blazing. The candidates watched, whispering bets.

She took the test, her face going red with frustration, like she was about to explode: “What are these weird symbols, are you cursing me?”

She scowled at the formulas, scribbling random answers. I hid a smile.

In the end, Advisor Marissa got three points, guessing one multiple choice right.

She tossed the pen down, defeated. The candidates tried not to laugh.

I pointed at Emily, the staffer beside her. “She got twenty-eight.”

Emily blushed, clutching her test paper. Marissa looked like she might faint.

Marissa burst into tears.

She covered her face, sobbing. I handed her a tissue, feeling only slightly guilty. Honestly, I was more amused than sympathetic.

She’d always looked down on Emily—before her confinement, Emily was just an intern.

Now the tables had turned. The staff exchanged knowing glances.

“Now your score is lower than the lowest intern in the White House.” I pointed at her pitiful score and tossed the test back at her. “If you want to surpass me, read more useful books instead of those useless poems. Can those help the President run the country?”

I tried to sound wise, but mostly I just wanted her to stop whining.

After that, Marissa disappeared from my sight, missing every monthly exam.

She kept to her suite, only emerging for meals. The staff started calling her "the Ghost of the East Wing."

I heard she was desperately digging into my past, even learning about my old clothing preferences to imitate me.

Bonnie reported that Marissa had started wearing my favorite perfume and copying my hairstyle. It was equal parts flattering and creepy.

The result was that Carter treated her even more coldly.

He barely spoke to her, only addressing her in official meetings. The staff noticed, and so did I.

“Don’t you have your own name?”

I heard him ask her once, voice tired. She didn’t answer.

“Has Advisor Marissa forgotten who she is? What’s gotten into her?”

He sounded genuinely concerned. I watched from the hallway, hidden behind a potted plant.

“You’re you. The First Lady’s the First Lady. I know the difference.”

He made it clear, for everyone to hear. Marissa turned away, face pale.

Bonnie told it so vividly, laughing so hard she cried, and concluded, “The President still has feelings for you.”

She wiped her eyes, grinning. I tried to act annoyed, but inside, I was secretly pleased.

“Even so, he kept Marissa by his side. I still feel uncomfortable thinking about it.”

I stared out the window, watching the cherry blossoms fall. Some things just didn’t have easy answers.

He clearly promised me before, and I once naively thought he’d be different.

I remembered our vows, the way he’d sworn he’d never let me down. Life had other plans.

“But that’s because Marissa looks like you. The President just misses you.”

Bonnie squeezed my hand. I squeezed back, grateful for her loyalty.

Honestly, women these days really need to raise their standards. I know Bonnie means well, but I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

I changed the subject, asking about the next chemistry lesson. Bonnie took the hint.

It’s like candy with a bitter pit—sweet outside, ruined inside.

I mulled over the metaphor, deciding it was apt. I was tired of pretending everything was fine.

“Enough, I’d rather focus on chemistry. The candidates are tired of theory class—they want experiments now.”

I announced the change at breakfast. The staff cheered. I started drafting new lesson plans.

I had to plan experiments and scrounge up test tubes and beakers.

I raided the supply closets, scrounging for glassware. Bonnie found an old distillery in the basement—perfect for our needs.

No time to think about Carter.

I threw myself into work, determined not to dwell on the past. Science was my safe haven.

Staying up late writing lesson plans reminded me of pulling all-nighters in college, rushing homework and papers.

I found myself hunched over my desk, surrounded by coffee cups and highlighters, just like the old days. It was oddly comforting.

Honestly, it’s a great sleep aid. Studying, I soon nodded off.

I dozed off mid-sentence, pen still in hand. Bonnie found me drooling on the periodic table and covered me with a blanket.