Chapter 3: The Carter Family Strikes Back

Back at the residential wing, I replayed my West Wing performance and mentally high-fived myself. Not bad for my first day on the job.

Had some chips, handled a few affairs, and skimmed through reports from various states. The usual pile of reading—most of it not as juicy as today’s drama.

Taking a sneaky break, I found a paperback hidden under the reports—‘Gatsby’s Dream in Manhattan.’ One glance and I was hooked. The best way to clear your mind after a day in politics is to lose yourself in someone else’s mess.

Although I was a CEO, besides swimming, my other hobby was reading novels.

‘Game of Thrones,’ ‘Graveyard Book,’ ‘Hamilton’s Letters’—I’d read them all to pieces. My bookshelf back home was a testament to escapism.

Modern novels aren’t as wild, but the intrigue, romance, and everyday details are still irresistible. And sometimes, fiction is the only thing crazier than real-life D.C.

Chief of Staff Quentin came in to report. He always knocked with a rhythm—two short, one long—that told me he’d learned a thing or two about how not to startle a boss.

“Reporting, Mr. President, First Lady Lillian has arrived.”

“Don’t see her.”

The story was too gripping—I was at the best part, no way was I getting interrupted. Not even for the so-called queen of the residence.

Being President has its perks; I get to be willful. I smiled to myself, a little giddy with my own power.

But Lillian ignored Quentin and barged in anyway.

“Mr. President, why’d you have to embarrass my sister-in-law like that? Forcing my nephew to marry some waitress? The Carters are gonna be the laughingstock of Georgetown.”

Lillian rushed in, voice sharp enough to slice through the fresh-cut flower scent drifting from the East Wing. Her voice carried, echoing off the high ceilings like she was auditioning for Broadway.

I was seriously annoyed. I pinched the bridge of my nose, forcing myself not to snap.

Who can understand the rage of having your story interrupted at the most exciting part by someone irrelevant?

Besides, I’m the President now. Shouldn’t I get to do as I please? It’s not like the Carters are the only power in the country.

But remembering how I became President, I tamped down my temper.

I put down the paperback, stared at Lillian, and spoke slowly. Channeling every ounce of that “unflappable leader” persona.

“Lillian, calm down. If Carter’s son was willing to break off his engagement for a waitress, she must be something special. Why not just let these star-crossed lovers have their way?”

I fiddled with the eagle paperweight, speaking lazily: “Your sister-in-law really overstepped. She failed to raise her son properly, then blamed Judge Anderson’s daughter for not keeping her fiancé. Not only did she try to force the marriage, she even beat them at their own home. Does she think the laws of this country are just for show?”

I made sure to say the last line with plenty of presidential gravitas. Even I was impressed. I let my gaze linger a moment too long for good measure.

Lillian finally reined in her anger and tried a softer approach, “Mr. President, though my sister-in-law was at fault, you could’ve handled it privately. Why ban her from all White House events and dock the Carter family’s pay for three years? That’s bound to hurt people’s feelings. Besides, the Carters practically built half the city—my mom’s side of the family’s been running D.C. since the Eisenhower years. Even if you don’t care about one, you should consider the other.”

Hmph. There are plenty of reasons the original owner didn’t want to be President, and an empty treasury is one of them.

Senator Carter just happened to be the scapegoat; who else should I fine?

Though my reasoning was solid, it wasn’t something I could say out loud.

So I replied, “Precisely because I considered your and the family’s dignity, I went easy on them. Otherwise, barging into someone’s house and beating people—just those two crimes would mean jail time.”

Lillian widened her eyes and snapped, “You can’t treat a senator’s wife like some random staffer—there’s protocol, and then there’s respect.”

“Lillian, you’re quite right.” My tone was still slow, but now with a hint of thunder, “But the press secretaries are all up in arms. Shall I summon them here to debate with you?”

Lillian froze. The fire drained from her voice, replaced by a nervous glance at the closed door.

Not wanting to waste more time, I said lightly, “I still have state affairs to attend to. If there’s nothing else, you may leave.”

“Mr. President…” Lillian probably realized she’d crossed the line and quickly softened her tone. She gave me a practiced look—sorrowful, lips trembling, eyes wide. It might’ve worked in a Tennessee beauty pageant.

Her red lips pouted, her eyes full of flirtatious electricity.

Unfortunately, this body is forty-seven, and I’m actually sixty-five—been there, done that. The games don’t work on me anymore.

After getting burned before, I learned my lesson.

My tone remained flat: “Quentin.”

The chief of staff immediately nodded respectfully, “Yes, sir.”

“Quentin—thirty days’ suspension, removed from the residential wing. All staff outside the office, thirty days’ suspension each.”

Quentin shivered but quickly nodded, “Understood, sir.”

As Quentin went to carry out the orders, I added, “Next time anyone lets someone barge in on me, the doorkeepers will be fired.”

I really don’t want to fire people. But I wasn’t about to let the White House turn into a circus—boundaries matter, even at the top.

But if I want to restore presidential authority and stop favored staffers like Lillian from throwing their weight around, I have to be ruthless.

Lillian is from the Carter family, with two sons, ranking just below the First Lady—the top power in the residence. The staff can’t be fixed overnight.