Chapter 2: The Inauguration Crisis

On the day of the inauguration ceremony, First Lady Rachel declared she didn’t want to live anymore.

The sun was blinding over the Capitol, the air alive with the distant rumble of helicopters and the smell of cherry blossoms drifting in from the National Mall. Secret Service lined the edges of the platform, faces unreadable behind their sunglasses. Amid the cheers and flag-waving, Rachel’s despair was invisible to all but those closest to her. She tried running into a wall, tried to drown herself in the reflecting pool, refused food and water—tormenting herself until she was utterly spent.

The President, desperate, would rush to her side as soon as he finished with Congress, gripping her hand, his eyes bloodshot from worry and sleepless nights.

His grip was fierce, almost painful. His suit jacket always looked a little rumpled, the stress of the day hanging off his shoulders like a weight. He would kneel at her bedside, ignoring protocol, his voice hoarse and breaking. "There are eighty staff in the East Wing. If you don’t eat today, I’ll fire ten. If you don’t eat tomorrow, I’ll fire twenty."

At these words, Rachel broke down in tears.

The room was hushed, the air heavy with dread and the faint scent of disinfectant. A single tear slid from her beautiful, unfocused eyes—utterly hopeless, utterly shattered.

"The thing I regret most in this life is loving you."

She spat the words like venom, her hand trembling. The tension in the room thickened, as if the very walls could hear her anger.

With that, she resolutely knocked the steaming oatmeal from my hands.

The bowl clattered to the floor, oatmeal splattering across the polished tiles. I flinched instinctively, bracing for the fallout, the smell of burnt coffee grounds lingering from earlier.

"Don’t you dare use other people to get to me, Michael. That’s low—even for you."

Her voice was icy, a stark contrast to the trembling rage in the President’s face. The staff in the hall seemed to hold their breath, the only sound the muffled click of distant press cameras through the window.

The President was furious, repeating "Good!" three times, then casually pointed at a staff member by the door.

"Escort them out. Fire them on the spot."

His tone was chilling—no room for appeal. When the President said ten, not one would be spared. The last to be dragged out was Peach, who had been serving coffee by my side.

Peach shook like a leaf, her face streaked with tears of terror, crying out in despair and agony.

Her voice cracked as she pleaded. "Ma’am, please take a bite. I’m Peach, I’ve served you since we were kids—please, save me!" Her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped the coffee mug, the smell of burnt grounds hanging in the air.

She reached out for Rachel, desperate. "Ma’am, I once shielded you from harm when I was little!"

Rachel sobbed even harder, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.

The heartbreak in her voice tore through me. "Are you satisfied now, Mr. President? You fire my closest maid, leave me all alone—are you satisfied? Can I die now?"

The President was silent for a long time.

The air was thick with tension. Outside the room, the dull thuds of security escorting staff out could be heard, mixed with the staff’s intermittent pleas.

Even then, they did not give up, crying and begging the President for mercy, and begging Rachel to save them.

Their voices echoed down the hallway. I kept my head down, my back pressed tightly against the curtain post, my legs trembling beneath my skirt.

In that moment, I suddenly recalled something Rachel had said years ago.

She’d said: "In my house, there are no true servants—everyone is equal. If you’re ever unhappy, come tell me anytime."

I remembered the warmth in her voice then, a stark contrast to today’s cold reality. The memory stung, sharp as a paper cut.