Chapter 3: Ghosts in the East Wing

I was about to stop her, but the overlays chimed in—

[Doesn’t Rachel always use this trick?]

[Only the side character would fall for it. Rachel would never really hurt herself; it’s just a way to manipulate the president.]

My outstretched hand froze. I watched as Rachel rushed to the pillar—only to pause, barely tapping her head. A small red mark bloomed, and she shot me a wounded look before collapsing with a whispered, “Mike, you are so cruel.” She closed her eyes, limp on the floor.

It was an Oscar-worthy performance, one she’d rehearsed. The pain in her eyes was real, but not for the reasons she claimed. I stared, overlays echoing in my mind like a football replay.

Looking at Rachel, she suddenly felt like a stranger. The overlays continued—

[Oh, the side character must be heartbroken. I bet a dollar the clueless president will definitely rush over, hold her, cry, and apologize like crazy.]

[Same here.]

[+1.]

Before, her tears and threats would’ve worked. But today, the overlays left me raw and impatient. I slammed the desk, the bang ringing out through the Oval. Jeff jumped, startled at the door. My patience snapped. The air sizzled with old resentment and new suspicion.

“Someone come! Rachel’s disturbing my work. Take her back to her room.”

My voice was sharp, but I didn’t care. The security detail moved fast—no stranger to Rachel’s theatrics.

Rachel trembled. I glared at the overlays and smirked. Let’s see what you say now.

I stared at the flickering overlays, daring them to judge me for finally breaking the script.

The overlays went quiet. After that, Rachel kept her distance. The White House felt colder without Rachel’s laughter echoing through the halls, her jokes about the presidents’ portraits or the cupcakes she snuck in from Georgetown Cupcake. Sleep, once easy with her beside me, now eluded me. I woke at three a.m., heart pounding, sweat cold on my neck, haunted by judgment and disappointment.

One night, restless, I wandered the White House in my robe. The old oak floors creaked, portraits of presidents watching from the walls. Agent Collins, on duty, nodded as I slipped by. Even here, I felt like a ghost in my own house.

My marriage to Emily was arranged by the last president. I never loved her. I resented her for agreeing, for blocking me from Rachel. Even after I put Rachel in the public eye, I felt guilty—she’d cared for me, I’d promised her forever. Emily took her place, and Rachel suffered.

I remembered our wedding at St. John’s—flashes, forced smiles, Emily stoic, Rachel weeping in the shadows. The guilt never left. No job or title could repay Rachel’s loyalty.

Thinking of this, I grew even more sorry for Rachel. I hesitated outside the First Lady’s suite, then turned toward Rachel’s room. Just then, a dog’s bark caught my ear. Marshmallow, the little white dog, circled me, tail wagging. I knelt to pet her, her collar glinting with an American flag charm.

A gentle but familiar voice came from ahead: “Mr. President, visiting so late at night—what brings you here?”

Emily stood in the hall light, a silk robe over her shoulders, hair loose. Her eyes met mine, steady and unreadable—a woman who belonged in these halls. Dignified, graceful, quietly strong.

“Can’t I come if I have nothing to do? The whole country’s mine, let alone this house?”

I tried to joke, but it fell flat. The chill in the room was palpable.

Emily frowned, lips pressed tight. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just that you haven’t set foot in the East Wing for a long time. I was a bit uneasy.”

Her eyes flickered with vulnerability—a wife abandoned, living in another world under the same roof. She bent down, picking up Marshmallow, cheeks coloring in a rare blush. The scene was oddly sweet—softer than our formal dinners.

“Marshmallow was unruly and bumped into you. Please forgive him.”

Her voice was gentle, her kindness understated. Marshmallow nuzzled into her hand.

Then, the overlays returned—

[What’s up with the clueless president, coming to the East Wing in the middle of the night? Did he suddenly realize how good the First Lady is?]

[I always thought he had bad taste. The First Lady is clearly more beautiful than Rachel—dignified and elegant—yet he just likes Rachel’s sharp and petty looks.]

Their words made me really look at Emily. Her beauty was quiet but undeniable. Shame and regret flared—how had I missed this all these years?

I moved closer, noticing her bare feet, red from the cold. “Why did you come out without shoes or socks?”

Before she could answer, the overlays piped up—

[Isn’t it because she found out you were here, rushed out to see you without even putting on shoes?]

[Think about it, how many times have you visited this wing in all these years of marriage?]

[Emily has kept an empty bed for him for years, yet abides by her duties as a wife. If I were her, I’d have secretly kept a boyfriend by now—he’d never notice anyway.]

A wave of shame and pride washed over me. Emily still cared enough to come running, barefoot, just to see me. For once, I felt grateful—and guilty. My mood lifted, and on impulse, I scooped up Emily and Marshmallow, carrying them toward the bedroom. Emily squeaked, clutching the dog, then laughed—a warm, musical sound that made the East Wing feel like home again.