Chapter 4: Rachel’s Illness

The next day, word that I’d spent the night in the East Wing swept the White House. By lunchtime, even the kitchen staff knew. In Rachel’s suite, the sound of things breaking rang out. By evening, a young intern reported that Rachel was sick. The timing was too perfect.

I paused mid-brushstroke at my desk, eyes darting for overlays. Sure enough, they were back—

[Knew Rachel would come to play the victim, even pretending to be sick.]

[Wrong, this time Rachel isn’t faking it—she’s really sick, her face is flushed with fever.]

Really sick?

A chill ran through me. Rachel always knew how to play the victim, but the overlays—usually snarky—sounded worried. My grip tightened, paint dripping onto my pants.

My heart clenched. I missed the next overlay.

[She made herself sick by soaking in cold water in the middle of the night, just a bitter trick.]

I rushed to Rachel’s room. She looked pale, but tried to stand. I helped her back to the pillows—her skin clammy, eyes red. The room smelled of eucalyptus. A cold cup of tea sat by her bed. I ached for her—Rachel, always stubborn, refusing to look weak even now.

“Where’s the doctor? Where have they all gone?”

I turned to the staffer, voice tight. This was no longer politics—this was personal.

The staffer—Maria—looked near tears. “Please persuade her, sir. The doctor wants to examine her, but she refuses, saying she’s afraid the medicine will harm the baby and wants to tough it out herself.”

I glanced at Rachel’s belly, suddenly unsure of everything. The overlays said the baby wasn’t mine. Should I trust them or her?

The air thickened, doubts pressing in from all sides.