Chapter 1: The President’s Final Threat

I am the infamous temptress, a scandal for the ages—my name whispered in marble hallways, my face popping up in history books and punchlines on Fallon. In D.C., gossip clings like perfume. You learn to carry it with your chin up, because everyone’s watching, and every mistake is immortalized.

As the old President lay dying, he pulled me close to his bedside in his private White House suite. The radiator clanked in the corner, but the cold still seeped in through the window frames—nothing colder than a hospital bed in the West Wing, not even in February. The heavy curtains muffled the city, except for the faint wail of a siren heading down Pennsylvania Avenue. His hand, knobby and ringed with age spots, clamped over mine. The sharp scent of latex gloves hung in the air.

"I've decided to make the First Lady's son the next President. You'd better not stand in their way, or you'll bring a world of trouble on yourself."

His voice was ragged, breath sour with antiseptic and old regret. My thumb brushed nervously over the ring he’d once given me—a habit I couldn’t shake when fear crept in. I almost spat a curse at him, sharp enough to leave a scar, but something flickered at the edge of my vision.

Suddenly, a barrage of chat messages flashed before my eyes:

[The little temptress is about to log off, ugh, she's so gorgeous, I can't stand to see her go.]

[Girl, you’re about to get caught with your hand in the cookie jar. This is how people end up in documentaries.]

[The First Lady's family basically controls the whole capital. This side character is way over her head—no skills, still making a scene.]

It was like starring in a reality show with the whole country tuned in—everyone munching popcorn, everyone a critic. The crawl of invisible comments felt as real as the snow dusting the White House lawn outside.

I forced a smile and swallowed my curses.

"Mr. President, you're wise. The eldest son is smart and tough, the best pick for the job."

I could practically hear the hum of the Situation Room through the walls, that constant anxiety. Survival here is an art—and I’d just painted a masterpiece of restraint.

After the new President took office, I waited anxiously for my fate. Every step echoed off marble floors that had seen Kennedy, Clinton, and scandal after scandal. The White House swallows secrets, and I felt its weight with every step—every gilded frame, every hush.

He, however, just wiped his knife on a linen napkin in the private family dining room and asked:

"Ms. Lane, did you really speak well of me?"

The question hung in the air, sharp as a steak knife—one more power play on a table full of knives.