Chapter 7: The Truth Under Moonlight

James Lee stepped out of the shadows. Dressed in black, black hair, deep eyes—only his pale skin and red lips showed any color.

He moved like a ghost, his presence chilling the air. The scars on his wrists gleamed as he ran a hand through his tangled hair.

He came close, intimately touching my face.

His thumb traced my cheek, a gesture both possessive and oddly gentle. I recoiled.

“The plastic surgeon made it based on my drawing, just as beautiful as before. Do you like it?”

His tone was light, almost mocking, but his eyes searched my face hungrily, as if needing my approval more than air.

I slapped his hand away.

The sound cracked in the quiet room. He only smiled, unhurt.

He chuckled and held my fingertips. “Don’t be angry. Isn’t this good? You stand before Daniel Harris and he doesn’t recognize you.”

He pressed my hand to his chest, as if that could convince me. I pulled away, heart pounding.

The way he clung was like a snake, oppressive and suffocating.

His need felt dangerous—smothering, inescapable.

“But I don’t like Savannah,” James said, pinching my palm in displeasure. “It was so hard to get you out of the White House, how did you end up caught by another Harris and sent back in, even marrying her? Who is she, anyway?”

He scowled, as if Savannah was some interloper in a story that should have belonged only to us.

I spoke coldly, staring at James.

I forced my voice steady. "At least she gives me a choice—not locking me in a box without asking."

He flinched, jaw clenching, but didn’t argue.

James’s eyes darkened.

A flash of hurt crossed his face, quickly replaced by anger.

“She’s so great?”

He tilted his head and laughed, a little wildly.

His laughter echoed off the marble, manic and brittle. "So this is what I get?"

“But you still lied to her. You’re using her to get back to Maple Heights, and when the time comes, you’ll leave her like her adoptive father. Isn’t that so?”

His words were a challenge, but also a confession—he saw through me, but couldn't condemn me for doing what I must.

I pressed my lips together and turned my head. “I had no choice.”

Shame twisted in my gut. The truth was ugly, but it was all I had.

Back then, James’s plan to send me out of the White House in a coffin was too rushed. Fighting broke out outside the city, and the security detail carrying my coffin were all killed. If James hadn’t secretly given me a fake death drug so I had no breath, and my face hadn’t been ruined and wrapped in white cloth, my body wouldn’t have survived in the hands of the rebels.

I remembered the chaos—the shouts, the gunshots, the sudden drop of the coffin. The bitter taste of the drug. The agony of being suffocated, then the cold shock of waking up buried beneath bodies.

All the guards died, and I didn’t get buried in Oak Hill as James intended. Before I lost consciousness, I was tossed into a landfill by the rebels.

I relived those last seconds—the jolt as the casket hit the ground, the sickening slide as they dumped me out. The stench of garbage and rain soaked through to my bones.

A few days later, I woke up in pouring rain, buried under layers of bodies, barely breathing. Daniel Harris’s team happened to break into the city, and Savannah, leading a group to clear out the aftermath, found me just before the surgeon did.

It was a miracle I woke up at all. I clawed my way out, half-dead, and Savannah was there—her face the first thing I saw through the mud and blood.

I had to fabricate the identity of Abby.

I spun a story in seconds, desperate, clinging to the hope that if I pretended well enough, I could stay alive.

Later, the surgeon found me and helped me hide from Savannah, taking me into the mountains to recover.

The months in hiding were a blur of pain and confusion, the surgeon my only friend. Savannah kept searching, and I lived with one eye always on the door.

But Abby’s identity couldn’t withstand scrutiny—no social security number, no driver’s license—and Savannah visited often, making it impossible to escape. The Lee administration had fallen, and the surgeon could only hide, unable to help me further.

I watched the world shrink, options closing in. Abby couldn't exist in the system forever, and the net tightened each day.

And the one who made me like this looked so proud.

James stood before me, proud of what he'd done, oblivious to the cost.

I pushed James away.

He let me, but only just. His eyes never left mine.

“I treated you sincerely. Seeing you trapped by John Carter, playing dumb just to survive in those endless White House corridors, you called me sister, and I pitied you, treated you well. And you? How did you treat me?”

My voice cracked with old hurt. The memories were sharp—late nights in the basement, the two of us whispering stories in the dark.

James dropped his hands, staggered back, sneered, and said hoarsely, “You had no choice... I didn’t either. What could I do...”

He slumped against the window, moonlight carving shadows across his face. His bitterness was raw, unfiltered.

Suddenly, he pressed close, gripping my face tightly.

His grip was bruising, desperation bleeding through his anger.

“The husband you waited for, who was supposed to come and take you home, didn’t care whether you lived or died—his team was already at the Potomac. John Carter was driven mad, thinking only of killing you for revenge.”

He spat the words out, each one cutting deeper than the last. I couldn't tell where the anger ended and the sorrow began.

His cold, dark eyes glistened, like a cat abandoned in the White House.

For a moment, I saw the little boy he'd once been—lonely, frightened, desperate for love.

“I wanted to protect you, to let you change your identity and gain freedom, so fate would never push you again. Was I wrong?”

His question hung in the air, impossible to answer.

On the window, cold mist gathered in the moonlight, bleak and spotted.

The room was silent but for the hum of the old radiator. My tears fell quietly, soaking into his trembling palm.

I closed my eyes weakly, tears soaking his trembling palm.

I let myself lean into him, if only for a second.

“I know, I know...”

The words came out broken, the apology I couldn't give anyone else.

Mumbling, choking with sobs.

The tears came fast, my body wracked with silent sobs. I clung to him as if he were the only solid thing in a world gone to dust.

“I’m sorry, I’m just scared...”

The admission hurt to speak. I hated how small it made me feel.

The husband I once trusted was now a stranger, unreliable. I woke up as a dead person, forced to hide and lie, struggling to return home, not even sure my family would recognize me.

The facts lined up: the man I loved was lost to me. I was lost to myself.

No way back, and the road ahead uncertain.

I wanted to curl up, disappear into the floorboards. I was tired—so tired—of running.

I was truly scared.

The truth, once spoken, was a relief and a curse.

James took a deep breath and hugged me tightly.

He wrapped his arms around me, holding on like I'd float away if he let go.

“Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid... I promised you two years ago, remember?”

His voice was softer now, almost hopeful. "I said I'd find you. I keep my promises."

“I’ll come to you soon. We’ll climb out of this place together and start a new life. Then, you won’t be anyone’s wife, and I won’t be the President of the Lee family.”

He brushed my hair back, eyes searching mine for some sign I believed him. "We'll start over. You and me. Somewhere no one knows us."

“I’ve never been outside the White House. You take me away—anywhere is fine. Maple Heights, Flagstaff...”

He smiled wistfully, the longing in his voice breaking my heart. "Pick a town—big or small, doesn't matter."

I leaned on his collarbone, feeling how thin and bony he was. All these years, he hadn’t gained any weight. I spent two years half-awake, healing in the mountains, and he must have suffered under Daniel Harris for my sake.

I let myself rest against him, counting the ribs under my hand. I wondered if anyone else in this house was as hungry as we were—for freedom, for forgiveness.

He also endured, not revealing my whereabouts for me.

I remembered the risks he took, the codes and signals, the hours spent watching and waiting. In his own way, he'd kept me safe.

Yet I couldn’t tell right from wrong, only crying and complaining about my own fear. Guilt overwhelmed me, making me want to curl up.

My chest ached with regret. I hated that all I could offer was fear, not hope.

I found a chance to escape, but what about James?

The question haunted me. If I ran, what would become of him?

I knew his abilities. Back then, even with John Carter’s cruelty and power, he could secretly build up his own loyalists. Now, if he wanted to leave, he would have his ways.

I reminded myself that James wasn't helpless. He'd survived worse. Still, my worry wouldn't leave me.

But I still felt uneasy.

I stared at the moon through the window, searching for an answer I couldn't find.

In these deep White House walls, two ghosts who can’t see the light—can we really be reborn as we wish?

I stared at the moon, James’s arms tight around me. Tomorrow, everything could change—but tonight, I let myself hope. Just for a minute.