Chapter 2: The Secret That Changed Everything

When my mom gave birth to me, the entire previous administration and all the staff waited with bated breath:

Half hoped I’d be a boy, half hoped I’d be a girl.

The rest—those snakes—weren’t even human; they just hoped I wouldn’t make it.

I was my dad’s only hope. One day, he injured himself playing football—messed up his back, as they said—so there would be no more kids.

The advisors dug up old, outdated laws, demanding he adopt my cousin from my uncle’s side—a boy as sharp as a bag of rocks.

Just as my dad was losing hope, news of my mom’s pregnancy arrived, saving him like a presidential pardon.

All eyes turned to my mom’s belly.

She’d only been a minor staffer, but overnight she became the center of attention.

The First Lady herself came to look after her, posted Secret Service at her door, and personally checked everything she ate, used, and everyone she met.

Eight months later, I was born, wailing my head off.

In the delivery room, my mom, the nurse, and the First Lady all fell silent.

The First Lady spoke first: "I recall the nanny’s son was born just ten days ago."

She really emphasized the word "son."

My mom raised her tearful eyes, trembling: "Ma’am, my daughter’s life is a life, too."

The First Lady paused, then realized my mom’s fear. "What are you thinking?"

She borrowed the nanny’s son and paraded him before the advisors and the president. The president was overjoyed; my uncle’s plan fell apart, and he nearly blew a gasket.

Luckily, all those people were men.

A ten-day-old baby and a newborn are easy to tell apart, but sometimes men really are blind.

If only there had been a single female official—

Then there wouldn’t have been any need to hide that I was a girl.

Afterward, the First Lady returned the baby to the nanny.

She picked me up and looked at my mom with resolve. "Mrs. Quinn, from now on, only you, me, and your personal aides will know the truth."

I was too young to understand the weight of secrets, but even then, I could feel the world shifting around me—like the air got heavier, just for us.

My mom’s mind hadn’t quite caught up, but she understood she was now tied to the First Lady’s fate, so she nodded even more firmly.

From then on, I was the president’s only son, Jamie Quinn. I could recognize a hundred words by age three, write short essays by five, and was named heir apparent at eight.

I was gifted, diligent, and self-disciplined, my character easing my dad’s regret over having no other kids.

The tutors praised me in unison; my respect for teachers and love of learning gave them immense satisfaction.

Life was smooth—until one day, several kids from prominent families around my age were invited to the First Lady’s residence.

The leader was Lucas Sterling, from General Sterling’s family.

They gave these stiff little salutes, like they’d practiced in the mirror, then shuffled out of the living room, sneakers squeaking on the polished floor.

I slipped out the back and overheard their whispers:

"There are so many bird nests in Maple Heights Park—let’s go get one!"

The sunlight streaming through the windows caught the dust motes swirling in the air as I tiptoed after them. The scent of fresh-cut grass wafted in from the open French doors, and the sound of distant laughter mingled with the hum of cicadas outside.