Chapter 3: Borrowed Names, Borrowed Futures

I met Luke Harrison at a White House gala. The chandeliers tossed fractured light across the parquet floors, the music echoing like a memory from The West Wing—only with more sequins and sharper smiles. I wore a borrowed dress and shoes half a size too small, nerves jangling with every step.

He was drunk and mistook me for the First Lady. Bourbon on his breath, cedar on his jacket, his smile just a shade too warm for a married man. His hand lingered on my waist, fingers tracing a line I’d never cross on my own.

At that time, he and the First Lady had quarreled, so I became her stand-in. I kept my chin up and tried to channel Jackie O, even if my knees were shaking. I tried not to wonder if anyone could see the difference.

He refused to give me a title, but wouldn’t let me go. Every time I tried to leave, he’d reel me back in—a late-night call, lilies on my window, the promise of something more that never quite materialized.

Every night back then, I was driven in a black SUV to an abandoned chapel, then blindfolded and led through a tunnel to the President’s private suite. The SUV’s leather was always cold, the driver silent. My pulse would race as we turned off the main roads, tires crunching gravel, headlights glancing off stained glass before everything went dark. The blindfold always smelled faintly of his aftershave.

Even after he reconciled with the First Lady, sometimes he’d still summon me. Weeks would pass—I’d start to believe it was over. Then a text: “Tonight. Usual place.”

I remembered the first night he called me by the wrong name. The bourbon on his breath, the way his hand lingered on my back. But eventually, he started using my real name: "Quinn." The first time, I almost didn’t recognize it. His voice softened, and for a moment, I let myself hope.

I thought I must have a place in his heart. I wanted a status—hope weighed heavy, almost suffocating. Too many nights, I imagined a future where I belonged.

As a young woman, with my reputation gone and no protection, my only choice was to enter the White House. Whispers swirled—girls in the powder room, staffers in the halls. In this town, a woman could be ruined overnight, and I had no powerful name to shield me.

But he still refused me, saying the First Lady was pregnant. But I didn’t want to wait any longer. Every pill I swallowed felt like another secret pressed down inside me, another piece of myself I’d never get back. The side effects made my head spin, but the alternative was unthinkable.

I wanted to marry. Marriage was a shot at legitimacy, at safety, at something that looked like respect. Even a broken dream could be shelter. I wanted to gamble—to marry into a good family. Sometimes, it’s the only card left to play.