Chapter 4: The Secret Service and the Mistress’s Farewell

Half a month later.

Black SUVs lined the curb, agents in dark suits blocking off the street. Neighbors peeked through blinds, whispering. A group of solemn Secret Service agents appeared, a crowd gathered, surrounding my house so tightly not even a breeze could get through.

They respectfully welcomed the senator’s son back to D.C.

At the head of the crowd was Natalie, her eyes glistening with tears.

Yesterday, they could only meet in secret, fearing Natalie would get a bad reputation.

Today, they could finally appear openly before others.

Because Natalie and Jason were still engaged, and she was the future senator’s wife.

And I was just a small-town wife, without a marriage certificate or engagement ring.

After Jason finished speaking, he turned and left, directing a group of Secret Service agents and the senator’s household staff to set up two tents in the backyard.

One for him, one for Natalie.

He said he would give me a few days to pack up, and then we would go to D.C. together. Natalie would not return to her family’s estate but would wait here for him.

From that day on, Jason never entered my room again.

That was fine.

He didn’t know I had written a letter to Dad.

In five days, I would leave town, and in half a month, I could meet him at the western border.

I put down my pen and tucked the letter into my sleeve.

At this moment, Jason entered with a sullen face.

Natalie timidly followed behind, her face pale.

Jason was very angry and questioned coldly:

“Didn’t I tell you to stop making pancakes?”

“Do you know how greasy that smell is? Natalie gets nauseous just smelling it.”

Behind me was the kitchen, the stove still warm, with meat filling simmering, the aroma wafting for blocks.

When I saved him, the first meal I made was pancakes. There was a light in his eyes as he said it was the best food he’d ever tasted.

He praised my cooking skills.

Good at making a living, good at managing the household.

He said he would never tire of it in his life.

I paused for a moment. Natalie’s face turned white, covering her mouth with a handkerchief, retching repeatedly.

Jason felt sorry for her and grew even angrier.

He ordered me, “Put out the stove at once.”

Cold and decisive.

I refused. I still needed to sell pancakes for a few more days and save some more travel money.

The border is very far.

I replied stiffly, without expression:

“This is my house. If she doesn’t move in, she won’t smell it.”

Natalie frowned, her eyes slightly red, gently tugging his sleeve:

“Jason, don’t make things difficult for Melissa.”

“It’s my fault. Although I’ve been in Flagstaff for a while, my body is weak, probably not used to the climate. I’ll go back to the estate and wait for you.”

Jason’s face grew uglier. “She has no right to drive you away.”

“Such a small matter, can’t I protect you?”

Natalie lowered her head shyly, her face flushed with embarrassment at his subtle protection.

I clenched the letter in my sleeve.

In the heat of July, I felt a chill all over.

She played the gentle angel, and I was cast as the jealous ex, the one making a scene.

Forget it.

It’s only a few days.

A little less money doesn’t matter. At worst, I’ll sell this house and never return to Flagstaff again.

I said nothing, which was tacit consent, then stepped over the threshold.

“Where are you going?”

As we passed, Jason stopped me.

I looked up and said lightly, “To send a letter to Dad. Is that not allowed?”

He let go of my hand.

He was not interested in the contents of my letter.

He thought I was going to tell Dad, thought I was just the senator’s mistress, enjoying wealth and privilege.

The letter was sent smoothly.

When I returned, the smell of pancakes was long gone. The chickens and ducks in the backyard were eating a big basket of pancakes happily.

And in the stove, Natalie’s herbal soup was simmering.

The house already felt like it belonged to someone else. I moved quietly around the kitchen, collecting my few pans, careful not to disturb the new order taking root in my absence.