There is nothing higher or greater for me than this.
To try to be with the man I love, no matter how big he is, how grand, how larger than life. Try to make a difference, not a small one, but one that reaches across cities, states, continents.
Oh god.
I’m going to be Matthew Hamilton’s acting first lady.
I’m afraid of it, and at the same time, I’m scared of how much I want it. To be his true first lady. His only love. His girl, his wife, just . . . his. His in public, his at night, his every morning, his by right.
Is he thinking he wants something like that in the future? Everything … he said.
But I don’t want to ask what he meant yet. Because . . . baby steps. I cannot handle more right now.
I don’t sleep that night. I lie awake in bed in my small apartment, touching my lips. Squeezing my eyes shut as all the memories come washing down on me. As Matt’s eyes come back to haunt me. Matt telling me he wants me at the White House. Matt once telling me of the woman he’ll settle down with someday:
“One day I’ll do all the things I need to. And she’ll be mine. Mark my words.”
“Does she know this yet?” I ask, quietly.
“I just told her,” he says.
Warmth races through my bloodstream as I remember. I want to prove myself worthy. That I deserve to be there. That I deserve to be the woman by Matt Hamilton’s side.
I know it won’t be easy, winning the public. But I know that despite the fear, the uncertainty, the self-doubt, I am still that girl. The one who wants to make a difference. The one who offered to help him with his campaign. The one who fell irrevocably in love with him.
3
THE OVAL
Matt
If you want to make a difference, you need to start today.
Four years sounds like a lot, eight an eternity, but it’s really not. I learned that from my father. Things that were postponed never got done. Changes never set in motion remained stagnant, dead dreams never to be fulfilled, not with the new management and every president having his own agenda.
I tackle confidential information for the entire night, reading—sometimes filled with respect for my predecessors and the calls they made, sometimes with disgust. A lot of times, all I can really say is fuck.
I meet with my chief of staff, several issues on the board.
I meet with my press secretary, Lola Stevens, and strategize for a press conference tomorrow when I will introduce Charlotte to the world.
“I want the drafts for the Clean Energy bill. The Healthcare bill to fix what’s broken in our healthcare system. I want to look into a bill for equal pay and opportunity for working mothers,” I tell Dale as we head down the halls of the West Wing to the Cabinet Room—I walk inside, and everybody stands. “Good morning,” I tell my cabinet members.
“Mr. President.”
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Vice President Louis Frederickson greets me.
I chose him as my running mate because he’s honest, humble, no-nonsense, and a no-kiss-ass kind of man—exactly what we need to get real changes in our country.
I take my seat, then glance at the press corps standing behind the members of my cabinet.
“This meeting will be closed to all members of the press,” I say.
“A quick picture, Mr. President?” one coaxes.
“We have work to do here. But I’m aware, so do you. Make it fast, guys,” I say as I flip to the first page of the thick file before me, an identical one seated before each cabinet member.
Flashes erupt for the next ten seconds, and then Dale opens the door.
“That’s enough,” he says, waving them out.
The door shuts and I look at all the members of my cabinet, letting the taste of the silence sink in.
“We’re going to have so much work, there’ll be days when we sleep very little, eat very little, and can think of very little else but the things we’re going to do. I want to be sure everyone understands, I’m taking no prisoners for the next four years. What I aim to do is vast, extensive, and very concrete. Let’s get started, then.” I slip on my glasses, take a sip of my water, and we begin.
4
WHITE HOUSE
Charlotte
There is a majesty about the White House that envelops you even from miles away. Today, though, I cannot help but be overwhelmed by its size, its splendor, its very whiteness as I’m led by my new chief of staff, Clarissa Sotomayor, into the White House and along the second floor of the residence—more specifically, to my bedroom. If being transferred from my apartment to the White House in a black car by men with guns wasn’t enough to blow my mind, walking down the White House’s endless wings certainly is.
I’m going to be the youngest first lady in history—as Matt is the youngest POTUS in history. Speaking to Kayla about Jackie and Lady Di last night, I sort of blow my own mind that I’m even comparing myself to these women—is this really my life?
I’m in love with the president, for god’s sake!
And Matthew asked me to be here, asked to see me, asked me to take on this role.
It’s actually happening—and I can hardly believe that it is.
It’s barely after lunch, and here I am.
“And this will be your bedroom,” Clarissa declares as she swings the door open.
My jaw just . . .
Drops.
I didn’t have to lift a finger—every one of my belongings that I wanted to take was transferred from my “shitty, unsafe” apartment (as my mother called it) to the secure, huge, and glamorous White House.
To this room.
My room.
My room in the White House.