Random Moments

The president narrows his eyes at you, gives his head an almost imperceptible tilt of confusion. “Door closed, Lauren.” 

“Open, please,” you say, staring the President down. You’d played this game with him many times before, and as long as everybody’s clothes stayed on, you usually came out on top. 

“I don’t understand who I’m expected to listen to right now,” Lauren admits, and it’s almost funny.  You glare at the President, and he relents with a sigh.

“You can leave the door open, Lauren. Thank you,” he says, and she leaves with a relieved sigh of her own. Once she’s out of earshot, he turns back towards you, stepping out from behind his desk and crossing the room to come towards you. “Really?” He asks with a mischievous smirk.

“Really.” You say, standing your ground. “And don’t stand too close to me,” you warn, brandishing your hand in his direction to stop him from getting any closer. 

He stops in his tracks, admittedly surprised, but relents, leaning back against the front edge of his desk. “What’s this all about?”

“You need to hire a campaign manager,” you remind him. “Why haven’t you?”

“I can’t stand next to you because I haven’t hired a campaign manager?” Aaron scoffs. 

“Why haven’t you done it, Aar– Mr. President?” you ask, correcting yourself when you remember the open door. “All of your opponents have, you know. Are you waiting for every talented operative in this city to take on a Senate race instead?”

“You know,  I thought I might have a pretty good advantage over all of my opponents, given that I am the President, campaign manager or not,” he scoffs.

“You don’t run elections for a living. That’s what you need a campaign manager for,” you practically hiss. 

“Of course I don’t, I’m the President of the United States!” He bellows. “Why can’t I stand next to you?” 

“Because you are the President of the United States!” You yell back, and. Because the rumors about us are on every news channel, every hour. We are the headline— not you, not your presidency.” 

“The news cycle will change. They’ll find something else to chew on, someone else to spit out. You’ll handle it like you handled the Jeanine story and it will all be over,” he says. 

“Your wife pulled me aside at the White House Correspondents dinner, Aaron. She handed me a list of eligible men whom I could date,” you tell him, dropping your voice to an urgent hush. 

“What?” He breathes out, his face turning to stone. 

“She wants me to get a boyfriend—”

“You have one,” Aaron mutters under his breath, and it might be endearing if you weren’t so frustrated with him. 

“She wants me to have someone on my arm, for show, like some kind of coverup,” you sigh. 

“You absolutely are not going to start dating some man for show,” Aaron says, spitting each word out like it’s poison.

“As far as the Press is concerned, I am a physical reminder of the fact that you were unfaithful to your wife,” you explain in a passionate whisper as Aaron moves towards the door, eventually swinging it shut. “Aaron, don’t!” You caution him angrily. “Door open, this is not—” 

You’re cut off by his lips against your own, and his hands on either side of your face. You can’t say it’s entirely unpleasant, even though you’re so mad that you want to cry.

“This is ridiculous,” Aaron says. “You’re not doing this. We’ll figure it out,” Aaron whispers, and you really, really wished you believed him. “You can’t leave me, angel. I will not lose you again.” 

“Aaron, you are stressed and you are scared, and you’re acting like you don’t care if you win or lose, but I know that deep down you’re living and dying by this, even if you won’t admit it.  I understand that. But I don’t know why you don’t trust me… why you won’t tell me why you won’t hire a campaign manager. Why you’re acting like the results of this election don’t even matter to you.”

“I trust you,” Aaron starts to argue.  “I do trust you. I need you.” 

“You want to win this election, don’t you?” You ask, your chin starting to quiver. “You know, Aaron… Lately Vermont just feels like it’s getting further and further away.” 

“No, angel, it isn’t,” he tries to console you. “Someday—” 

“Don’t. Just don’t,” you spit out, pushing him away. “I hate that word. There is no someday.  This is the only day.” 

He sighs before he speaks again— still using that word that you hate. “Some days, I wish I did something stupid. I wish I never got into politics at all. I wish I just… I don’t know, sold paper,” he scoffs.

“You’ve helped a lot of people, Aaron. You’ve changed the world,” you remind him. 

“Paper helps people, too,” he says.

“How did we end up here?” You ask, looking around the Oval Office as if you hadn’t committed every microscopic ding in the molding to memory. “What is this place?”

“We could run,” he suggests. “We could just disappear.” 

“Sure, the secret service would—” 

“We could. That’s all I’m saying. You just have to say the word,” he interrupts you, and you know that he means every word.

“You’re the President, Aaron. And a damn good one, at that. There’s no someday, there’s only right now— and right now, you have to get on a conference call with the Presidents of Morocco and France, and I have to get back to work,” you sigh. 

“Don’t leave like this,” Aaron pouts. 

“Listen, I’m putting a meeting on your campaign calendar, with an old friend of mine. Her name’s Siobhan. She should run your campaign.” 

“I thought you weren’t fixing my campaign?” Aaron baits you playfully, but you don’t fall for it. 

“I’m not. Shiv is. Take the meeting,” you say, giving his hand a brief squeeze before placing his desk line in his hand for him to make his conference call and slipping out the door.

++++++++

++++++++

“Haley,” Aaron says that night after they’ve tucked Jack into bed, “I need to ask you for something. And I understand I’m not in a position to ask you for anything, but I need to do it,” he prefaces his request. 

“You can ask me for anything. You know that,” she tells him, pursing her lips in concern and placing a hand on his bicep. 

“I need you to stay out of my dating life,” he says with a little half smile, knowing he shouldn’t joke but not willing to approach this conversation without at least a little bit of levity, for both of their sakes. “I mean, a list of eligible bachelors? You hate reality TV.” 

They share a chuckle, and Haley averts her eyes to the floor.  “I don’t know a lot about this stuff, but I know when the news cycle is a problem,” she says. 

“She’s not your problem to fix. I’m asking you to back off,” he asserts the boundary firmly.

“Okay, but just—” Haley lets out a deep sigh. “What does it feel like?” She asks. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“What does it feel like to be so… head over heels for someone that you would put everything you’ve ever worked for at risk? Does it feel good?” She asks, desperately. “Is it an amazing high? Or is it so intense that it actually hurts, like a fire in your belly?”

“Haley, don’t make me—” 

“No, Aaron, I really want to know. I’m not angry. I’ve made my peace with this. I want to know what I should be holding out for,” she begs him. 

“I can’t… I could never begin to explain it. But I know that it’s what you deserve, what you’ll have one day. And I’m really, really sorry that I couldn’t give it to you.” 

“You know, if we didn’t love each other so much, we’d probably hurt each other a lot less,” Haley points out with a sad little smile. “We could spend the rest of our lives in a cycle of being angry and forgiving and betraying again, or we could just… not.” 

“I don’t want to hurt you any more, Hales. I want you to be happy. And I want Jack to have two parents who love him and respect each other. I changed all of our lives when I decided to run for President, and I am sorry for the things you gave up to make that happen for me. But more than anything, I want the three of us to be normal.”

“As normal as one can be when you’re co-parenting through a lifelong secret service detail, right?” She asks facetiously. 

“Yeah, you get me,” he smiles fondly at her.

“I always have.”

++++ 

You’re at the office the next day when the number for the White House switchboard pops up on your phone. It strikes you as kind of odd— Aaron or Rossi would call you from their personal lines. They’d never have an assistant call you— unless something was wrong, of course. You pick up the phone in a hurry. 

“Hello?” You say urgently into the line. 

“Hi, this is Anna calling from the First Lady’s office,” a familiar voice says.  “Mrs. Hotchner was calling to see if you were available for lunch this afternoon.”

It takes your brain a moment to recalibrate once you realize that nothing’s wrong. “Of course,” you say. “Was there a particular issue she wanted to discuss?” You ask. 

“She only mentioned a social lunch, ma’am.” 

“I’m available– what are the details?” You ask. 

“We’ve made reservations for yourself and the First Lady at Le Diplomate at 1:30. Is that acceptable?” She asks in turn. 

“Yes, that’s perfectly fine. Tell the First Lady I’m looking forward to seeing her,” you say, trying to make it sound like it isn’t a lie.

You spend most of the morning fretting about it— trying to think about what it is she may need from you. If it was campaign related, surely she would just say that. And if it’s not campaign related, then it’s probably about the little list she’d drawn up for you. The list she had told you to act upon, that her husband had explicitly told you to ignore.

You’re still rubbing your thumb over your index finger— a nervous habit you’d picked up from Aaron— when you arrive at Le Dip. Haley’s sitting at a table waiting, and she waves you over.

“Sorry to make you wait,” you apologize as you settle in across from her. 

“Don’t worry about that,” she tells you. “You know the detail, always turning up early to sweep the place. It’s better for you to arrive after me, saves you that trouble,” she insists. “How are you doing?” She asks, smiling at you. 

You smile back, but you can’t fully hide your confusion. Why was she being so nice to you? So normal? She hadn’t been like this since…. Well, since before you left the White House for the first time. “I’m good, Haley. How are you doing? Did you want to go over something campaign-related, or…” you trail off. 

“I’m good,” she answers. “And this isn’t a work lunch.”

“Oh?” You say, surprised. 

“No, it’s social,” she insists. “I was hoping that you and I… that we might go back to being friends.” 

You look her in the eye, and she’s serious— she looks vulnerable, open. You reach out and place your hand over hers. “Of course, Haley. Did something happen?” It’s not exactly the most eloquent question, but you can’t figure out this sudden change of heart. 

“My husband is in love with you,” she laughs, and for the first time in years, there’s nothing angry behind it. “Truly, head over heels, over a cliff in love. And he and I— we’ve fought, and we’ve made up, and we’ve done awful things to each other, and we’ve tried to be different, but at the end of the day, he’s still in love with you.” She admits, and you’re thankful that the Secret Service has vacated most of the nearby tables.

“I’m sorry, Haley,” you say, and she laughs again. 

“I’m not, though. Really, I’m not. And really, neither are you, and that’s okay. I tried being mad. I tried hating you, I tried hating him, I tried being depressed, being spiteful, and it doesn’t change anything. My husband is in love with you, and I can only choose how I move forward from here. And I’m choosing to let go of the anger I’ve held onto only because I felt entitled to it.” 

“You were entitled to it. To all of it and more,” you agree. 

“Maybe,” she says. “But I can’t blame you. I know what Aaron’s like when he’s in love. Or, at least, I know what he’s like when he thinks he’s in love. And if he was that intense, that soul-consuming, that life-changing for me… I can’t imagine what it must be like for you. I know you tried to end it with him, and that it was more for him, and for my family, than it was for you. You wanted to be the bigger person. I don’t know if I ever gave you enough credit for that,” she admits. 

“This is really big of you, Haley,” you say, squeezing her hand. 

“It’s a little selfish, too,” she admits with a smile. “You and I were friends, weren’t we? I know you kept a secret from me, a big one.  But we… we had inside jokes, and we drank wine and we rolled our eyes at all the misogynists and creeps, and we suffered through that god awful campaign bus bathroom together, didn’t we?” 

“Yeah, we did,” you assure her. “We were friends. We could be friends again, Hales. If that’s what you wanted.

“Yeah,” she smiles. “It is.”

“No, you called about the White House Correspondents’ Dinner,” you deduced. 

“How on Earth did you know that?” He asks incredulously. 

“Jokes make you nervous. You hate this dinner, you always have,” you answer plainly— he has run his jokes by you every year he’s been in office, even when your relationship was on rocky terms. 

“I’m the President of the United States. I’m the Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces. Jokes do not make me nervous,” he insists. 

“Okay,” you oblige him. “Read me one of your jokes, then.”

“I… haven’t written any jokes yet,” he confesses. 

“Aaron!” You chastise him. It was Tuesday, now, and the dinner was on Saturday night. 

“I am a bit nervous about the White House Correspondents’ Dinner,” he admits. 

“Who’s vetting your jokes?” You ask. 

“Well, uh… just me, so far,” he says bashfully. 

“You can’t vet your own jokes,” you tell him. 

“I know.”

“You’re not very funny.” 

“I kno– wait!” Aaron interrupts himself. “I’m funny!” He argues. 

“You’re funny,” you say. “But you’re not… ha-ha, joke-funny,” you elaborate. 

“Oh, and you are?” He asks, and you can hear his playful grin through the phone line. 

“I’m funnier than you!” you argue playfully. There’s a long pause, and you realize that something bigger is happening here, that it’s not just about jokes. “What is it, Aaron? Why are you so nervous about the dinner, what are you not telling me?” 

“I feel….” he starts, and then stops. “I feel ashamed. Like I don’t have the right to make jokes. I am the joke, I’m the guy who can’t keep it in his pants, I’m no better than my dad. I’m the guy who’s wife gets attacked on national television for mistakes that he made.”

“That’s not who you are, Aaron. They are things you did, things that happened to you, but they are not who you are, and you are not your father, not by a long shot,” you assure him.

“You’ve told me that more times than I can count, in the four years we’ve known each other,” he says. “And every time I can’t help but wonder how many more mistakes I have left to make until you stop believing it.”

“I know you. Down to your soul, I know you— there’s no running tally, I’m not keeping a list. You have a good heart, you care about people and you want to make the world a better place. You are not your father,” you affirm. 

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and you can hear in his tone that he means it, that it’s not one of those hyperbolic expressions of love that people with easier lives than he’s had toss around so carelessly. “I love you so much.” 

“Neither one of us deserves that big fancy house in Vermont, but for some reason, it’s still ours,” you tell him. “I am going to enjoy it, and be grateful for it. And grateful for you.” 

“I can do that,” he agrees. 

“Good,” you smile. “Do you want my help with the speech?”

“Dear God, yes,” he laughs. 

“Lean into it. Mock your own image, it will help people to move past it. You start out strong, with something like ‘I see a lot of familiar faces here tonight, including one or two who inexplicably haven’t been accused of sleeping with me,’” you spitball.

Aaron clatters out a laugh. “That’s good,” he says. 

“If you laugh at yourself, it makes it impossible for them to laugh at you,” you remind him. 

“Okay, what if I say something to the press about how much they’ve hammered me over this. Something like—”

“You’re welcome,” you finish his sentence, and you both chuckle. 

“Exactly,” he laughs. 

“You’ve got this, Aaron. Send me a draft and I’ll look at it this afternoon.” 

“We can’t just do this all day?” He practically whines.

“Not while you’re hiding in your closet in the residence.” 

“How did you— I am not hiding,” he lies. “If it’s taking me longer than normal to pick out a tie, that’s no one’s business but my own.” 

“Go run the country, Aaron.” 

“If I have to,” he grumbles sarcastically. “I love you. I’ll talk to you soon.

“Love you,” you tell him, waiting to hear the line click.

++++

You decide to attend the White House Correspondents’ dinner as Rossi’s date– you both agreed that it would arouse suspicions if you went alone, although sitting at a table with the President probably didn’t help, either. His speech goes off without a hitch— the two of you had reviewed the jokes together, and each one landed even better than the last. All in all, it was a banner night— he was off making a deal with the minority House Whip when Haley pulled you into a conversation. 

“Smile,” Haley encourages you. “So that people see us smiling at each other.” 

You’re a little confused by her command, but you comply anyways. “What are we doing right now?” You ask through your brittle grin.

“We’re being friends. We’re braiding each other’s hair and talking about boys. I’m making a respectable woman out of you,” she laughs, and you return it, even if it is stilted, confused. A flick of your eyes around the room confirm that she’s right, that a good chunk of the press are tuned into your conversation, and that the myriad of flashbulbs in the room are pointed in your direction. 

“My husband can’t be sleeping with you if we’re friends, obviously,” Haley explains further, and you nod. It was a solid strategy.

“Did Rossi put you up to this?” You ask. 

“No,” she answers. “My job is to make sure my husband can stay president. That’s what I’m doing. It took a great deal of work to get here, and I will not be the reason he goes down.” 

“Of course not, Haley,” you assure her.

“And neither will you. But, of course, that gets complicated if people know what kind of person you really are,” she says icily, although she never drops her calculated smile, drops in a polite laugh at an appropriate moment. “Now, personally, I thought you sitting with us at the correspondents dinner was a bold move. Do you agree?” She asks. 

“Certainly, Mrs. Hotchner,” you say, no longer feeling welcome to her first name.

“It is, it’s bold, for a first step. I assume you’d know better than me, you’re the fixer,” she says, her eyes shifting nervously— Rossi can prop her up, she can want to run with the big dogs, but at the end of the day she’s not from this world. You don’t blame her for it. If anything, you blame yourself for getting her here and not helping her enough along the way. 

“There are two photographers by the stage taking our photo. There’s a gossip blogger for Inside The Beltway three tables over, and a columnist from the DC Daily. Behind me, there’s a woman from BNC pretending she’s not taking our picture with her phone. By the end of the day tomorrow, we’ll be everywhere. It was a smart move, Haley. But it is just a start,” you counsel.

“That’s what I figured,” she says. “This will work for a news cycle or two, but the rumors won’t stop, especially if you and Aaron slip up. So, I came up with step two,” she says, pulling a piece of paper out from her program and handing it to you. 

“What is this?” You ask, looking it over in confusion.

“It’s a list of D.C.’s most eligible bachelors. Prominent, smart, you just need to pick one.”

“Pick one?” You can’t help but snort out a laugh, even though the situation isn’t funny in the slightest. 

“Any one of them,” Haley confirms. “It’s an equal opportunity list— tall, short, democrat, republican, lawyer, lobbyist, you name it. It doesn’t matter who, just pick one and start dating him, so that people stop thinking that you’re screwing my husband.” 

Your face drops. The plan makes sense— but she didn’t have to deliver it so gleefully. 

“Smile,” she warns you. “The world is watching.”

+++++

You’d never admit it to anyone, but you cry on the taxi ride home. It’s stupid, really. This was all a strategy, and a good strategy at that. There was nothing personal behind any of these moves, nothing real. This was all one big dumb chess game, and this time you were the pawn. You just hadn’t realized how much it sucks to be anything but the kingmaker.

You pull yourself together— you weren’t that girl, some silly twentysomething crying over a boy you couldn’t have. Not to mention you had no clue if this driver knew who you were— you didn’t want to end up on the front page of Playbook in a puddle of tears. You pull out your phone and call the last person who probably wants to hear from you.

“Hey, do we have a client?” JJ asks as the line clicks. 

“Uh, no,” you sniffle. 

“Are you okay?” She interjects, suddenly concerned. 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you lie. “I just— I know you probably still hate me, and I can’t say I blame you, but I was wondering if you could pretend not to, just for a couple hours? I could use a friend,” you request sheepishly.

“I’m on my way,” JJ says, and you can hear her keys jangling in the background. “I never hated you. I was mad at you. I was hurt. But more than all of that, I wanted you to be happy, and you are. Finding that is… difficult. You made mistakes getting there. But we all do that,” she tells you. “I don’t hate you. I never hated you. I’ll see you when I get to your place.”

JJ arrives shortly after you do, wine and snacks in tow, and you tell her everything— the story of you and Aaron from the beginning, because she’s more than earned it, by now, and more importantly, the conversation you’d had with the First Lady tonight. A fresh wave of emotion hits you as you explain it, and you crumple up in tears. 

“Come here,” JJ says, wrapping her arms around your head and pulling you to lay across her lap. “It’s okay. You’re going to figure it out. You’re smart, and you’re talented, and you’ll figure out a way through. This sucks. It really, really sucks. But you’re going to get to the other side of it.” 

“Right, the other side of this. Where four more years of the exact same bullshit is waiting,” you lament, crying into her jeans. “I don’t know if I can do that, Jayje.” 

“It doesn’t have to be the same,” she reminds you. “He won’t have another election to win. There’ll be less on the line.” 

“He’s still the President of the United States. The future of the country is always going to be on the line.”

“Yeah,” she agrees with a sigh. “There’s always going to be something on the line. Right? There’s no magic road out. He’s always going to be the President, or the former President, you’re always going to have the firm— there are a lot of absolutes here. You might have to make some sacrifices— and so might he. It’s something to think about, is all,” she tells you as she runs her fingers through your hair comfortably. Your head is pounding from all the wine and the crying, but her gentle touch grounds you. You thought JJ hated you, and she didn’t. Maybe everything would be okay. 

“Jayje?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Thanks for coming. Do you want to bunk on the couch or with me?” 

“I don’t think you’re ready for me to leave you alone just yet,” she teases, helping you off the couch. “Come on. You need to wash your face.”

“Aaron!” You cry out, half gasp and half giggle. “What do you mean? Who’s running it now?”

“Well, Rossi, mostly, but he can’t do that forever,” the President explains. “I need you to win.” 

“No, you don’t,” you promise him. “And I can’t do it, even if you couldn’t win without me, which you can,” you say pointedly. “My team needs me here. I can be an advisor, I can consult, but I can’t run the show— and you don’t need me to. Put Reid on it.” 

“Reid?” He repeats, surprised.

“Yeah. He was at the DNC before he was with us. He knows strategy,” you remind him.

“That’s true,” Aaron concedes. “He’s just… less personable than you are.” 

“What, he can’t have the job unless he sleeps with you?” You tease. 

“Ouch, low blow,” Aaron says in mock-offense. “I’m wounded.” 

“I think you’ll survive it,” you scoff good-naturedly.

“I’d heal better if you came to New Hampshire with me,” he pivots. 

“Have a good flight, Aaron. I love you.”

“Love you. See you there,” he says, hanging up before you have the chance to argue. You shake your head and roll your eyes. 

Your phone rings later that afternoon, around when the President is set to land— but this time, it’s Rossi. 

“I’m not coming to New Hampshire,” you tell him as you pick up the phone. 

“Well, good,” Rossi says. “You weren’t invited.” 

“Good,” you smile. 

“We’ve got a job for you, though,” Rossi tells you. “The First Lady needs her image rehabbed.” 

You twist your face in surprise. “Did this come from the President?” You ask. 

“No, it came from his campaign manager, who is somehow, still me. Her favorables are low since her little tattle tale stunt, and she’ll sink him if we’re not careful.” 

You bite down on the inside of your cheek— Rossi is right. Aaron may not like it, but the American people needed to at least tolerate Haley if he was going to be re-elected. 

“What did you have in mind?” You ask. 

“I set her up for a long form TV segment with Diane Sawyer. She’ll do a silly little day in the life sketch, the public will feel closer to her, we’ll get her to two or three public events that get national coverage, and this will all be behind us.” 

“David, are you crazy?” You ask incredulously.

“Well, certainly not for this, at least,” he disputes.

“Haley hates the camera. There’s no way she agrees to this. Tell me you didn’t volunteer Jack, she’ll absolutely flip,” you chastise him.

“I left Jack out of it. I don’t have a death wish,” he grumbles. “You’ll get her ready. Go, now. Her chief of staff is expecting you.”

“Haley’s going to kill you for this,” you warn him. 

++++

“I’m going to kill him for this,” Haley scowls and frets as you sit with her in the East Room. 

“I know,”  you tell her. “It wasn’t fair of him to sign you up for this without talking to you about it first. But it’s done now, and I can help you make it less miserable, at least,” you assure her.

“It’s ironic, don’t you think?” She asks. 

“What’s ironic?” You don’t follow her. 

“That he sent you here to clean up my mess, but, well, it isn’t really my mess, is it? You slept with my husband, it sent me over the edge, now, inexplicably, I am the problem instead of the man who was sleeping around, and you’re the one who has to fix it. It’s all a little incestuous, don’t you think?” she asks, and while there’s a bitter edge to her words, she’s more sad than anything.

“Haley… every one of us made mistakes. I’m not asking you to forgive me for mine. But I know you’re still here because you’ve forgiven Aaron, and you want him to forgive you, too. That’s why I’m here. But if you don’t want my help—”

“No,” Haley interrupts you. “No. Please stay,” she requests. 

After a grueling day of prep with Haley, you’re surprised to find Hal standing at your car door in the White House lot. 

“Is everything okay?” you ask. 

“Everything’s fine, Ma’am. Come with me, please,” he instructs, leading you towards the rose garden. 

“Is everything really fine, or is this one of the situations where you don’t tell me that everything isn’t fine until we get to a secure complex so I don’t freak out?” You ask, and you swear you see Hal chuckle, just a little bit.

“Everything really is fine,” he assures you. “The President has requested your presence.”

“The President is in New Hampshire,” you say.

“Yes, ma’am,” he agrees, 

“Hal, I’m not going to New Hampshire,” you argue.

“I was told not to accept no for an answer, ma’am.” 

“So what, he’s going to have me detained?” You chuff out a laugh. 

“There’s a helicopter waiting for us outside of the Rose Garden,” Hal doesn’t answer the question— this isn’t lost on you. 

“Hal, when we get there, I am going to hit the President, and you are going to look away,” you instruct sarcastically. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he agrees with a good-natured roll of his eyes. 

+++++

The helicopter lands on… a lawn. There are mountains behind you, and a house tucked away in the trees a few hundred feet out. Aaron steps out onto the grass as you step out of Marine Two.

“You do not send for me like this,” you say as soon as you’re close enough, slapping his chest with the back of your hand. 

He only responds with a boyish grin. “Come inside. It’s a beautiful house. A new build with old charm,” he says. 

“Where are we?” You ask him. 

“The ceilings are made from local Pine. And the fieldstone fireplace, that was all done  by hand.” 

“Is this where you’re staying?” You ask him.

“No,” he shakes his head. “This place isn’t ready yet. Needs a good cleaning, for one thing.”

“Ready for what?” You ask. “What are we doing here? Is this even New Hampshire?”

“Do you want to see the upstairs?”  He ignores your questions. “There’s a skylight made of stained glass designed by a really incredible local artist.”

“Local to?” You ask.

“Stowe,” he answers. “We’re in Vermont, angel.” he tells you, finally. 

It all clicks into place, You’re stunned into silence for a few moments. “This is the place… the cabin you talked about, where you watched the sunrise with your mom,” you realize. 

“No,” he tells you. “Not quite. The cabin’s only set up for summer living, it’s on this lot, deeper into the woods. This is a home, our home.” He tells you. “Our forever place, maybe.”

The revelation makes you want to swoon and terrifies you in equal measure. As per usual, your fear wins out. “I shouldn’t be here, Aaron,” you bite your lip. “I just spent the day coaching your wife so she could get back in America’s good graces. God, if someone found out I was here? I could ruin you.”

“Don’t say that. That’s ridiculous. You haven’t ruined anything,” he insists.

“I’m a landmine, Aaron. You were far enough away when the blast went off the first time, but you can’t get any closer,” you warn him.

He takes a deep breath before continuing. “The house has orchards,” he continues, undisturbed by your metaphor. “Thirty acres. You could make your own wine, if you wanted. And the kitchens, they have these beautiful marble countertops from a quarry just up the road.”

“Stop talking about the house we can’t live in!’ You yell, and you know you sound angry, but more than that, you’re abundantly sad. 

“We can’t live here right now, no,” he agrees with you, taking your hands in his. “But this is our house, angel, and we will live here. I can’t— I’m still the President, and I’m still married, and we still have work to do. But this house is my commitment to you. And I wanted you to see it.”

“Aaron—”

“Don’t, okay? Don’t try to argue, don’t try to tell me about the million and one hoops we’ll have to jump through between now and then. Don’t try to fix anything. Just let me show you our house.”

You bite your lip. “Okay.” 

+++++++

You knew the interview would be fine, and it was. Haley was really quite personable, she was just far more shy. It was a matter of making her more comfortable than anything. Aaron would join them for the formal interview portion– all she had to do was give Diane a tour, introduce her to a few staff, and talk about the responsibilities of being First Lady.

After the walk and talk went off without a hitch, you thought you were in the clear. Aaron would be the focus of the q+a, naturally. They’d ask Haley a few trivial things about Jack, or about her career before the White House, to be polite, but it was a sit-down interview with the President of the United States. She didn’t need to worry. 

Or so you thought. “Mrs. Hotchner, I’m sure you’re aware of the effect it had on your popularity when you chose to inform the American people that your husband had an extramarital affair,” Diane says.

She grimaces a little, although she masks it with a smile. “I don’t really read the polls,” she admits. 

“In that case, allow me to summarize,” Diane offers, not so gently. “The American people– nearly half of them— now question whether they want you representing them at all.” 

“That’s not really what the polls suggest,” she disagrees, and you cringe— you’d explained that to her, yes, but hadn’t expected her to use that knowledge to try to counter one of America’s most well-respected journalists. You should have prepared her better. 

“So you do read the polls then?” Diane quips.

She smiles graciously. “On occasion,” she admits. 

“Then you know that nearly 1/3rd of Americans now question your sanity— your emotional stability,” Diane prompts. 

Haley sighs. “I understand their frustration. I do,” she empathizes.

“What do you say to them?” Diane prods further.”How do you explain what drove you to make the rash decision to go on national television and air your marital dirty laundry in front of the entire world?”

You nearly jump in and end the interview— the line of questioning is obscene, and completely unfair— but ultimately, it will just cause a bigger problem if you do. You have to trust Haley to find the words on her own this time.

“What do I say to them?” Haley repeats, gently. You’re already working on post-game in your head, how to spin this, what to leak to whom to make her look better.

Haley bites her lip, and you’re pulled out of your train of thought when you hear Aaron’s deep baritone cut in. 

“I say they’ve got the wrong guy,” Aaron says. 

“With all due respect, Mr. President, that was a question for the First Lady,” Diane says, her tone conveying none of the aforementioned due respect. 

“With all due respect, Diane, that wasn’t a question. It was an attack,” he doubles down. “Ask my wife anything you want. She’s brilliant, and she’s more than capable of handling herself. But if you want to attack her, to use sexist cliches to drag her name through the mud, you’re going to have to go through me first,” He says, with a glare you’ve only ever seen leveled against his father.

“Mr. President—” Diane starts to cut in, but Aaron isn’t finished. 

“I had the affair. I damaged our marriage and caused the public grief, and as such, I should be the sole carrier of the blame and outrage for this embarrassing incident. To place it elsewhere is false, and for Haley to accept any blame would be equally false” he states, unequivocally. “I made the mistake, and I have apologized for it. The American people will have to decide if they can forgive me or not, but to harbor any animosity towards my wife is misplaced, and to perpetuate the lie that she is in the wrong is unacceptable.” 

“Alright,” Diane says. “Well, I think that’s all the time we have, then.” 

The three of them wrap the interview up, and you have to tone down your smile— nothing much to spin at all, as it turns out. 

“Sorry, kiddo. I’m sure it’s not easy to hear him defend her like that,” Rossi whispers to you. 

“No,” you argue. “He’s right. The road we took to get here was… unconventional. I don’t regret getting here, but I do regret hurting her, and so does he. I couldn’t… if he didn’t love her so much, things would be different.”

Aaron takes off his microphone, and catches you staring at him. He winks. 

He barely lets the cameras turn off before he pulls the microphone off of his lapel and leaves the office, heading for the discrete car that’s waiting to take him to your apartment— they’ve cleared the roads, but they still can’t drive fast enough, not when he’s this anxious. This is risky, he knows that. Rossi’s warning from this afternoon about another shared headline isn’t completely lost on him. 

He looks around for cameras before leaving the car— he wishes he’d had the foresight to change his clothes, grab a sweatshirt  or even a baseball hat, but his suit would have to do. Not seeing anyone else in the street, he ducks his head and makes a quick dash into the apartment complex and up the side stair where he’s unlikely to run into another resident. He’s practically panting by the time he knocks on your door. 

“What are you doing here?” You ask as it swings open. You look rough— you’re littered with little cuts and bruises from the spill you took after the bomb went off— but you’re okay. And for now, that’s going to have to be enough. 

“Are you joking? You almost died today,” Aaron reminds you. 

You leave him in the doorway, cross to the other side of your apartment and draw all your curtains. 

“What are you doing?” Aaron asks, coming in and shutting the door behind him.

“There could be cameras. You can’t be seen here,” you say. 

“Are you alright?” Aaron asks, reaching out to take you by the arms and turn you to face him. 

“I’m fine,” you nod. “My ears have been ringing all afternoon, but no concussion. The cuts are all superficial. I was lucky.” 

He pulls you into his chest, crushing you there as if you could slip away, and drops a kiss to your temple. “What were you thinking?” he mutters. 

“I didn’t exactly choose to be taken hostage, Aaron,” you rebuff him, pulling out of his grasp. 

“You knew something when you went to The Hill, didn’t you? That check tipped you off,” he theorizes. 

“How do you know about the check?” You ask. 

“The CIA looked into Mary’s accounts. You had to know she was up to something,” he says, and it feels like an accusation even though you know that it isn’t. 

“I really didn’t, Aaron. I thought she was a scared, desperate woman. I thought she was going to make a scene and hurt her own case, but I had no clue she was going to strap a bomb to her chest,” you defend yourself.

“What about your stunt by the window?” He says, getting more intense now. 

“If she moved at all, and the shot meant for her head landed on her chest, we all would have died,” you tell him, as if he doesn’t already know. 

“And you would have died if you had been shot by the sniper! And it would have been my call,” he admits, his shoulders wrenching. “You could have died in there, because of my call. I would have been the one who killed you,” he admits in a cry, pinching the bridge of his nose to stem the flow of his tears.

“Aaron,” you say gently, guiding him to the couch. “Aaron, I’m okay. You don’t have to hold on to this. You were scared, and so was I, but it’s done now. We’re both fine,” you encourage him quietly. 

“You can’t do that again,” he tells you. “I couldn’t ever live with myself if—” 

“If this ever happens again, you take the shot,” you tell him decisively.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he brushes you off. 

“I mean it, Aaron. If this ever happens again, if you ever have to choose between me and national security, you chose this country. I am giving you permission, that is the job you signed up for and the one I helped you to get. If this happens again, you choose the job. I understand.”

“Well I don’t,” he says. “I couldn’t ever understand that. I reject your permission, and I’m not going to talk about it anymore.” 

“Yes, Mr. President,” you say, knowing full well that it will piss him off, and when his head pops up to look at you, you can’t help but laugh. 

“You’re such a brat,” he laughs in turn, launching himself across the couch to kiss you. He takes his face in your hands, and when you feel his eyelashes flutter against your cheeks, it’s like they wipe away the weight of everything that happened today. 

“You love it,” you scoff as you kiss him back, running your hands down his chest over his shirt.

You feel Aaron smirk against your lips— he doesn’t defend himself from that accusation, he can’t. Instead of saying anything else, he just pulls at the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head and dropping it to the floor carelessly. 

“I love you even when you’re a brat,” he whispers into the junction of your neck and shoulder before leaving a kiss there, “but I like you the best when you’re the good girl I know you like to be.” 

Even after all these years, butterflies flutter in your stomach at his words. “Yeah,” you reply dumbly, smiling up at him, and he chuckles. 

“You’re so pretty. You know that?” He asks, kissing the tops of your breasts and wrapping his arms around your back to unclasp your bra.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you respond, pushing his jacket off of his shoulders and working at the buttons on his shirt between kisses. He pulls you in closer to him, and you can feel his big hands cover your back as you wind your arms around his neck. A thought occurs to you, and you break out into a wicked smile that he can’t see. 

“Hey,” you whisper. 

“Yeah,” Aaron mutters as he reaches for the button on your pants. 

“How was your little catch up with Joe Rosen today?” You ask with a devilish grin. 

Aaron rolls his eyes, and you can’t help but laugh. “You are such a brat,” he chuffs out a laugh of his own before wrapping his arms around your waist, hoisting you off the couch. “You’re going to regret that, angel,” he whispers in your ear, and your knees just about buckle. 

He places one strong hand on your upper back, pushes down just a little so that you’re leaning over the sofa, propped up on your elbows. He stands behind you, and you know better than to turn your head over your shoulder. He comes closer, so that your legs are flush, and wraps his arms around your waist to unbutton your pants before shoving them to the floor, leaving you in your panties.

“For someone so smart, you sure do need me to teach you a lesson,” he teases you before he smacks your ass harshly, making you lurch forward.

“Fuck!” You cry out in surprise. 

He spanks you again. “Watch your fucking mouth,” he warns. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” you bite your lip. 

“That’s more like it,” he says as he delivers another spank. “D’you think it’s funny, that your little boyfriend had to work some DOJ magic to save your ass today?” He asks, with a particularly hard slap on “boyfriend” and a decidedly lighter one to punctuate his sentence. 

Your ass stings, you can feel the heat emanating from it, but you’re almost too turned on to care. “He’s not my boyfriend,” you correct. “He’s nothing. It didn’t mean anything,” you say, and Aaron smiles. 

“No, of course not,” he says, rubbing a hand over your sore ass cheek. “Nobody else could make you feel this good, huh?” 

“No, sir,” you answer. 

“That’s my good girl,” he cooes. 

“Sir,” you whimper. “I’m—” 

“I know,” he cuts you off. “Stay like that,” he says, pulling your panties down past your ankles and then crouching between your legs. Your breath hitches before he’s even touched you, just from the sensation from him breathing so close to where you needed him. 

“Oh, angel, you’re so wet,” he tells you, as if you weren’t already painfully aware. “All this, just because I was a little rough? You’re such a dirty little whore,” he chuckles before licking a stripe up your pussy. You throw your head back in pleasure, buck a little towards his mouth. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, kitten,” he cautions, placing his hands around your thighs. “I’d hate to have to punish you again.”

He dives in in earnest then, licking and sucking obscenely, drinking from you. “Fuck, sir. Thank you. It’s so good, sir, don’t stop,” you lilt, awash with pleasure. He takes your clit between his lips and mouths at it, and it sends you hurtling over the edge unexpectedly. You cry out in pleasure, crashing back onto the sofa as soon as Aaron has extricated himself from you. 

“Good?” Aaron asks with a smug smile. 

“Good,” you answer breathlessly. “I can go again, but you have to carry me to the bedroom.” 

“Fair enough,” he laughs, leaning down to carry you bridal style into your bedroom. Apart from his suit jacket and a few deliciously undone buttons, he’s still fully dressed, and sporting an impressive tent in his pants— the thought of it makes your mouth water. 

“How do you want me?” Aaron asks.

“Everywhere, all the time,” you answer honestly. 

“Cute,” he smirks. “But right now?” 

“I want you in my mouth, but I’m too tired to be any good at it,” you answer honestly. 

“Well, there’s always tomorrow,” he teases as he shucks his pants and boxers off, placing his arms on either side of your head and bracketing himself over you to kiss your face and neck. You reach between the two of you to help guide him inside of you, arching your back at the fullness of feeling him fully sheathed in you. 

“Fuck,” Aaron grunts. “You’re so tight,” he says, rocking his hips just a little as he adjusts to the sensation of it. 

“Harder,” you moan. 

He takes your chin in between two of his fingers. “It would behoove you,’ he grunts in between thrusts, “to remember who’s in charge here,” he warns, but he complies with your wishes anyway, deeping his thrusts and speeding up. 

“Oh, shit,” you groan. “Feels so fucking good.” the beginnings of your own orgasm were building up, but you held off— Aaron had been waiting longer than you had. His dick is scrambling your thoughts, but you try to gain a little coherency– you know the dirty talk turns Aaron on exponentially. “Thank you, sir. Thank you for fucking me like a nasty whore, just the way I like it,” you moan— this was for him, but it was turning you on just as much. “I want you to come inside me,” you beg. 

As if commanded, Aaron does spill inside of you with a groan, fucking into you even as he does so. He reaches for your clit as he comes down, and you tumble over the edge with a breathless cry of your own.

The two of you take a moment to catch your breath before Aaron speaks first. “While I never want to be in a situation where your safety is on the line again,” he insists, “the life-affirming sex is pretty fucking fantastic.”  

“Mary wants to retain the firm’s services to manage a private family matter,” JJ explains, and you see the suspicion written across her face. 

“I wish I had the time to get into it all right now, but I’m actually running off to a meeting on the Hill,” she explains, handing you a check. “We’ll speak soon, I promise,” she says with a smile before bustling out the door.

“Okay,” you say with a quizzical look once the door shuts behind her. 

“$25k retainer. Enough to keep the lights on,” Emily points out.

“This is interesting,” JJ says when you hand over the check. “Chris Lawrence,” she remarks. 

“That sounds familiar. Why does that sound familiar?” Derek asks. 

“He’s Mary’s son,” you realize, remembering the story. 

“Yes, and he was killed in an FBI raid 15 months ago,” JJ explains.

“What did they want him for?” Emily tries to piece the story together. 

“His apartment was the homebase for an alleged terror cell. Also, the check isn’t for $25k, it’s for $27,384.62,” JJ says, reading over your shoulder.

“That number’s too specific. She wiped her bank account,” you say. “Where did she say she was going?” 

“To a meeting on the Hill,” Derek supplies.

“I have to go,” you tell them, grabbing your purse. “What state is she from, who are her reps?” 

“She’s from Maryland,” JJ tells you. 

“What do you think she’s going to do?” Emily asks.

“I’m not sure exactly, but I don’t think I’m going to like it.” 

++++

Congressman Struthers’ office is easy enough to find, but curiously, you notice a few staffers leaving in a rush when you arrive. You step into the office as they proceed in the other direction down the hall– papers and coffee cups were left strewn about. Phones were still ringing. What was going on?

You hear Mary’s voice— she’s yelling. You cringe. Screaming at a congressman usually isn’t the best way to get your problem solved. When you open the door, the congressman and his staff look fearful— something isn’t right. They work in politics. They should be used to getting screamed at. The situation should be boring, frustrating at most, not terrifying.

“Please, ma’am, if you’d just calm down—” the congressman starts, but Mary interrupts.

“You could have prevented this. You could have—

“Mary?” You say, and she turns her head. 

“Oh,” she says, looking surprised to see you. “What are you doing here?”

She turns all the way around to face you, and you see the bomb strapped to her chest, and the detonator in her hand.

++++++

When all three doors of the Oval Office open at once, Aaron knows it’s bad news. “Mr. President, we need to take you to a secure location,” an agent says, taking him by the arm and pulling him towards the door. 

“The bunker?” He asks. Drills and minor incidents aren’t uncommon— usually they just bring him away from the windows, lock all the doors. The phrase “a secure location” means something bigger is going on. 

“We can explain more once you and the First Lady are secure,” the agent says as he briskly escorts Aaron toward the direction of the White House’s underground tunnels. 

“Where’s my son?” Aaron inquires with urgency, nearly stopping in his tracks, but the agent keeps him moving. 

“Jack is secure, Mr. President. The school is in a shelter-in-place and hasn’t been compromised.” 

Haley is already seated at the table in the bunker when Aaron arrives. “You alright?” He asks, looking her up and down. 

“I think I left the sink running in my haste, but I’m okay,” she assures him. “What about you, what’s going on?” 

“I’m fine. I don’t know what’s happening,” he says, looking to his agents. 

“There’s a woman with a bomb in the Capitol Building,” an agent explains. 

“In the Capitol Building? As in, not on the front lawn, but inside the building?!” He asks incredulously.

“Yes, Mr. President,” the agent answers. 

“How the hell did she make it past security?” He booms. 

“That’s not yet clear, Mr. President, but we believe she had an appointment, and was met at the door by a staffer.” 

“Oh, well, by all means, if she had an appointment, she should feel free to bring in as much C-4 as she can carry!” He snarks. 

“Aaron,” Haley warns him gently.

“I need to get to the situation room,” Aaron says, moving towards the door, but the agent stands in his way. 

“I can’t allow that, Sir.”

“Good luck stopping me,” he says, agitating the knot in his tie until he can pull it off. 

“I’m afraid that under the current threat protocols, I would have to use force, Mr. President.” The agent says. “Once we’ve cleared the White House, you’ll be able to go. It shouldn’t be that longer.” 

Aaron sighs. “Can I at least get a secure phone line?” 

+++++

“I didn’t want to have to do this,” Mary says, sounding more unhinged by the second. 

“I know, Mary. I know you didn’t,” you assure her. “You still don’t have to do anything. Just listen to my voice, Mary. Listen to me.” 

“No!” She interjects violently, and you jump. “No. You listen to me. Both of you are going to listen to me,” she says, turning back towards Congressman Struthers. “Do you know how hard it’s been to get anyone to listen to me?” She asks. “I wrote letters, I made phone calls to anyone and everyone I could think of. I posted on message boards and websites, and I made fliers and I tried to get onto TV, and I asked and asked and asked and no one would listen!” she cries. “But now there’ll be TV cameras and newspaper articles and someone, somehow is going to give me an answer because my son was killed and I want to know why!” She whips around again to face the congressman. “And you! I voted for you!  And I begged you to look into Chris’s murder, over and over and over again I called and I met with every single goddamn staff member. They said they would look and they didn’t!  No, everyone just cares too much about the Senators that fool around with their interns, and no one cares about Chris!” She laments. “But you care now, don’t you?” She asks with an almost wicked smile. “Now that it’s your life on the line.”

“Our office made an inquiry on your behalf, ma’am. The FBI shot Chris because he was guilty,” Congressman Struthers explains, and you cringe.

“That is not true!” she screams. “And no one is listening to me!” 

“I’m here,” you remind her. “I’m here, and I’m listening. Tell me what happened to your son.”

“They killed my son. The FBI did,” she tells you, and for a moment, she’s so stricken with grief you can almost forget about the bomb strapped to her chest. Almost. “They said he was a terrorist— but they won’t say why they thought that, they won’t say what he did. It’s all classified, they won’t tell me anything, I just want the truth!” She exclaims. “I read an article about you in the Washington Post,” she says, referring to a column you had done before you joined the Hotchner campaign— it felt like so long ago, you had nearly forgotten about it, now. “It said the secret to your success was that you always trust your gut. That’s why I came to see you today, because my gut says that Chris was innocent. My gut says the government murdered an innocent man. And I think if you start looking into this, yours will tell you the same thing,” she explains gravely.

Before you can respond, the Congressman’s desk phone starts ringing. Everyone— the staffers, the congressman, and even you and Mary— tense. Congressman Struthers cautiously puts a hand out to pick up the phone, but Mary brandishes the detonator to stop him.

“Take one more step and I blow us all to Kingdom Come,” she threatens. “You,” she points to you. “You can talk to them.”

You pick up the phone trepidatiously. “This is commander Cyrus Beene with the FBI, who am I speaking with?” He asks, and you tell him your name. “Good, thank you,” he says soothingly, although you’ve really given him nothing worth praising. “Is anyone inside hurt?” He asks you.

“No, everyone is unharmed. There are nine of us here. Congressman Struthers, six members of his staff, myself, and Ms. Mary Nesbit,” you tell him. “Mary has asked that I be the person you speak with. 

“What does Mary want?” He asks you. 

“She wants her son’s file declassified,” you answer.

“Okay, let me see what I can do,” the agent says, and you start to feel a little lighter, until Mary starts gesticulating with the detonator again. 

“Tell him what will happen if I don’t get it!” She commands. 

“Sir,” you add, “Mary says she has every intention of using the bomb if she doesn’t get the file.”

“Now hang up!” She says. 

“Understood,” Cyrus tells you. “Just explain to her that these things take—” 

“I said hang up!” She screams, and you practically throw the phone back onto the receiver.

+++++

‘“The White House is secure,” the agent says an eternity later. “Mr. President, there’s a team waiting for you with a report in the situation room.” 

“Are you gonna be okay?” Aaron asks, looking Haley over. Everyone was fine, of course, but he knew that this was scary and stressful. 

“I’m okay, Aaron,” she assures him. “Go be the President,” she tells him, and it sounds almost fond— almost like she doesn’t hate him for it.

“Mr. President,” Rossi says when Aaron enters the room and everyone stands. 

“Keep your seats,” he tells them all. “What’s the latest?” 

“Nine hostages,” Reid tells him. 

“What does she want for them?” He asks, taking a folder that someone has handed him and opening it up to scan the documents.

“We need to discuss that, Sir,” the director of the CIA tells him. “There’s something you need to know about her son, Chris Lawrence.”

+++++++++

“Mary, you wrote me a very big check this morning to retain my firm’s services. If you let me call them, we may be able to help you,” you explain. 

“How do I know you won’t call for help?” She asks. 

“Look outside, Mary. Help is already here. You’ve tied their hands with TNT. Let me do my job, and see what we can find out for you,” you beg. 

“Okay, call them,” she consents. 

You pull out your phone and call JJ– she’s sniffling when she answers. “Oh my god, are you—” 

“I’m fine,” you tell her. “Derek, go to the FBI mobile command center outside the Capitol building and see what you can find out. Be my eyes and ears,” you instruct. “JJ, I need you to work my contacts at Justice. Find out why they’ve refused to give Mary any details about her son’s death. Emily, go into the rolodex on my desk and find the contact with the initials PG,” you explain, not using Penelope’s name or Joey’s just in case Mary should, somehow, get out of this and find a new target for her rage. “Once you find the contact, see if she can get us access to the file.” 

“Does she work at the FBI?” Emily asks. 

“No,” you answer.

“But shouldn’t—” 

“Just look, Emily, please!” You cut her off. The desk phone starts ringing again. “I have to go. I’ll talk to you all soon.” 

“Hello,” you say into the receiver.

“How are you doing up there?” Cyrus asks. 

“We’re okay,” you answer. “Where are you with the Chris Lawrence file?”

“Headquarters is close to declassifying it. But you need to tell Mary that if she wants to read what’s inside, she’s going to have to turn herself in,” he explains. 

“He says they’ll hand over the file if you turn yourself in,” you explain to Mary.

She seethes. “You tell him he’ll be scraping nine bodies out of the carpeting first.”

A staffer cries out, and it momentarily distracts you, but you take a sharp breath in and focus. “Mary says no deal.” 

“I’m afraid that’s the best we can offer,” Beene plays hardball. Some help he is. You start to grind your teeth subconsciously. 

“What is it?” Mary asks.

“He wants you to release everyone,” you lie. 

“No, that’s not at all what I said!” Cyrus reminds you. 

“Does he think I’m an idiot?” Mary cries, and you mute the line. 

“I’m sure he doesn’t, but there’s no file unless you make some sort of show of good faith, Mary. That’s how this works,” you tell her harshly.

Mary bites her lip, and you see a tear escape from her eye as she looks around the room. “Well, what do you think I should do?”