I watch as she slides the ring off of her slender finger, and throws it at me. Even though it's a completely unexpected act—I mean, I couldn't have guessed that this was going to happen, even if you offered me millions of dollars—so I stand there and watch it all as if it's in slow motion. And when it hits my chest—that very moment of impact—it snaps me out of my fucking rage. It's instantaneous.

You know what’s fucking hilarious?

I never cared for that fucking ring. I was happy when she was asking if she could keep it when we were done.

But her handing it back to me.

I don’t know. It’s got a feeling of finality to it.

“It was your stupid dick that put you in this mess,” Ashley says, her words hitting me like venom, and her eyes cold as ice. I've never felt her as cold and distant as she is right now, not even when we first met. “Maybe your dick can think of a way out.”

She leaves, slamming the door shut behind her, and in that moment I realize that I've hurt her. This knowledge makes my mind reel.

I want to go and run after her—to wrap her in my arms and tell her that I'm so fucking sorry, more sorry than she'll ever know. I want to tell her that it all came out wrong, and that I was just pissed off at the whole situation and what's at stake, and that I'm an asshole for jumbling my words and allowing them to fall out of my mouth in such a tangled mess.

Of course, I don't do any of those things.

I've really fucked things up, and I know that.

I know that this is serious as a heart attack.

But as much as I want to run after Ashley, I know I have to handle this situation just right, with a degree of delicacy. I need to use a deft hand, or I'll not only lose Ashley, but the White House as well.

I can't let that happen. I won't let that happen.

There's a whole lot at stake here.

In fact, everything is on the fucking line. And I can't rely on anyone else to solve this for me. I have to solve it for myself. This is just another hurdle, in a series of never-ending hurdles that life is going to throw my way, and I've got to overcome them.

Haven't I overcome gigantic roadblocks in my life before? I need to think of this as just another one. I need to keep a cool, calm head.

And I'm Austin fucking Bain. I refuse to be a footnote in history.

Remember when I told you that I'm a competitive person? Yeah, well, competitive is an understatement. I don't even know the meaning of the word 'lose.'

And Ashley's words haunt me. She said to check the Oval Office for bugs, and it makes sense, now that I think about it.

I think she's right. Why wouldn't Bob Walker try to bug this place?

I just wish I had thought of that sooner.

Immediately, I call Tracy into my office, and as she steps in, I close the door behind her. "Listen, have the Oval Office swept for bugs," I instruct her, "and quickly."

"I'm assuming you don't mean the kind that crawl on multiple legs. You think someone's been spying on us?" she asks, her eyes wide.

"Not someone," I say, "Bob fucking Walker."

I can see the realization of it dawn on her face. There's a moment of recognition, and she seems to agree. The more I think about it, the more sense it continues to make.

"I'm on it," she says.

"And one more thing," I continue. "Arrange a televised press conference."

When?" she asks.

"For tomorrow night, I can't waste any time."

"What are you going to say?" Tracy asks.

That's a damn good question. I'm wracking my brain.

"Truthfully, I don't know," I reply. "But I'll figure that out."

Tracy nods, making notes in an app on her cell phone.

"Oh, and another thing," I say. "Just make sure Ashley is there."

"Are you sure that's a good idea? She stormed out of here, and seemed pretty upset."

"Just do it, please—it's important."

Tracy reluctantly nods her head, as if she's resigned to the idea and there's nothing she can do about it. "Okay, I'll do my best."

"Thanks, I believe in you, Tracy."

"That's a lot of pressure," she grins.

"I know you'll make it happen," I say, patting her on the shoulder.

As Tracy leaves the office, my mind continues to spin like a top, twirling through every possible scenario, every possible narrative that I could give at tonight's press conference.

What I know for certain is that I'm not giving up Ashley.

I'm not giving up the presidency. No. We’ve done too much good. We’ve fixed the country too much. Too many people are still left to help.

I pace around the office like a tiger pacing inside of a cage. I feel that every muscle in my body is tense, and ready for action.

If Bob Walker thinks I'm going to step out of the arena with my tail tucked between my legs, he's sorely mistaken. If there's any fucking man up to this challenge, it's me.

I remind myself that that this is where I am because I took chances. I knew from the beginning that it was a risky endeavor. And still, I took that risk.

Why? Because at the end of the day, life favors the bold. That's the honest fucking truth. That's where real success can be found.

Show up. Be bold. Fake it if you have to.

I don't give a fuck what anyone says. I will always take my chances.

And that's exactly what I'm going to do tonight.

Roll the dice. Spin the roulette wheel. Play my hand.

Tomorrow night, I'm going to fucking take my chances in front of the entire world.

An idea starts formulating in my brain. I can feel a switch in momentum, and I feel like I'm onto something. I don't give a fuck if anyone thinks that this is the craziest idea ever.

You know why? Because no matter what—come hell or high water—nothing is stopping me. Tomorrow night I'm going down in history.

For good or for bad—I'll be in the next generation of history books, that's for fucking sure.

I scroll through every legal contact I have in my phone.

It's time to call the experts.