“John”

My father grills breakfast on the promenade outside the White House’s “Sky Parlor.” That’s right, grills. It’s a Montgomery family tradition: bacon, sausage links, and breakfast potatoes, fresh off a gas grill with a buffet of fresh fruit and fine pastries made from scratch in the White House kitchen. One Saturday each month, when my father is stateside, we meet in the solarium for breakfast.

This morning, Vice President Darlington and her husband join us, as well as a few of my father’s closest confidants. This is more than just a family affair.

“What’s going on, Mother?” I ask as she pours coffee from a porcelain carafe.

Her polished nails click against her mug as her eyebrows angle. “We’re celebrating the unofficial start of your father and Nanette’s re-election campaign. I thought we could enjoy a nice breakfast together in the solarium and talk shop after a while.”

Mother brings her mug to her lips, her eyes leaving mine and landing on the doorway behind me. With hands in my pockets, I turn to see who’s joining us now. And I wish I hadn’t.

“Why is she here?” I keep my voice low.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” My mother swats her hand at me, clucking her tongue. “She’s a Darlington. You’ll be seeing a lot of her during this campaign. It’ll be just like old times.”

“Wouldn’t you love that.”

“You know that I would.” Her nails trace the crystal eagle brooch on the lapel of her tweed Chanel jacket. “It never hurts to give destiny a good shove in the right direction.”

My mother, First Lady Busy Montgomery, has the entire world fooled by her charm and grace. The benign smile she wears at all times is only ever for the camera, and that helmet head hairstyle of hers pays homage to First Ladies of yesteryear, back when America was truly beloved and its citizens placed blind trust in the families who lead it. Her wardrobe consists of mostly pastels, a nod to holidays like Easter, which is synonymous with family values and gatherings.

Beneath that carefully crafted façade lies one of the greatest masterminds of this generation. What Busy wants, Busy gets. How else could the eighth daughter of a destitute coal miner from rural Kentucky grow up to marry the son of President JL Montgomery?

“Be polite and say hello. Don’t make this awkward for both families.” Mother says, her voice audible only to me. “And that’s an order, not a request. You do not have a choice.”

“Everyone has a choice.”

“Not when you’re a Montgomery, dear.” She taps me twice on my shoulder before pasting a smile on her face. Before I can protest, she walks away to offer Vice President Darlington an absolutely divine blueberry muffin.

The solarium is small enough that I couldn’t avoid Lydia if I tried. My father stands outside at the grill, stirring potatoes in a grill basket and wearing a canvas apron with the Presidential Seal logoed across the front.

If my brother were here I could shoot the breeze with him until the inevitable, but alas, he’s late as usual.

“Good morning.” The sing-song voice that once set my soul at ease sends an unwelcome jolt down my spine.

I don’t have to see or hear Lydia to know she’s standing directly behind me. I feel it—that heavy energy, that sick thud in my chest, like a pesky houseguest who refuses to leave.

I pull my shoulders tight and turn to face her, staring down at the same shiny emerald eyes I used to love. They’re not as bright anymore. Years of being an evil human being have left them tarnished.

“Hi.” I don’t disguise my disdain as she studies my face.

“You look good.” The second thing out of her mouth is typical Lydia: flattery as an icebreaker. “How have you been?”

The third thing out of her mouth is a tactic to place the ball in my court, to get me to open up to her under the guise of a benign, quintessentially American conversation starter.

“Small talk, Lydia? Really? After all these years.” I huff, pouring myself a coffee simply because it allows me to turn away from her for a moment. She steps closer, cornering me.

“Is it too much to ask that we’re cordial to each another?” Her voice holds an innocent quality, but I know better.

“We threw cordial out the window a long time ago.” I pour two creamers and a sugar into my mug and stir until the liquid swirls. I’m not going to drink it. I just want her to know that right here, in this moment, this stupid little cup of coffee is more important to me than she is. It’s more deserving of my time and attention than anyone else in this room.

“I made a mistake. A big one.”

I’ve heard that line several times before. She’s famous for it as far as our history is concerned. You don’t spend twelve years on and off with a woman and not figure out her patterns and strategies after a while.

“Let me guess: you still love me, you realized you’re only ever going to love me, you were young and foolish, you were scared, and you know now that we’re meant to spend the rest of our lives together.” I repeat her old lines before she has the chance. It’s more efficient that way. “Oh, wait. I forgot the one about being each other’s first loves, and that there was a reason we keep coming back to each other.”

Her jaw falls, and her arms fold across her wrinkle-free linen dress. A tiny American flag pin is attached below her collarbone, and it sparkles in the sunlight.

“What’s wrong, Lydia? Take the words right out of your mouth?” I smirk.

A friend of my father’s stands within earshot of us, and I spot him whipping his head in our direction. This isn’t the time nor the place, and the last thing I need is for his comrade over there to inform him of potential interpersonal issues on the campaign trail. He has a job to do, and he should focus on that and not my personal life.

But she started it, and I’m sure as hell going to finish it.

“I hopped off the Lydia Darlington train two years ago,” I say. “I’m never getting back on, and there isn’t a single thing you can say to make me change my mind. Understand?”

I lift my mug as if I’ve just made a brilliant toast and offer her a counterfeit smile before taking a sip.

“We’re going to be seeing an awful lot of each other here soon,” she says. “You’re going to have to be nice to me. You’re going to have to spend time with me. A lot of late nights.”

Quite the contrary. I’ll personally see to it that every working minute on this campaign trail is spent as far away as possible from this demon spawn, and as for my late nights . . . well, those will be spent with Camille. I’m taking her with me.

“Whatever you say, Lydia.” I chuckle and walk away just in time for my brother to make his appearance. I can’t count on him for much, but he always did have a knack for perfect timing.