Andrew Blackpool doesn’t look like the president.

He’s standing in the Oval Office, but he’s still in the tuxedo he wore to our wedding. Most of the tuxedo, anyway. The jacket is slung over the chair behind his desk and the bow tie is a ribbon around his neck.

It’s four in the morning, but he speaks into the phone, one hip planted against the Resolute Desk like he’s at a pay phone in the dorm room. He’s an intimidating presence most of the time, but right now, in this state, he looks so much like a frat boy that I want to roll my eyes.

“—I will handle it.” He turns to look at us and his shoulder slump. It’s a tiny movement—he’s used to hiding his real emotions in front of the cameras—but I see it nonetheless. “Yes. I said I will handle it.”

Who the hell is making the president react like a chastened schoolboy? I’m dying to know.

“I’ve got to go,” says Andrew Blackwell, and then he hangs up the phone.

Graham stops a foot away from the desk and puts his hands in his pockets. I stand next to him. In the heavy peace of the Oval Office I feel weighted down, the fire of my earlier rage contained.

Even if he looks like a frat boy, he’s still the President of the United States.

I wish I’d worn a suit instead of dark skinny jeans and a creamy sweater.

“Graham. Congratulations on the beautiful wedding.” Andrew folds his arms over his chest and regards his brother with a level stare. “You were a gorgeous bride, Bellamy.”

Graham takes this in with a nod. “Thank you. But we’re not here to discuss the wedding.”

Andrew says nothing.

Graham tilts his head to the side a snarky inch.

Andrew narrows his eyes.

Graham purses his lips.

“Jesus Christ, if I have to drag it out of you—”

“This is none of your business, Graham, and if you’re going to walk in here—”

Both of them puff themselves up, talking over each other at top volume. There’s friction there, undoubtedly, but from this distance it’s obvious that beneath their differences there’s a core of similarity, of anger bursting at the seams.

“—past time for you to come clean, you devious bastard.” Graham finishes into a ringing silence.

Andrew puts a hand to his forehead and turns away.

“A woman spilling secrets on cable news? My god, Andrew. What the hell have you done? How long have you known about this love child?” Graham can’t help himself. If I’d had a sister, would we have fought like this? “I’m assuming it’s not just a godson. How old? How long have you been covering up your complete lack of control over your own—”

“Oh, I’m the last person you should be lecturing on a lack of control. To think of the pictures I’ve had to have my team bury—”

“One party. And by the way, I wasn’t shooting up, for Christ’s sake. It’s always an overreaction with you.”

Andrew wheels around. “How is it an overreaction when my idiot brother gets photographed at the home of a notorious addict’s house three weeks into my presidency? Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?”

Graham draws himself up. “Let’s be perfectly fucking clear. This—today—isn’t about me. It’s about a woman on television begging you to send troops into a foreign country because of a son you’ve never told anyone about.”

Andrew’s hands go to his hair. “Do you think I’m going to stand here and talk military tactics with you? This is above your clearance level. I don’t have to remind you that your clearance level is civilian. You’re not allowed to know—”

“The whole nation is going to be at your door in twenty minutes. Stop treating me like a fucking moron.”

“Stop acting like a fucking moron.”

It’s so ridiculous that I laugh.

Both of their heads swivel to me, and the shock on the brothers’ faces tells me that they might have forgotten I was there at all.

“Boys.” I might not be wearing a suit in front of a courtroom, but I feel exactly that confident. “What’s done is done. And what’s been done in the name of all this is why we’re here, President Blackpool. You attended a wedding today that was orchestrated to protect your office from, I’m assuming, exactly this kind of revelation. We have a right to know what the hell has been going on.”

“I don’t have a love child.” Andrew sneers, his anger ugly and raw. “It’s not my godson at all. In name only.”

“What does that mean?” Graham’s tone is acid. The Graham I met outside the coffee shop—arrogant and self-centered—flashes back into being. “Name only?”

“Jesus.” Andrew sighs. “I’m not even the person who should be telling you this. All this—it’s not going according to plan.”

“I’d say not,” Graham says with a laugh. “So whose child? And why the hell does that woman think she has anything to do with you and the White House? I’d love to know how you got all this past the vetting teams during the campaign.”

“It was a near thing.” Andrew’s tone turns sullen. He’s cornered. The most powerful man in the world can’t find a way out.

“My god.” I shake my head. “I’m so sick of men using everyone else to hide their shortfalls. Be accurate, for once in your life, Mr. President. What happened?”

“I didn’t have a child out of wedlock,” he repeats, looking me straight in the eye. “Believe me. If I did, I would never hide that child from the world.”

“Then whose child is it? Why was it so important that you keep this a secret?” The questions are an itch I have to scratch. This has gone so far beyond passing the bar, saving my career. Those things are all an afterthought in the stillness of this room.

“Yes, Andrew. Tell us. The night is passing us by.”

Andrew looks at Graham, and lifts his eyebrows a fraction of an inch.

Graham slaps a hand to his forehead. “You have got to be fucking with me.”