The knowledge hits me in stages, one punch after the next—left hook, right hook, uppercut.

My father has a secret child.

Andrew is involved in the cover-up.

I’m the last to know.

“Dad?”

Andrew confirms it with a sharp nod.

“What the fuck? When?”

“His other son is ten.”

“Ten?” Another deluge of understanding that threatens to rip my mind in two.

Andrew has always been the golden boy, but ten years ago, my parents began advertising my faults to the world. For every achievement of Andrew’s, I had a failure that they broadcasted with equal fervor.

Why did I ever want them to love me? Why do I still want it?

He runs a hand through his hair and I see his spine curve under the weight of it. My next question comes to me like a droplet of water onto a dry sidewalk.

“Andrew.”

He raises his eyes to meet mine.

“How long have you known?”

He shakes his head.

“You fucking piece of shit.”

Bellamy’s eyes fly from me to my brother—from me to my perfect, lying, scumbag of a brother, who campaigned on being America’s golden boy and tried to make my redemption into a shield to protect that shining image. I want to stop all of this, take her hand, and walk away from the White House. I want to never look back. But the stormcloud at the center of my chest demands answers.

“I can’t argue with that,” says Andrew.

“Tell me all you want that—what?”

“I can’t argue with that,” he repeats, and I can tell it costs him dearly to admit it to me. Still, there’s a sheen of something behind his expression—is it guilt? “I should’ve put a stop to this a long time ago.”

“Put a stop to what, exactly?”

“To them.”

He turns away from me and stalks to the window, looking out over the dimly lit Rose Garden.

“It would have been pretty tough, losing all that adoration.” I spit the words at his back.

My brother turns his face back to me, and his eyes are so weary that it makes me consider an apology. “It was more than adoration, Graham, and I think you know that.”

“I don’t know anything. The three of you, always huddled together like that—” More memories, more flashes of Andrew’s face. Was I looking closely enough to see if he wore a smirk or a scowl? The fabric of what I remember shifts and changes in my hands. My mother and father have always been two-faced, always bright smiles with jagged edges. I assumed they reserved the real emotion for Andrew.

I assumed that.

Bellamy breathes out, a hand on her chest. “President Blackpool, I’m so sorry to hear this.”

Andrew nods.

“Don’t—don’t apologize to him yet.” I am awed by her kindness, by her empathy, but I’m torn down the center between a swift rage at Andrew and my parents, by the way the rug has been neatly pulled from beneath my feet with one yank. I pace away from the hulking form of the Resolute Desk.

“Graham—”

“He could have done something.” I wheel around to face Bellamy. She’s the only one I can bear to look at. Her face is the only peace in this dread-soaked office. “He could have said something. All our lives—” Andrew stands by the window, his mouth pressed into a frown. “He could have said something. Truth and transparency, right?”

He looks down at the ground.

“I know politicians are fucking liars, but Jesus, Andrew, you’ve taken it to new heights.”

He’s not ready to back down. “What choice did I have? Our father made it very clear that if I fucked things up for him, then he’d fuck things up for me.”

“I hate to be the one to break this to you, but our father doesn’t own the entire planet. Somehow I managed without him.”

“They let you manage without them.” Andrew jabs a finger at me. “And about half the time, you fucked it up.”

“That’s the brainwashing talking. If you’d ever had any fun in your life—”

“Stop.”

Bellamy raises both hands in the air and steps neatly between the two of us, snipping the tension at the root.

“This bickering isn’t going to solve anyone’s problems.” For a sickening instant I know she’s going to turn to me and tell me that, once again, it’s up to me to put on a good face, it’s up to me to divert press attention. But she looks at Andrew. “One press conference would put all of this to rest.”

A smile plays over his lips. “No offense meant, Ms. Leighton, but I don’t think you have the necessary expertise to make that call.”

Bellamy draws herself up to her full height. “That’s Mrs. Blackpool, if you would, Mr. President.”

Andrew freezes.

I want to clap.

His shoulder sag, and he runs his hands over his face. I feel a stab of pity. God knows he hasn’t slept since taking office—how could he? How could anyone? But Andrew hasn’t been a helpless child for a long time, and it’s hard to feel sorry for a man who stood by and did nothing while he watched me get thrown under every possible bus.

“I’ll talk to my team about it, but I can’t make any guarantees.”

Bellamy considers him.

“You don’t have it in you, do you?” The words fall softly from her lips, but I see them hit Andrew like a wrecking ball.

“I’ll plan my next move in the coming hours and—”

“Politicians.” Bellamy shakes her head. “Men.” She looks at me, her eyes bottomless in the midnight light of the Oval Office. “Are you ready to go?”

Something in her tone makes the hairs on the back of my arms rise. “Yes.”

Bellamy nods to Andrew and walks away.

I have to hurry to catch up.

I slip my hand into her arm to slow her pace.

“What are you thinking?” We wend our way through the West Wing to one of the more discreet entrances, where the car is waiting. “You look like you’re about to bring down Rome.”

“Not Rome. Just your brother.”