The morning news anchor is a woman in a heather-gray suit named Rachel Knight, and she is flawless.

I did my best, but next to her I look like I recently rolled out of bed. Shelly keeps smoothing my hair back away from my face, fiddling with the makeup. I want to push her hands away. None of this is going to help.

Everest stands off to the side, in the shadows next to camera three.

There are five minutes left to go.

“After this, you can do anything.” She says it softly, as if I’m standing right next to her. I catch the words over the chatter of the crew. Rachel Knight talks to her assistant about what she wants for breakfast.

I shrug. I honestly don’t know. All I know is that this feels like doing something rather than running from an unnameable disaster.

Though, if I’m honest, the disaster Graham caused when I chased him out onto that sidewalk wasn’t so abstract.

“Come back to D.C. and be your assistant?”

“We’ll open a firm together. You passed the bar.”

My mouth drops open so quickly I get a mouthful of Shelly’s makeup brush. “Girl, hold still.”

I lock eyes with Everest. “How do you know that?”

“The letter came to our apartment. Did you not forward your mail?”

I try my best to communiate with my eyebrows that opening another person’s mail is a federal crime and Everest should know that. “I haven’t had time. What about you?”

She waves a dismissive hand through the air. “Of course I did.”

“How long have you known?”

“Since Thursday.”

“You didn’t tell me?”

“You were getting married!”

Shelly swipes a different brush across my cheeks. “There. You’re good to go.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

She steps away from the chair where I sit in front of a big green screen. I wonder what they’ll put behind me—the New York City skyline or a picture of me and Graham? Oh, God.

Without Shelly blocking everyone else from sight, I can finally register the hum of activity in the studio. There are way more people in here than I expected. I wipe my palms against my skirt.

“Belle.” Everest’s voice is cool and collected. “You’ve got this.”

“Ms. Leighton, I’m so happy you were able to join us this morning.” Rachel Knight sounds like she’s already on the air and the precise edges of her consonants shock me into the reality of this moment.

“I—” I want to tell her that my name is Mrs. Blackpool, but maybe it’s not. Maybe it won’t ever be official. I’ve been pushing aside the screeching pain of losing Graham in favor of hair and makeup and justice, but it comes rushing back at the thought of speaking his name. “You’re welcome. I thought it was the right thing to do.”

She laughs, a bright, cutting sound. “I guess we’ll have to see, won’t we? You’re giving us enough material for at least until the five o’clock broadcast. That’s all that matters.”

“Of course,” I say automatically.

Rachel’s assistant hustles up to the desk and murmurs a question I can’t hear.

“Oh, no, we have to go on her word for the moment. Alisha scored the senior Blackpool. He’ll probably admit to it once the lights come up.”

The backs of my hands go cold. My heart skips a beat. I’m certain it has and for a moment I’m sucked in by a terror that it won’t start again.

It does.

What am I doing here?

Hearsay. It’s all hearsay. I trusted the president’s word. But what if he’s not trustworthy? What if all I’m guaranteeing in this moment is a denial by his father and a rupture in the fabric of their family?

What if Graham was right?

This isn’t justice. The only justice in the world is making him happy. In reveling in the fact of him, free from everything else. Free from trying to fix what happened to my mom by fighting endless battles for women like her. Free from his brother sitting in the Oval Office. All of it.

I cut a glance toward the door.

I can’t make a run for it. There are two men in the way.

Two men.

Graham.

“Two minutes.” The man closest to camera one has a voice like tin foil.

Two minutes.

What am I going to say?

Graham turns, his face in shadow. It’s too dark by the door to see what he’s going to do. All I can see is his sillhouette, raising both his hands. Shaking his head. Oh, god. Somebody dragged him here to make nice on camera so the entire country doesn’t know the wedding was a sham, and he’s not having it. A strange flare of pride rises in my chest. I’m glad he’s not having it. I’m less glad for me.

“One minute.”

I swallow hard.

“Don’t worry, Ms. Leighton. I’ll give the introduction to the morning segment and then we’ll talk for a few minutes about what you know.” Rachel Knight flashes me a vivid white smile. “Be yourself. Our audience is going to love you.”

What they’re going to love are the rumors. They’re going to love the speculation, the image of me on their screens with shaking hands and nearly perfect hair. They’re going to sink their teeth into the meat of the only revelation I have to offer, which is that I can’t prove anything.

I can’t. Prove. Anything.

“I don’t want to do this.” It comes out as a half-whisper that nobody hears, especially not Rachel Knight.

“Ten. Nine. Eight—” The cameraman counts us in, and all around the bright lights, people are going still like they’re about to play the national anthem. Instead, the theme music for the early morning show on CNN cascades down, a cheery, uplifting swoop of sound, and Rachel Knight grins into the camera. The lights come up. I’m blinded.

“Good morning, and welcome to Up Early with Rachel Knight. My co-host, Mark Freedman, is on vacation this week, but you and I will dive into all the stories you need to start your day. First up, the president’s secret godson. Rumors are flying about the alleged connection between President Blackpool and Julia Dehren, who has claimed that her son—”

My heart pounds in my ears. Is there a way I can discreetly unclip myself from the microphone and fade into the shadows? I swear, I’ll be the best damn lawyer this world has ever seen if I can just—

Rachel Knight doesn’t stop speaking, but she does make a subtle movement under the desk with her hand.

I blink once. Twice. The room beyond my chair comes back into focus.

And there’s Graham, standing at the edge, looking into my eyes.

There’s his father, just off his shoulder, looking furious.