Chapter 34

Beatrice

I should have known back when I was an aide that I’d always be second to the job.

I know the passion we shared then was intense—it was the kind of love you’d only find once in your life if you’re lucky.

But Henry? Henry might just be the luckiest man alive, because he’s managed to find that kind of love twice.

Firstly, he found it in his job.

And secondly—always second—he found it in me.

For a moment, I really did believe that the two of us could make it work. I would love Henry regardless of whether he’s the president, and I would want to support him, push him to chase his dreams even if it means working the drive-through at McDonald’s.

But no woman wants to be in a relationship where she comes in second. I get it—he’s the president and leader of the free world, but it doesn’t make it any easier at the end of the day.

The diamond ring on my finger has been feeling a lot more like a golden shackle as of late.

It weighs on me as I sit in the corner of the Oval, watching silently with my notebook and tape recorder—ready to document anything that Henry might want in his biography.

He’s so handsome, especially when he gets so passionate talking about policy, or how he might get a bill through congress, or wondering which senators are going to support him if he runs for re-election.

My pen scribbles down quotes and atmospheric details. This scandal about the South China Sea might just be one of the defining moments of his presidency. It’ll be like JFK and the Cuban Missile Crisis.

He’s stressed, but there’s a twinkle in his eye that tells me—tells everyone—that Henry’s living his dream.

I’m just beginning to wonder where I—where our baby—fits in to all of that.

Because I’m no longer certain that I do...

I’ve had to change so much since I’ve met Henry—since I agreed to date him—and since I said yes to being his wife.

I’ve had to change my clothes and my style, sacrifice my career opportunities, and I’ve even started placing myself second. I’m not the person I was when I said yes or when Henry asked me to marry him.

Does Henry really love me, or does he only love the project that I could be?

I think back to the Italian State Dinner. I was a princess, and I looked beautiful.

But it wasn’t me who made those choices. Sure, I wanted to go to the dinner, but I only went because I was summoned to do so.

I was dressed and styled to the taste of someone else.

And while I was beautiful...was I really me?

Is this the kind of life that I want to raise a child into?

If I’m even allowed to go through with the pregnancy, what will it mean?

Will they dress the baby in red, white, and blue? Will I have to sacrifice my image—my independence—even further to become the most famous housewife and mother in all of America?

And what will they whisper about me then? I do hear them as I walk through the White House and when I’m attending dinners beside him. They can’t make up their minds about me.

One moment, I’m living the fairy tale and they all wish that they could be me.

The next, I’m a no-good, slutty social climber who’s sunk her claws into the president, and I’m going to ride his coattails—among other things—as far as he’ll take me.

Just imagine when they find out that I’m pregnant.

I’ll be crucified. I’ll be a gold digger. I’ll have only gotten pregnant to trap Henry and make sure he can’t leave me—even if he wanted to.

I’ll be selfish, and I’ll be a slut.

I bet they’d even question whether my child is his.

And all that is just what they’d whisper about me behind my back. I can’t help imagining what the press and the papers will have to say about me when they find out. Or worse, what his opposition is going to say.

They’ll say it to my face. They’ll say it loud enough for the whole country—the whole world—to hear. It’ll be broadcast across the twenty-four-hour news network, and I’m not sure that I’m ready.

Once this meeting is over and we’re all dismissed from the Oval Office, I collect my things and begin to stride out from the room as quickly as I can.

“Where are you going?” Hope whispers to me under her breath.

“I’m not feeling good,” I whisper back, still piling my pens and paper into my handbag.

“Will we be seeing you later?”

I shrug one shoulder noncommittally, and I can’t bring myself to look up at her.

“I don’t know.”

It’s the most honest answer I can give to her right now.

Hope, after all, knows the truth.

She nods her head once and turns back to the rest of the room as I walk out of the double doors and down the corridor. I don’t look back—not once.

Screw the schedule. I need to take some time for me.

The interns and White House staff all but ignore me as I power walk through the halls to our apartment. I’ve seen Henry’s schedule; he’ll be busy all day and won’t be able to come join me.

The West Wing vanishes behind me. I’d slam the doors to the Executive Suite closed if they weren’t so heavy and if I wasn’t so tired. But as I come through the door, Duke comes bounding through the hallway.

His tail, wagging furiously, threatens to topple a vase, but his constant need for attention reminds me what unconditional love really is.

Duke wouldn’t care if I wasn’t the most perfect First Lady.

From there, I head to the Lincoln Sitting Room.

Like Jackie Kennedy, it’s always been one of my favorite rooms in the White House. Of course, so much has changed since she renovated the building. There have been the Clintons and the Bushs, and they’ve all left their mark on this room.

I wonder if I’ll be allowed to redecorate, when I become First Lady.

As minutes tick by, however, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s not so much when I become First Lady, but if.

Despite the beautiful scenery, I can’t sit still. I pace through the hallways. I grab myself a glass of water from the kitchen.

Eventually, I find myself in the Yellow Oval Room, looking out the reinforced glass window and over the Truman Balcony.

I love Henry so much that I didn’t notice that he was putting me inside this gilded cage.

I can’t do it.

I can’t sacrifice everything I’ve worked for to be second fiddle. I’ve always dreamed that when I fall in love, my boyfriend—my husband—would at least treat me like an equal.

But how can I leave Henry?

It’s not as simple as taking off the ring, packing my bags, and moving back into my apartment. I can’t throw Henry’s clothes out the window and tell him to pick up his stuff in the morning.

I can barely go to the toilet without either the Secret Service or a member of the paparazzi trying to come with me.

And the minute our split goes public, there would be questions. The eyes of the world would be on Henry, harder than ever, incessantly searching for that one key detail that made me leave him—the one fatal flaw that the press would use to tear him apart.

I don’t want to do that to him. It’s not Henry that I can’t bear to be with.

I want to spend the rest of my life with him. But I can’t. It’s the job that I can’t bear any longer.

If Henry asks me to marry him again—years from now, when his second term is a distant memory—I’d say yes in a heartbeat.

I’d go to Vegas and be married by a fat, drunk Elvis if it meant I could spend my life with Henry.

In fact, I think I’d prefer getting married in Vegas than getting married in the White House.

I curl up on the sofa, and Duke climbs up next to me. His heavy head rests on my lap as I run my fingers through his fur.

Maybe I should speak to Hope—she’s kept my secret so far from Henry. She’ll know what to do to help me escape this life.

But I can’t do it yet.

I sigh and sink further into the sofa.

I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure this doesn’t hurt Henry’s chance for re-election.

I wish I could do whatever it takes to make sure this doesn’t hurt Henry, but I don’t think that’s a luxury I have anymore.