Chapter 3: Ethan’s Patience

From that night on, Harrison withdrew deeper into himself, walls up higher than ever. He stopped inviting his sons to the West Wing, preferring the company of old friends and trusted aides in the midnight hush, pouring over documents long after the house was asleep. The rivalry among the brothers only intensified—arguments erupted behind closed doors; one night, a vase shattered, its shards swept away before sunrise. The household staff tread softly, afraid of becoming collateral in the family’s silent war. D.C. parties buzzed with rumors—who would be next to fall, and who might seize the throne?

Only the fourth son, Ethan, emerged unscathed. He understood better than anyone that survival meant patience. He kept his impatience on a tight leash, biding his time for the perfect opportunity to act.

Ethan spent his evenings in the old sunroom, headphones on, feigning study while quietly observing his family’s implosion. He remembered a lesson from childhood—watching his eldest brother’s downfall after a single careless remark, learning to hide ambition behind a mask of indifference. The family’s legacy was high-stakes poker—one wrong move, and you’re out for good. Sometimes, Ethan slipped out for midnight walks along the Potomac, letting the mansion’s pressure fall away with each step. His poker face became his shield; he let the others argue and self-destruct while he waited, ambition ticking quietly behind his steady gaze.