Chapter 2: Betrayal in the Marble Halls

The Hastings residence isn’t Fort Knox, but it’s no open house either. No Secret Service, just private security—yet on my birthday, with half of D.C. in attendance, even the caterer’s van got scanned. Metal detectors, guest lists, the works.

So how did Linda and Mia, two names not on any list, waltz through the limestone columns and crystal-lit foyer into my reception hall? Someone on the inside had given the order. Someone had betrayed me.

Linda’s face went pale beneath her foundation, her gaze flicking sideways to Robert—a tiny tell, but I caught it.

I let my voice ring out, echoing off the coffered ceiling: "Call my daughter-in-law."

I have one son, Michael. He married Jennifer Walsh, daughter of a state judge—new money, Northern Virginia, Wharton MBA. She ran my household with the efficiency of a Fortune 500 CEO. She’d planned this entire party. If security had been breached, I was going to get answers.

Jennifer arrived with Michael, her heels tapping a nervous staccato on the marble. They took in the scene—Robert on his knees, guests frozen mid-sip. Jennifer’s hand went to her pearls, her old tell.

Michael rushed to help Robert up, his suit wrinkling as he bent. "Dad, what are you doing? Mom has always been understanding. Even if you messed up, she’d never be cruel."

His eyes darted to the floor, cheeks burning. There it was—the subtle accusation, the suggestion that I was being unreasonable. My heart sank. Et tu, Michael?

Robert caught my glare, read the storm building there, and began to rise, wincing as his bad knee protested.

I gripped my glass so hard my knuckles ached. For a split second, I saw myself in my wedding dress—then I let it fly. The Waterford crystal shattered against the wall, Château Margaux splattering like blood. The room froze. Martha, my lifelong attendant, rushed to my side, whispering, "Mrs. Hastings, please, your health… your blood pressure… Dr. Morrison said—"

I waved her off. She poured water, patted my back, hands steady as ever.

The guests shifted, adjusted dresses and ties, eyes locked on me as I sat high in my wingback, silent and unmoving. Let them wait. Let them wonder who held the gavel.

Robert stared, mouth agape. It had been years since he’d seen me like this. He’d forgotten I was the senator who could kill a bill with a phone call. The one who had the president’s ear.

I turned to Jennifer, voice like a scalpel: "How did they get in?"

Jennifer looked lost, her makeup unable to hide her panic. Michael jumped in, desperate: "Mom, it’s my fault. I told security to let them in. I couldn’t stand to see Dad like this. He’s been so stressed, Mom—his blood pressure meds—"

The truth settled like acid in my gut. So he’d known. For how long?

Robert tried to steer the narrative, his voice hoarse: "Eleanor, don’t blame the boy. I pressured Michael. You know how persuasive I am—"

I sneered, channeling every hostile witness I’d ever grilled: "Then what was that shocked face you put on, Robert? This was a set-up. On my birthday. With the Deputy Secretary here. You and Michael conspired to humiliate me. You want a public divorce? Legitimacy for your bastard?"

The word snapped through the room like a whip. Mia’s face crumpled. Someone gasped.

My vision tunneled. I let myself crumple, playing the damsel for once.