Chapter 2: Shattered Capitol

I’ll never forget that day—the stench of gunpowder, the thunder of boots on marble.

The rebel cavalry stormed into the state capitol, rifles flashing, banners blackened and torn by smoke. The flags that once lined the rotunda—stars and stripes—hung in tatters, streaked with soot.

Secret Service agents fell one after another, dark suits slicked with blood, bodies sprawled on the cold marble. Gunshots echoed through the vaulted halls, glass shattering in a scream that never seemed to end.

Rachel and I hid behind a heavy velvet curtain, the thick fabric muffling our terrified breaths. Her hand was clamped over my mouth, fingers trembling but fierce.

We watched, paralyzed, as Charles Long—face smeared with sweat and fury—drove his bayonet through my father, Governor Thompson. My father’s eyes found mine for a heartbeat in the chaos, full of love and regret, before the light went out of them.

Several rebel generals, medals winking and eyes hungry, closed in on my mother like wolves. There was nowhere to run. My mother hurled herself against a marble pillar, unwilling to face the humiliation. Blood streaked the floor, wild and tragic.

Blood splattered before my eyes—brighter and more real than anything I’d ever seen. The memory still comes in flashes: the metallic smell, the way the world snapped into harsh focus as it all fell apart.

Charles Long, eyes wild, scanned the chambers—missing nothing. Fear clung to the air, thick as humidity before a summer storm.

Rachel whispered in my ear, her voice barely there:

“Anna, don’t cry. Big sis will protect you.”

She bit down on her lip so hard it bled. The taste of iron, the scent of panic—those details burned into me forever.

She pulled me close, slipped us out a side door, darting behind the bodies of fallen agents. The smell of cordite and blood was everywhere. Rachel’s hands shook as she tore at her own dress, knuckles bone-white.

My voice came out hoarse and small:

“Rachel, what are you going to do?”

She gave me a soft, broken smile—like the ones she used to wear after patching up my scraped knees.

“Anna, you stay here. Don’t move. Wait for me.”

Since I was little, I always listened to my sister. I curled up behind that pile of bodies, knees to my chest, heart pounding so loud I thought the soldiers would hear. I didn’t move, not once. I waited a day and a night, time stretching out like an old scar.

My skin prickled with shame and terror. I pressed my knees to my chest, trying to disappear into the scratchy towels, praying no one would hear me breathing.

The next morning, Rachel found me. She didn’t look like herself anymore—her dress was all Southern belle—lace and old money, but none of her fire. Her eyes were hollow, her skin gray. Her movements were stiff, her spirit battered.

When she touched my face, I caught a glimpse of angry red welts on her wrist. She yanked her sleeve down, but I’d seen enough.

She hugged me tight, her arms shaking. Tears of relief soaked my shoulder, hot and real in a world that suddenly felt paper-thin.

“Anna, he promised not to kill you, to spare our lives.”

Her tears kept coming. I looked at her arm, where blood seeped through the fabric. She tried to hide it, but I knew.

Later, I pieced together what she’d done. The story filtered through in whispers and rumors, but I knew the truth in my bones.

She’d torn off her own clothes and knelt before Charles Long—the so-called president, the man who’d stolen everything from us.

“I, Rachel Thompson, daughter of the governor, have long admired the president.”

She knelt, shrinking in on herself, hair tumbling over her bare shoulders. She looked like a magnolia blossom after rain: battered, beautiful, too fragile for this world.

“Now that the governor is dead, I’m willing to offer myself to comfort the president’s heart.”

Rachel was gambling with both our lives, and she knew it. Charles Long’s appetites were legend—power-hungry, womanizing, easily tempted. She bet everything on his weakness.

He laughed, loud and ugly. “I’ve heard much about Rachel Thompson. Didn’t expect her to be so… cooperative. Since you’re so generous, I’ll accept.”

He swept her up and carried her off, prize in hand. The echo of her footsteps faded, leaving nothing but silence and the dead.

From that day, there was no more Rachel Thompson—only Lady Rachel in the president’s household. Even the press called her that, with envy or scorn.

Rachel sent me away from Washington, to grow up with a wealthy family in Charleston. I remember the train ride south, city vanishing in the rain-spattered window, my hands locked tight in my lap.

When we parted, she clung to me in the cold marble foyer, voice breaking:

“Anna, if I can ever protect you, I’ll bring you back. If not, forget about me.”

Her tears were hot and desperate. I tasted salt on my skin hours after she let go.

“Anna, you have to live well.”

I understood. She’d rather send me away, let me fade into someone else’s house, than leave me for the wolves. She picked exile for me over a life of terror. She loved me enough to set me free.

Rachel spent ten years carving out a place among the Longs—moving through the White House with silent dignity, pain hidden behind pearls and perfect posture. When she became First Lady Rachel, she summoned me home at last.

I had just turned eighteen. The train station was hushed, my suitcase heavy, uncertainty twisting in my gut.

She wore herself thin begging Charles Long for mercy, and in the end, I was offered as wife to Senator Paul—Jason Long.

Jason Long, an unloved son, sent off to Pittsburgh as soon as he could walk. To be his wife meant living out of sight, far from power, forgotten.

“Anna, all I want is your safety.”

Rachel tried to smile, hands folded in her lap. I stared at her, numb, seeing the years written on her face, the gray threading her hair.

A deep, familiar ache filled my chest—guilt, helplessness, loss.

I remembered the high-strung aide who once came to fetch her, reminding her Charles Long was waiting. The tension in her body, the way her hands trembled. I wanted to stop time, to take her pain, but I was just a child again.

I thought of the day the country fell—her blood, her shield. The memory cut deep, twisting inside me.

Looking at her now, guilt and remorse washed over me.

Sister, the peaceful life you bought for me was never what I wanted. Safety was a cage.

From the moment I returned to Washington, only one thing burned in my heart:

I want to seize power and tear the Long administration down.