Chapter 3: The Vice President’s Snare

Senator Paul, Jason Long, was never part of my plan.

He was the son of a woman Charles Long barely acknowledged—a footnote in a family that cared only for the strong. As soon as he could, they sent him off to Pittsburgh, out of sight and out of mind.

To marry him meant exile in Pittsburgh—trapped forever on the sidelines.

But I had other ambitions. If I wanted to destroy the Long administration, I needed to get closer to the center of power. I set my sights on the future president—the current vice president, Daniel Young.

I waited. I watched. When the right moment came, I was ready.

A few days later, it was time for Mrs. Grant’s birthday gala. Mrs. Grant, the late president’s sister-in-law, ruled the White House’s social circles. Her approval could open doors—or slam them shut.

Rachel led me through the sparkling corridors, our heels tapping on polished wood. We paid our respects to Mrs. Grant, exchanging practiced smiles and a quick handshake, the way you do at every D.C. fundraiser. Rachel’s shoulders were rigid with nerves.

Mrs. Grant looked me up and down, a sly smile on her lips.

“This is Rachel’s younger sister? Even more beautiful than Rachel was at her age.”

Rachel replied, polite but just a little too careful. “You flatter us, Mrs. Grant. Together, we couldn’t hold a candle to your elegance.”

Mrs. Grant’s eyes softened. “The president is right—Rachel is always the sensible one.”

Just watching Rachel humble herself in front of Mrs. Grant, I saw the years she’d spent swallowing her pride, bowing and scraping for a sliver of safety.

My heart twisted. My resolve hardened.

At that party, the vice president would be there—Daniel Young, the president’s favorite, Mrs. Grant’s nephew. Handsome, well-mannered, never out of place.

Living among ordinary people, I’d heard about him: kind, dutiful, the sort of man who’d help a neighbor shovel snow or pick up a stranger’s hospital bill.

At the gala, I watched him—perfect suit, steady eyes, that easy D.C. smile. Charles Long and Mrs. Grant hovered nearby, singing his praises. The air was thick with expectation.

Too bad, I thought. Such a pure-hearted vice president was about to fall into the trap I’d set.

I disguised myself as a server, tray loaded with champagne flutes spiked with a tasteless, colorless drug I’d bought off a Baltimore contact. My hands shook as I handed him the glass. For a split second, I almost warned him. But revenge tasted stronger than guilt.

He took a sip. Minutes later, color rose in his cheeks, sweat pearled at his hairline. He excused himself, saying he felt ill, and slipped away to a side room. I followed, pulse racing.

I slipped inside, feigning confusion. “Oh—I’m so sorry, I thought this was the powder room…”

Before I could finish, he grabbed my arm, pulling me into a desperate embrace. His breathing was ragged, but his eyes—clear, pleading—searched mine for help.

“I’ve been drugged. I don’t want to hurt you. Please, get a bucket of ice water and dump it over my head…”

But I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him. My thirst for vengeance drowned everything else. He tried to resist, but the drug was relentless.

When it was over and the fog cleared, his face was stricken—guilt, confusion, sorrow flickering behind his eyes.

“I’ll take responsibility for you.”

Later, I wondered if Daniel Young ever wished he’d walked away, accused me of seduction, erased me from his story. But he didn’t. He buttoned my dress with trembling hands, led me to the West Wing, and stood before Charles Long to ask for my hand in marriage.

And that’s how our lives became tangled together—love and hate, all mixed up.