Chapter 4: The Price of Mercy

Charles Long erupted, his voice shaking the White House walls. He grabbed a folder off his desk and hurled it at Daniel Young.

“You ungrateful brat!”

The folder struck Daniel’s shoulder, leaving a red mark. He didn’t flinch, just dropped to his knees, never mentioning the drug, never making excuses.

“It’s all my fault. I lost control and ruined Miss Thompson’s reputation. Please, let me marry her.”

Charles Long’s hands trembled with rage, his voice barely holding together.

“You’re out of your mind! Today is your aunt’s birthday and you do this? And she was meant for Senator Paul—your future sister-in-law! How could you…”

His glare turned to me, cold and sharp. Suddenly, he whipped out his ceremonial saber—the one from all the parades—and lunged at me.

“This woman’s bewitched you. I’ll finish her myself!”

He moved fast. I barely had time to react. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for pain.

Daniel threw himself in front of me, shielding me. Charles Long managed to pull back, but the blade still cut Daniel’s shoulder, blood soaking his shirt.

Charles pointed at Daniel, voice raw.

“You’d take a blade for her?”

Mrs. Grant, pale and trembling, hurried forward. She dropped to her knees—a move unthinkable for a woman of her standing—and pleaded for Daniel’s life.

“Mr. President, please, calm down. Don’t hurt the vice president over this.”

She shot me a look so full of venom I felt it in my bones.

“Just a nobody, easily replaced. If the vice president insists, just let her be his wife. Why hurt your own son?”

I knelt, lowering my gaze, like a kid who’d learned the hard way not to talk back. The weight of Mrs. Grant’s glare pressed down on me, heavy as stone. Her blame and hatred burned in the silence.

But who would stand for my sister?

Once, she was Washington’s golden girl, Rachel Thompson—admired, respected, beloved. Her life should have been filled with garden parties and lazy Sundays, not terror and submission.

She and Michael Campbell, the senator’s son, were supposed to marry. They grew up together, two halves of a perfect future. She should have had love—not become a prize for a monster.

Suddenly, my eyes stung with tears, hot and sharp.

The day after Rachel became Lady Rachel was Charles Long’s inauguration party. She sat beside me, hands shaking.

Charles Long gave her a slow, predatory grin.

“Since my beloved is so sensible, here’s your gift.”

Michael Campbell’s head, still dripping blood, served up on a silver tray.

Rachel went white as a ghost. Charles wiped his knife clean, smiling.

“When I took D.C., only the Campbells fought back. Especially this son—he wounded my general, insulted me after capture. I had to kill him. I was too angry.”

He turned to Rachel. “Do you like this gift?”

Rachel’s jaw tightened. She smiled, her words like glass.

“Mr. President, may I borrow your knife?”

Charles handed it over, eyes dark with amusement.

Rachel drew a shaky breath and stabbed the knife into Michael’s mouth. Then she gave Charles a brittle, sugary smile.

“I like it very much. Since he dared disrespect you, I’ll cut out his tongue. What do you think?”

Charles laughed, pulling her close. But I saw how her hands shook, how she wept alone that night, clutching Michael’s gold locket.

She knew what Charles Long was—violent, paranoid, merciless. Any sign of regret would kill us both. So she pretended, burying her grief so deep it almost drowned her.

She stroked my cheek with cold fingers, whispering, “Anna, we both have to live.”

I lowered my gaze, but the fire in my heart burned hotter.

But, sister, Anna never wanted peace.

I want them all to pay.