Chapter 3: Shadows and Sacrifice

At last, the President stormed off in rage, his face ashen, enunciating each word:

His voice was like gravel. "If the First Lady dies, you’ll all be out with her."

Inside and out, every staff member waited together. Under the blazing sun, Peach and several others had already lost their jobs.

The heat beat down on the marble floors of the East Wing, sweat and tears mingling on the faces of the staff. The security staff were experienced; each action was efficient. Each person only protested a little, so it wasn’t a gruesome scene and could be cleaned up easily.

Soon, the boxes were rolled up, chairs stacked three high, and a young intern came in with a mop to wash the marble floor.

The hallway was quickly restored to its pristine state.

The smell of lemon cleaner lingered in the air, covering up the traces of misery. When I returned to the bedroom, Rachel was no longer crying. She lay on the chaise, snorting in anger.

Her voice was raw. "Tommy, I want to leave this body. All this so-called love and affection is fake—even the stories about dismissing the staff are fake, and I didn’t even get to be President. He never loved me."

She flung a silk pillow to the floor. "If I could do it over, I’d stay far away from the White House, become a wealthy, carefree lady."

A bitter laugh. "What? It costs that many points to switch to a CEO’s daughter?"

She huffed, arms crossed. "Then switch with Emily. She’s meek and loyal. If her status changed, she’d only be grateful to me. I’ll have her give me a fortune, maybe even make me a senator’s daughter."

She scoffed at the idea of rebellion. "Would she dare rebel?"

She rolled her eyes. "The world is so big—surely I can find a pure love."

She muttered under her breath, half to herself. "Jeez, what a lousy jerk."

I can’t even describe how I feel right now.

Confusion, fear, pain, hatred, despair—all swirling in my chest.

The coffee stains from Peach had just been cleaned. Besides her, there were nine others.

The staff’s absence left the suite eerily quiet. Each one had loyally and cautiously served her.

Hazel had gone to the legal office for her, suffered the torture of all ten fingers being broken—her joints never healed, leaving her unable to hold a pen.

Frank, the butler who tasted her food, swallowed poison for her; his throat was burned so badly he couldn’t even beg for mercy, only stared with tear-filled eyes.

I couldn’t even process the strange things she was saying.

All I could think was: Were we ever more than shadows to them? The thought gnawed at me, colder than the marble floors I scrubbed every morning, as the day faded into dusk.