Chapter 2: Behind Closed Doors
The West Wing never slept. Even as the rest of the White House dimmed its lights, the pulse of political power beat strong behind its closed doors—relentless, calculating, and always hungry.
President Jonathan Monroe sat in the Situation Room, surrounded by his top advisers, military generals, and Director Reeves of National Security. A digital map glowed on the screen in front of them, red outlines flashing over contested zones along the Eastern European border. The room buzzed with tension.
“We have confirmed movement,” Reeves said, tapping the screen. “Four battalions. All armored. They’re not just posturing anymore.”
General Merrick, gruff and silver-haired, folded his arms. “If we don't respond, it’s an invitation. If we do, we’re looking at a cold war going hot—fast.”
Monroe’s jaw tightened. “We can’t escalate. Not until I’ve spoken to their ambassador directly.”
“We’ve tried that,” Reeves replied. “They sent silence in return. We’re being cornered, sir.”
President Monroe glanced toward the corner of the room where his Chief of Staff, Miriam Daley, stood watching with her arms crossed. Miriam didn’t speak often during military briefings, but when she did, everyone listened.
She leaned forward now. “We have to consider the optics here. If we mobilize forces near the Black Sea while the media is still bleeding stories about the Senate ethics investigations, we’ll look desperate.”
Monroe exhaled. “Everything we do looks desperate these days.”
Silence.
He finally turned back to the generals. “Keep everything at DEFCON 4. I want aerial surveillance over every inch of that region. But we do not fire unless fired upon. Understood?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Merrick nodded.
But even as the meeting adjourned, Monroe felt it—the closing grip of pressure. War on one side. Scandal on the other. And in the middle of it all, his daughter. The only thing in his life he hadn’t been able to control.
Back upstairs, Abigail stood on the rooftop garden, her arms wrapped around herself. The wind tugged at her silk cardigan. City lights blinked in the distance like stars that had forgotten how to shine.
Nathaniel emerged behind her, silent as always.
“I figured you’d show up eventually,” she said without turning. “You always do.”
“I go where you go.”
“I’m not going to jump, you know.”
“I never thought you would.”
She smirked. “But you still followed.”
“Habit.”
They stood there in silence for a moment, the hum of D.C. traffic a distant murmur below them.
“I heard something earlier,” Abigail said softly. “Something about battalions. About escalation.”
Nathaniel didn’t answer at first. She turned to look at him, and in the shadows, he was unreadable.
“You hear a lot of things in this building,” he said eventually.
“I’m not stupid, Ward. Don’t treat me like porcelain just because my last name happens to be Monroe.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
She stepped closer to him, eyes narrowed. “So tell me. Are we on the verge of war?”
He looked at her then. Really looked at her. And for a moment, he saw someone different—not the First Daughter in designer clothes, but a girl who’d grown up surrounded by power, yet starved of truth.
“There’s tension,” he admitted. “A lot of it. But it’s not war. Not yet.”
She nodded slowly, lips pressing into a thin line. “They’ll keep me out of it. Just like always. I’ll be the face on charity flyers while the world burns.”
“That’s not who you are.”
“No?” she snapped. “Then who am I, Nathaniel?”
He didn’t blink. “Someone who notices things. Someone who asks hard questions even when she knows the answers will hurt.”
That stopped her.
Abigail stared at him, uncertain of whether to be grateful or furious. But before she could decide, her phone buzzed.
She pulled it out. A message from her mother.
Come to the Blue Room. Now.
She sighed. “Another photo op.”
Nathaniel fell into step beside her without asking.
The Blue Room had been staged for a press shoot—white roses in tall crystal vases, soft lighting from chandeliers, an American flag draped just out of frame to remind viewers which family they were watching. Abigail’s mother, Elizabeth Monroe, stood near the fireplace in a navy-blue dress, her smile poised like a weapon.
“You’re late,” she said without turning.
“I wasn’t aware this was on the schedule,” Abigail replied coolly.
“You’re always on the schedule.”
A photographer waited with his lens ready while a stylist fluffed Abigail’s hair. Nathaniel stood just beyond the room’s borders, eyes sharp, but face unreadable.
The photo was meant to portray unity. Grace. Stability.
But behind the camera, Elizabeth hissed under her breath. “You need to smile more convincingly. People are starting to wonder if something’s wrong.”
“Maybe because there is something wrong,” Abigail said.
Elizabeth’s eyes didn’t waver. “You are not a political actor, Abigail. You’re a symbol. A daughter. A Monroe.”
“I didn’t choose that.”
“No,” Elizabeth whispered. “But you were born into it. That’s more permanent than any choice.”
The camera clicked.
One second later, the perfect lie was immortalized.
Later that night, in a secured room where advisors gathered behind locked doors, Miriam Daley reviewed intelligence updates with President Monroe.
“We have a problem,” she said, handing him a file.
“What kind of problem?”
She tapped the first page. A grainy image of Abigail walking beside Nathaniel through the private garden. Her hand brushing his arm. His eyes on her, not like a soldier—like a man.
“Someone’s watching them,” Miriam said. “And it’s not just us.”
Monroe’s expression darkened. “Are you suggesting—”
“I’m saying there are people who would love a scandal involving your daughter and her new bodyguard. Especially now. Especially with midterms six months out.”
Monroe closed the file. “End it.”
“With respect, sir,” Miriam said carefully, “this isn’t a press leak. This is a fuse. And it’s already burning.”
Meanwhile, Nathaniel sat outside Abigail’s suite, alert as ever, a novel open in his hands but unread. His mind was elsewhere—on her.
He hadn’t meant to care. That hadn’t been the mission. But it had happened anyway. In the quiet moments. In the looks that lasted a second too long. In the shared silence that spoke louder than any speech.
The door creaked open behind him.
Abigail stepped out in a black hoodie and leggings. No makeup. No façade. Just her.
“Walk with me?” she asked.
He nodded.
They strolled through the back garden, moonlight glinting off wet hedges. The world outside the gates slept, unaware of the rumors swirling in the air like smoke.
“Everyone’s lying to me again,” she said.
Nathaniel didn’t deny it.
“I don’t know who to trust anymore.”
“You could trust me.”
Her eyes lifted to his.
“I already do,” she whispered.
And just like that, a line had been crossed.
She reached out, just barely brushing his fingers with hers. Not enough for anyone watching to call it inappropriate.
But enough for both of them to feel it.
Enough to know that from this point on, everything would be harder.
Because love wasn’t just forbidden here—it was dangerous.
And neither of them was ready to walk away.