Chapter 5: Fallout Protocol
The room was cold.
Not in temperature, but in atmosphere. A biting chill that pressed between the walls and settled over the five men and two women seated at the situation table in the West Wing’s secure meeting room. The screens were dark for now. No charts. No maps. Just the weight of tension as President Monroe adjusted his tie and looked at the folder in front of him.
A still shot—grainy but unmistakable—of his daughter sitting beside her bodyguard in her private quarters, head resting against his knee.
Harmless to some.
Potentially catastrophic to others.
Secretary of State Evelyn Mendez spoke first. “We’re sitting on a time bomb, Mr. President.”
Monroe didn’t reply immediately.
“This is your daughter,” Evelyn added, tone softening, “but she’s also a political figure. If this gets out…”
“It won’t,” Chief of Staff Robert Kincaid cut in. “We’ll control the leak. We have NDAs on every surveillance tech in the loop.”
“For now,” said General Arlo Graham. “But this isn’t just about optics. It’s a breach of security discipline. A trained officer—military or not—engaging emotionally with his protectee opens us to risk. To compromise.”
“He hasn’t done anything,” Monroe said finally, though his voice betrayed hesitation.
The room went quiet.
He tapped the folder once. Then again.
“Assign someone else to her detail,” he said at last. “Immediately. Transfer Ward to an overseas post. Quietly. Somewhere dignified. He doesn’t need to be punished, but he does need to disappear.”
Kincaid nodded, already typing the order into his tablet.
But Evelyn leaned forward. “Sir, with respect—your daughter is not a pawn. If she finds out we’re manipulating this situation behind her back, she won’t take it quietly.”
“She doesn’t need to know,” Monroe said. “Not until it’s done.”
Outside the room, the storm was already gathering.
Abigail found out within the hour.
Not from her father.
Not from the press.
But from Nathaniel himself.
They met again beneath the Jefferson tree, this time with urgency in his stride and something unreadable in his eyes.
She saw it the moment he approached.
“What happened?” she asked.
He didn’t speak. Just handed her a folded paper. A printed transfer notice.
Effective immediately: Lt. Nathaniel Ward was being reassigned to an overseas intelligence post in Geneva.
“Geneva?” she said, disbelief cracking her voice. “They’re sending you across the ocean?”
He nodded.
“But why?”
“You know why.”
She looked at him, pain flashing behind her eyes. “Because of me.”
“No,” he said quickly. “Because they’re afraid. Of perception. Of scandal. Of anything they can’t control.”
“And what about what we want?” Her voice rose. “Do we not get a say in any of this?”
Nathaniel reached for her hand, but she pulled back, stepping away like his touch burned.
“You were honest with me,” she whispered. “You said I could trust you.”
“You can. That hasn’t changed.”
“Then why are you leaving?”
His voice was steady, but something in his posture betrayed him. “Because if I stay, I put a target on your back. Not just from the media, but from everyone inside those walls. They’ll use me to get to you. To shame you. To hurt your father’s legacy. And maybe even your future.”
She laughed bitterly. “What future? I don’t get to have one. Every move I make is dissected. Every person I let close is a liability. And you—” Her voice broke. “You were the first person who didn’t treat me like an extension of a brand.”
He looked at her then, and she saw the war playing out behind his eyes. His desire to stay, to fight, crushed beneath the boot of duty and fear.
“I’m not abandoning you,” he said quietly. “I’m protecting you.”
“I don’t need protection,” she snapped.
“Yes, you do. Just not the kind I can give.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and aching.
Finally, she stepped forward, her eyes brimming. “Will you write to me?”
His answer came with a crack in his voice: “Every week.”
She nodded, once, and turned away before the tears could fall.
The press got wind of it within forty-eight hours.
It started with whispers on political blogs. An anonymous source claiming “unprofessional behavior” between the First Daughter and a member of her security team.
Then came the photos.
Grainy. Zoomed. Probably leaked from internal surveillance.
Abigail and Nathaniel. Side by side. A touch here. A look there.
Enough to spark speculation.
Enough to spark headlines.
“In Too Deep? President’s Daughter Linked to Security Officer.”
“Forbidden Protection: The Abigail Monroe Affair.”
“Shield or Lover? Bodyguard Transferred After White House Breach.”
By Monday, it was everywhere.
Talk shows. Political commentators. Twitter threads filled with venom and theory.
The White House press secretary issued a formal denial:
“There was no impropriety. Lt. Ward’s transfer was part of a planned international rotation.”
But the damage had already been done.
Abigail refused to leave her room for two days.
The staff brought food she didn’t eat. Her mother knocked, once, but didn’t push.
She stared at the ceiling most hours, headphones in, trying to drown out the world with music. But nothing could shut out the headlines. The pitying glances. The way everyone now looked at her like a girl who’d made a mistake too public to bury.
What no one understood—what they couldn’t understand—was that for once, she hadn’t felt like the president’s daughter.
She’d felt like herself.
And now that version of her had been cut out, scrubbed, and quietly erased.
By Thursday, her father summoned her.
He stood by the window in the Roosevelt Room, arms folded, jaw tight.
She didn’t say anything when she walked in.
He broke the silence.
“I didn’t want this.”
She laughed dryly. “But you allowed it.”
“I did what I had to.”
“To protect your image?”
“To protect you.”
“I never asked for that.”
“You’re my daughter. You don’t have to ask.”
She stepped forward, eyes blazing. “Then why don’t you act like my father instead of my campaign manager?”
He didn’t flinch. But something in his expression faltered.
“Do you love him?” he asked.
The question dropped like a bomb between them.
She stared at him. “Does it matter?”
“It does if you’re going to risk everything.”
“I didn’t ask for this life,” she said softly. “But I’m trying to survive it. And he… he was the first thing in years that felt real.”
Her father said nothing.
After a long pause, she turned to leave.
“Abigail,” he said.
She stopped.
“I’m sorry.”
It was quiet. Hesitant. Like a man unaccustomed to apologies.
She didn’t reply.
But for the first time in years, she believed him.
Even if it didn’t change a thing.
That night, she found one last note Nathaniel had slipped into the spine of her favorite book.
I don’t know what the future holds.
But I’ll keep a light on for us.
–N
She clutched it to her chest.
And cried for the first time in weeks.
Not because she’d lost him.
But because she'd finally found something she wasn’t ready to let go.