PRESIDENTIAL SUITE

Chapter 1: A Hollow Marriage

The Oval Office was quiet, almost peaceful if not for the stack of campaign memos screaming at President Owen Marshall from his desk. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his golden blonde hair. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up, and his green eyes were fixed on the stack of papers like they were a personal insult.

His first term had been no walk in the park. Every decision, every word, every damn handshake had been under a microscope. And now, with the campaign for re-election in full swing, the pressure felt like it was building a steel cage around him. He'd done the speeches, kissed the babies, and waved at crowds of strangers, but for what? Some days, it felt like the job had chewed him up and spit him out, leaving behind nothing but a polished shell.

And then there was Charlotte.

The soft knock on the door came right on schedule. Without waiting for his response, Charlotte stepped into the room, dressed to perfection in a white pantsuit that probably cost more than his campaign bus. Her dark hair was slicked back, her makeup flawless, and her expression sharp enough to cut glass. She carried a glass of red wine in her hand, like a queen holding a scepter.

"You're still at it," she said, her tone a mix of annoyance and disbelief.

"Good evening to you too," Owen muttered, not bothering to look up from the memo he wasn't actually reading. "Nice to see you care."

Charlotte ignored his sarcasm and walked to the desk, setting her wine down next to his mug of now-cold coffee. She crossed her arms and stared at him like a teacher waiting for a student to admit they hadn't done their homework.

"You look like hell," she said flatly. "You do realize there are cameras on you 24/7, right? A little effort wouldn't kill you."

"Thanks, Charlotte. Just what I needed, a pep talk," Owen said, leaning back in his chair. "I'll be sure to schedule a haircut and a smile before I tackle foreign policy."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm serious, Owen. You can't afford to look... tired. Or human."

"Well, lucky for you, I stopped feeling human about two years ago," he shot back, grabbing his coffee and grimacing as he took a sip. "Cold. Just like everything else around here."

Charlotte's lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't take the bait. "Look, I'm just trying to help you not screw this up. Harper and Walsh are out there making moves, and you're sitting here sulking like a teenager."

"Sulking?" Owen barked out a laugh. "I'm working my ass off to keep this country running and campaigning on top of it. If I'm sulking, it's because I'm surrounded by people who give more of a damn about polls than people."

"That's exactly why you need to focus," she snapped. "Stop with the idealistic bullshit. Voters don't care about your vision for the future. They care about who looks better on camera and who's less likely to screw them over."

"Great. I'll just practice my wave and fake smile then," he said bitterly.

Charlotte picked up her wine and took a slow sip, clearly unimpressed. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"And you're relentless," he replied. "What's your angle tonight, Charlotte? I know you didn't come in here just to give me a lecture."

She sighed, her frustration bleeding into her voice. "I'm here because you're slipping. You're distracted, and that's dangerous. Whatever this... phase you're going through is, get over it. We can't afford for you to fall apart."

"Phase?" Owen narrowed his eyes at her. "You mean, caring about more than the damn optics? Yeah, sorry, that's not going away anytime soon."

"God, Owen," she said, exasperated. "This is why people think you're soft. You want to save the world, but the world doesn't want to be saved. It wants soundbites and a shiny package."

Owen stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "Is that what you want too, Charlotte? A shiny package? Because I think we both know that's all we've been for a long time."

She didn't flinch, but her eyes narrowed. "What are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying this marriage is about as real as a campaign promise," he said, his voice low and cutting. "We stopped being a team a long time ago. Now we're just playing our parts."

Charlotte tilted her head, a cold smile spreading across her face. "And yet, here we are. You need me, Owen. Whether you like it or not."

"Do I?" he challenged. "Because right now, it feels like all I'm doing is cleaning up messes and pretending everything's fine while you—" He stopped himself, shaking his head.

"While I what?" she demanded, stepping closer. "Say it."

"While you treat this whole thing like a goddamn game," he finished. "Like it doesn't matter. Like people don't matter."

Charlotte's smile turned brittle. "People don't matter, Owen. Not in this world. What matters is winning. And if you want to keep that desk, you'd better remember that."

Owen stared at her, the silence stretching between them like a chasm. Finally, he stepped around the desk, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair.

"Where are you going?" she asked, her voice sharp.

"Out," he said simply, heading for the door. "Don't wait up."

As he left the room, Owen felt the weight in his chest grow heavier. The truth was, he didn't know where he was going. He just knew he couldn't stay there, trapped in a room that felt more like a stage than his own life.

Out in the hallway, one of his aides passed by and offered a polite nod. Owen forced a smile, the practiced kind that didn't reach his eyes. That was the problem, wasn't it? Everything about his life had become a performance. And he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it up.