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Y/n Smith 53 years old
The Morning After Y/n Smith
At 5:47 the next morning, the Oval Office looked normal again.
That was the terrifying part.
Every document had been returned to the Resolute desk. The discarded glasses were gone. The room carried nothing but the faint scent of furniture polish and fresh coffee.
Yet I couldn't stop seeing everything that had happened.
One reckless night.
One history-making election.
One secret capable of destroying both of us.
I stood near the door with my jacket buttoned and my professional expression firmly back in place. Across the room, Kamala was preparing to address the nation as president.
The woman I had protected for years was gone.
In her place stood the next President of the United States.
"You're staring," she said without looking away from the speech in her hands.
"I'm observing, Madam President."
Her eyes lifted.
Hearing the new title made something shift across her face. Pride, disbelief and fear all fought for space before she managed to conceal them.
"That sounds strange."
"You earned it."
"We earned it."
"No, ma'am. I stood beside you. You did the work."
She folded the speech and placed it on the desk.
"Is that how we're handling last night?"
My eyes immediately moved toward the closed door.
"Not here."
"This is where it happened."
"Exactly."
Her face tightened.
I regretted the sharpness of my response, but daylight had returned, and daylight came with consequences.
"Madam President, what happened was—"
"Don't call it a mistake."
"I was going to call it dangerous."
"Do you regret it?"
I looked at her.
That was one question I couldn't safely answer.
Before I could try, someone knocked.
"Madam President?" a man called through the door. "Mr. Emhoff has arrived."
