Chapter 3
The next few days were ice cold.
Victor didn’t speak to me.
Didn’t see me.
Didn’t even look in my direction.
Instead, he stayed in Isabella’s First Lady’s Office suite–three straight nights.
And the gossip?
It spread like wildfire.
Everyone whispered that the First Lady had fallen from grace.
Staff scrambled to cozy up to Isabella, tripping over themselves to earn her favor.
The once–bustling Oval Office–my wing–was now a ghost town.
I thought I could just ride it out.
Wait for the divorce papers.
But power doesn’t rest quietly.
Three days before the separation was to be finalized,
the former First Lady summoned me.
“As long as you wear that ring,” she said, “you’re still the First Lady.
And you will fulfill your duties.”
“No favoritism in the First Lady’s Office. Not under my watch.”
So I had no choice.
I got in the car, sat up straight, and headed for Isabella’s suite at the far end of the residence.
It was late.
Past midnight.
I didn’t want to cause a scene, so I told the Secret Service to stand down and walked in quietly.
Just as I raised my hand to knock, I heard Isabella’s breathless voice.
“Victor… you’ve been staying with me every night.
Aren’t you worried Eleanor’s upset?”
There was a pause.
Then Victor’s voice, sharp and impatient: “So what if she is?
She can’t have children,
What’s the point of keeping her around?”
One sentence.
Chapter 3
And my world cracked open,
It was like standing in that snowstorm again,
eight years ago, bleeding for him.
So he’d been blaming me all this time.
For something I never chose.
Something I suffered–for him.
I never once stopped him from seeing other women.
Never demanded he stay faithful.
And he still resented me.
My tears fell fast, but the wind outside dried them before they hit my cheeks.
I remembered the day he named me First Lady.
Congress, family, the press–everyone said no.
“She can’t have children,” they said.
“She’s not fit to be First Lady.”
Victor stood there, eyes red with rage.
He kicked over chairs, glared at every dissenting voice.
And declared for the world to hear: “I don’t care if she bears me children or not–Eleanor Sterling is my wife. Now and forever.”
But promises….they only live as long as the moment they’re spoken.
I raised a hand to my hair, felt only the sting of cold metal.
Victor…we’ve come to the end.
I didn’t knock.
Didn’t scream.
Just turned around and left.
The snowstorm was brutal that night, but not half as cold as the hollow in my chest.
Back in the Oval Office, the garden was frozen.
Even the strongest branches had snapped under the ice.
I sat on the couch, took the tiny onesie I’d made, and threw it into the fireplace.
As the flames rose, I could still hear their voices–the gasps, the moans–burning louder than the fire.
Right as the onesie turned to ash, a gust of wind/burst through the door.
Victor stood there, shirt half–buttoned, eyes frantic, staring straight at the fire.
“What the hell are you burning?”
Two days left.
Chapter 41
Chapter 4
