Tuesday, February 20th Weston Residence, Miami, FL

"I was just a girl, you were just a man... but I was down to ride until the very end."

You stand in the middle of your walk-in closet, barefoot and dazed, cradling a 6lb miracle swaddled in champagne-colored muslin. Your silk robe hangs open at the thigh, curls still pinned from delivery, hospital band still clinging to your wrist. The whole house is silent—too silent—until the click of a door downstairs reminds you: you aren't alone. Not anymore. The faint scent of jasmine from your mother's garden drifts in through the open window, mixing with the newborn's sweet milky smell.

You've just brought home the most powerful baby in America, and not one soul besides your mama, your doula, and a few high-ranking men in black suits even knows he exists. The baby stirs in your arms, making a soft mewling sound that tugs at your heart. Outside, a car door slams in the distance, followed by the muted hum of an engine idling.

When you first met, President David Weston had introduced himself as D.J.—a "widowed investor," clean-shaven and charismatic, who spotted you at a luxury silent auction in Bal Harbour. You were there helping your cousin set up catering. He sent you a single white lily and a room key with a note: "If you're curious. No pressure." The memory of his cologne—sandalwood and citrus—still lingers in your mind like a half-forgotten dream.

He flew you to D.C. two weeks later. Bought you a Cartier bracelet for your birthday. Told you had the kind of eyes a man wanted to die in. But by the time you saw his face on TV—married, smiling, shaking hands in front of the Capitol—you were already three months pregnant. And the phone calls had stopped. The Cartier box sits in your jewelry drawer still, the bracelet never worn.

The baby was born in a private facility under a fake name, delivered in a soundproof room guarded by two Secret Service agents who never spoke a word. One of them—Agent McClain—had kind eyes. He asked if you wanted ice chips. The other just stared. You never learned his name. The sterile smell of the delivery room had clung to your clothes for days, no matter how many times you washed them.

Now, back home in your mother's gated townhouse, you feel like you're holding someone else's child. The knock at the door is sharp. Controlled. Like a warning wrapped in politeness. Your heart pounds against your ribs as you hear your mother's faint footsteps approaching the front door.

Your mother peeks through the blinds. "It's him," she whispers, voice trembling. "The one with the accent. He said he was 'sent by the West Wing.'" She opens the door anyway, her hand trembling on the doorknob.

There he stands: Daniel Stroud, presidential advisor, PR fixer, crisis cleaner. Chocolate skin, waves sharp enough to slice glass, a Rolex that catches the sun when he raises his hand to adjust his sunglasses. The Miami sunlight glints off his polished shoes as he steps onto the front porch.

"I need a few minutes with the mother," he says. "Alone."

You don't speak. Just hold your baby tighter, feeling the rapid thump of his tiny heart against your chest. Daniel walks in, surveys the home like it offended him, and takes a seat like he owns it. He taps a manila folder against his knee, the sound sharp and rhythmic against the silence.

"Miss," he begins, voice low and slick like hot oil, "the President has... certain obligations. But we're willing to be generous. Discreet. You'll be set for life."

He slides the folder toward you across the coffee table. Inside is a nondisclosure agreement and a black card that glints in the light. The paper feels cool and heavy in your hands as you flip through the documents.

"Sign this, and you get monthly compensation, relocation, private schooling, armed security. All under the radar. And most importantly..." He looks down at the baby, his gaze cold and assessing. "Protection."

You don't move, your fingers tightening around the edge of the folder until your knuckles turn white.

"You're not a mistress anymore," he adds coldly. "You're a liability. And now, so is he."

But you don't sign. Not that night. Instead, you wait until 2 a.m., pack the baby bag with diapers and formula and the few toys you've managed to collect, and slip out the back door barefoot into the Florida night. The dew-wet grass chills your feet as you hurry to your car. You don't know where you're going—just that you aren't signing away your infant. Not for money. Not for silence. Not for him.

You end up at a gas station off I-75, arms aching from holding the baby, when a black BMW X7 pulls up behind you and kills its lights. The window rolls down slowly, revealing Agent McClain's familiar face. The sodium lights of the gas station cast an orange glow over everything, making his features look softer than you remember.

"I figured you'd run," he says, stepping out slowly, his hands visible and empty. "That's why I followed you."

And for the first time since giving birth, you breathe, the tension leaving your body in a shaky exhale as you realize you might not be alone in this after all.