Commander in Chief

  Everywhere he speaks, Matt draws crowds. You’d think it was due to the mythical importance of his father’s legacy and his family’s name, but I know that it is not. People like to feel close to him. Hear him speak. All around America, there are proud people—proud to be American.

  Today, I admit I get a little giddy watching him speak again.

  “It’s easy to believe that we aren’t capable of living up to our potential. I never believed I would—or even cared to try to. After the loss of my father, I continued to be reminded of all that the world lost, and I felt a sense of powerlessness. I wasn’t powerless. I had in my power to give you the one thing he most wanted to give. Me. Never underestimate the power of your own worth.”

  Once he closes, the claps and cheers are so deafening, they follow us out.

  He rides with me back home, Wilson and Stacey accompanying us, both of them grinning ear to ear, not even bothering to hide their satisfaction.

  Our economy is growing by leaps and bounds, our exports have increased by 20 percent, and there are new jobs being offered every day. Aside from that, Matt is a champion of consumer rights, minority rights, gay rights, women’s rights, and controlling nuclear proliferation, and advocates embracing the diversity our country has thrived on and welcomed for generations.

  He speaks to reporters like they’re his best friends, stops to greet all men and women, and the message is always clear—in whatever he does. YOU can make a difference. YOU can create new jobs too. YOU can be innovative, different, free. YOU can be yourself.

  Governing is not easy. Sometimes it feels as if ages ago, Matt and I were idealists. But sometimes, like for the past year, it feels like we were the realists.

  Months go by fast, between governing and the social scene that comes with the White House. I’m close to full term now—my body so very curvy, and somehow very arousing to my husband, and even to me. It feels so sensitive—his touch always electric on my skin. Tonight we were invited to the Washington, D.C., premiere of a movie one of his friends produced, and I’m wondering how I’ll manage to wear heels. Maybe ballerina flats and an empire gown would work.

  “Look stunning,” Lola advised.

  “You mean sometimes I don’t?” I arched a teasing brow.

  “Haha. Truly, Charlotte. People are obsessed with you, and Matthew Hamilton’s devotion to you. Millions of women in the world dream of fitting in your glass slipper.

  The hot president, his hands gliding over your body as you dance, his worshipful eyes only on you, the most desirable world leader with his clear adoration of you. Politics are dynamic and young—a symbol of the revitalization in our country. Look daring, edgy.”

  “I’m nearly nine months pregnant,” I say.

  “Exactly! And you’re still standing.”

  “Lola, you kill me,” I laugh.

  But I definitely pulled out a lovely chiffon empire-cut gown in a light pink color, which I’m wearing with my hair back in an elegant waterfall look.

  It’s classy, but edgy for a pregnant woman, I suppose.

  Matt zips up the dress for me and as I stare at myself in the mirror, he remains behind me, drinking me in. His voice appreciative, his smile wolfish. “You’re so gorgeous, sometimes it’s too distracting,” he chides, turning my face and placing a soft kiss on my lips.

  “You have no idea the amount of cells that become inactive in women’s brains when you walk by,” I say.

  He lets go a surprised laugh, and I laugh too, grabbing my little purse as he escorts me out.

  There’s a party after the movie, and Matt and I decide to hit it for an hour, have a little fun.

  During the night, as I meet the lead actors and Matt talks with his producer friend, I notice the women approaching him and I find it very interesting to watch them fawn, even knowing that he’s married. He’s cordial and polite, of course, he’s a Hamilton, but the ease with which he’d been standing is gone and he seems to close himself off from any flirtation. He’s so loyal, and I adore him for that.

  I’m surprised the women continue to persist, though, too excited and infatuated to notice that he’s definitely not interested.

  I think it’s more than his beauty they’re drawn to. More than his power.

  I think it’s his humanity that calls them. The fact that he never puts on a show or acts as if he’s perfect; instead he’s always acted as if he’s not perfect but attempts to be. As if he knows that all of his imperfections—his amusing and heartwarming overprotectiveness and even his fear of not being both the best husband and father along with the best president—make him real, that all of our imperfections make us real and relatable because not one of us is perfect, not even a president. We simply want the one who will give us his unfailing best. Like he has.

  I find myself blatantly staring and when I realize it, I quickly chide myself in silence and turn away. When I turn back, our eyes lock—and his eyes drift over my empire-cut gown, to my abdomen, where I carry his son. I’m due in mere weeks. And like I’ve noticed these past months, when he looks at me—at what I hold in me—there . . . I see it. A flash so quick and bright, it nearly blinds me.

  He seems to push it down, under control, but I saw it. All the love, all the desire, all the craving that could ever be in a man is in him. For me. For us.

  “The president never fails to make heads turn,” Alison says beside me as we mingle with the crowd, her camera always at the ready for her to snap the next shot.

  It’s true people stare. Although I know people love him for more than his face, because despite the fact that he grew up with everything, he lacks pretention. His parents reared him to be a normal guy, with chores, discipline, and an attitude that was honest and never self-serving. In fact he never liked people doing special things for him, such as not allow him to pay for things; he always paid his way, even when they insisted they wanted to do the gesture for him. Fairness was ingrained with him, or maybe it’s just part of who he is.

  The man is unforgettable and he knows it.

  And now he’s the president, my husband, soon to be my baby’s daddy.

  I frown when I notice Wilson approach him as discreetly as possible, which, considering how much attention Matt draws, is not very discreet, and Matt ducks his head to him. He nods and then lifts his eyes, his gaze instantly landing on me because he’s been keeping tabs on me all night.

  Something in his expression alarms me. I pick up my skirts and start walking across the room as he motions me to the door.

  “Something wrong?”

  “We need to go,” he says.

  He escorts me to the door, his hand on the small of my back as we climb into the state car.

  I know whatever has happened is big; otherwise we wouldn’t have left. Something needs his attention ASAP.

  “We’ve been attacked in the Middle East.”

  I gasp. Then I set my hand on my stomach when a contraction hits. I’ve been feeling them on and off, and was told it was normal—the body preparing.

  “What is it?” He looks at me in concern.

  I meet his gaze, unsure. “Hopefully . . . practice.” But Murphy’s Law says it won’t be.

  33

  YOU LOVE ME

  Charlotte

  He’s making me time them on our way to the White House, and the contractions are coming regularly, every four minutes.

  “Can you wait for me?” Matt asks when we reach the White House and he sits me on the nearest couch.

  “I’ll try,” I promise.

  “Wait for me,” he says. His tone is firm and sounds like an order to the universe, part command, part request to me as he glances at my stomach.

  I can see the tearing need inside him to be in two places at once, a need that is impossible for him to fulfill, even as the most powerful man in the land.

  His jaw flexes in the fiercest way. “I hate doing this to you.” He leans over and he cups my face. “I love you.”

  I nod, wanting to appease him. “Every
time you hold me close, every time you look at me, I’m reminded of how much you love me. When you do this . . .” I lift his hand and kiss the back of it, the way he sometimes grazes his lips over my knuckles. “That’s all I need. Just knowing it’s there, that you’re there and you’re what’s best for our country and what’s best for me.”

  I suck in a harsh breath as a contraction hits, and I try not to cringe.

  Matt notices. “Another?”

  “It’s okay. Go.”

  He hesitates.

  “Go.”

  He mutters a curse.

  And then he spins around and heads away.

  “Call her mother,” he orders Stacey.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I don’t tell him my mom is in the Caribbean with my dad and she can’t get here to support me no matter how fast she’d want to.

  The pain comes and goes in waves, but the concern about what’s happening to our people feels even worse.

  I feel like I just swallowed glass, the dread of all that could happen plaguing me as I try to calm down and keep my baby inside me a little longer.

  34

  TRAGEDY

  Matt

  One floor below the Oval Office is the Situation Room.

  Manned 24/7, this is the place where you figure out and tackle the important things. The White House brain.

  Where I’ve talked through the videoconference system to other heads of state. And ordered covert operations, among other highly classified endeavors.

  I walk in with Dale Coin and Arturo Villegas, my chief security advisor.

  Before the inauguration, the CIA director briefed me on all the covert operations the U.S. was engaged in against foreign enemies. Those had all been personally authorized by my predecessor, Jacobs, and would cease if I gave the word. If I remained silent, the operations would continue.

  It’s one thing to be a candidate; another, the president.

  Some of those operations were highly dangerous, with little benefit to the United States. But we have allies, too, which was something to consider.

  Still, when you command the most powerful army in the world, you cannot treat it as a game. Every move of our operatives needs to be planned, strategized, then recorded and analyzed. And no matter what information we have, there are always too many variations of an outcome. No matter how well briefed an incoming president, nothing prepares you to send your men and women to war.

  Priorities shift. Gaining more access to intelligence causes your views to shift dramatically as well.

  I only hope I made the right calls.

  I know as sure as fuck I’m making the right one now.

  The generals are already seated. I take my seat, lean back, and let the wall before me light up with visuals. The Middle East has been a hot button since long before I took office. Dictators, armed rebels, fucking ISIS.

  “In position,” General Quincy says.

  They all look at me. The silence is deafening.

  One second, two seconds.

  “Open fire.”

  35

  I’M HERE

  Charlotte

  I feel another contraction hit and pain ricochets through my body, burning through even my deepest muscles.

  I groan and clutch the edge of the table nearest to me.

  I feel the baby move inside me and I stop in place, pressing my legs together against his movements.

  Holy shit, this baby means business.

  We just walked into the National Naval Medical Center. I asked my team to bring me, and we left a message for Matt. Now I’m rushed in by my security guards, and people gasp when they see me enter the hospital alone.

  Without Matt.

  Without the president.

  “Mrs. Hamilton! Goodness me,” exclaims a nurse as she sees me waddling in, clutching my huge stomach, discomfort and fear written all over my face.

  Fear that is multiplied, seeing as I need to deliver this baby while my husband tries to solve a national security crisis.

  I shudder and try to push those thoughts away as another contraction comes. I moan and feel a puddle of water at my feet.

  “Let’s get the first lady a wheelchair! NOW!”

  “Page Dr. Conwell!”

  I feel my body being guided into a wheelchair and before I know it, I am in a hospital bed.

  I feel needles pricking my skin, see monitors arranged all around me and doctors rushing in. It seems everyone wants to help deliver the president’s baby.

  My legs are propped up and a cloth is draped over them, for modesty. But honestly, at this moment, I couldn’t give a damn about modesty; I want this baby out and in my arms.

  I hear some murmurs and the deep, soothing voice of a doctor addresses me: “Mrs. Hamilton, it seems the baby has shifted in your belly and we are going to have to perform a C-section.”

  “Is the baby okay?!”

  “Yes, ma’am. Don’t worry, we have everything under control. I will do everything I can to deliver this baby as quickly and safely as possible.”

  I feel my heart sink in my chest, weighted down by uncontrollable fear.

  I gulp back the scream welling in my chest and squeeze my eyes shut.

  Get your shit together, Mommy, I tell myself. You got this.

  “Okay, Charlotte, here we go. You shouldn’t feel a thing, maybe some slight pressure . . .” I hear the doctor’s words in the distance, but I am somewhere else.

  If Matt can’t be here with me, I am going to him.

  With my eyes still shut, I think of Matt . . . his hands wrapped around my waist as he hugs me from behind and meets my eyes in the mirror while I get dressed.

  His deep voice gently singing into my belly early in the morning.

  His mouth planting soft kisses on my forehead as he says good night.

  How his fingers feel against my skin when he rubs my back.

  How when he’s half asleep, he pulls me closer to him, subconsciously using his body to shield me against anything and everything.

  How he nuzzles his head in my neck after we make love, his soft hair gently tickling my cheek as he sinks his nose and inhales my scent before releasing a sound of pure male satisfaction before falling asleep.

  I feel tears well up again, and I miss him more than ever before. I want more than anything to have him here, his eyes looking into mine, holding my hand, telling me everything will be okay, telling me I am doing great.

  I hear monitors beeping. I turn to the side and see Stacey is beside me, holding my hand.

  I asked her to come in before the C-section began, because she is the closest friend I have in the White House. I consider her like family.

  She looks at me with her sweet and strong blue eyes, gently nodding to me, squeezing my hand in comfort and encouragement. I smile back at her, feeling so much love and gratitude toward her it gets stuck in my throat and I can’t do anything other than tell her with my eyes how grateful I am for all she does for me.

  I turn back to look at the ceiling.

  I focus on my breathing. Inhale . . . and exhale . . .

  In a few minutes I’ll finally be able to see and hold my little baby . . . the one I’ve helped and seen grow inside me . . . the one who dances in my belly when he hears my or Matt’s voice . . . the one who kicks when he’s (or I am) hungry . . .

  And then I hear a sound. A baby’s cry.

  I start to cry, tears pouring out of my eyes of their own will.

  “Congratulations, Mrs. Hamilton.”

  I hear applause erupt around the room as I see a little bundle of white blankets approach me.

  I reach out my arms instinctively, wanting nothing more than to hold him.

  The nurse gently places him in my arms and I am met with the most beautiful, innocent, chubby pink face I have ever seen.

  Long, spiky eyelashes and brilliant gray eyes stare back at me and I have never felt happier, more complete, more blessed than I do now.

  I feel so filled with love, I feel m
y heart cracking into pieces in my chest.

  I see myself in him. I see Matthew in him. I see the beginnings of a family.

  All too soon the nurses have to take him away to have his vitals checked and make sure everything is healthy.

  I ache for him, and more than ever I ache for Matt.

  I close my eyes for a second and feel myself drifting off into sleep, exhausted by everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours.

  I fight to open my eyes, but they keep fluttering closed.

  Far off in the distance, I hear a voice I could not mistake for anyone else’s. Deep, commanding, overwhelmingly male, demanding: “Where is she?”

  I hear shuffling and the sounds of shiny black shoes belonging to ten Secret Service agents running along the marble floors of the hospital.

  “I need to see her now!”

  “Mr. President—” I hear a voice respond.

  I hear the door open and shut and I feel his presence fill the room. I whisper his name.

  “Mr. President, congratulations . . .”

  I instantly feel his hands reach for me, cupping my face, enveloping it in warmth.

  His thumb catches a tear falling from the edge of my eyelashes as I sob, “Matt . . .”

  I open my eyes and see him gazing back at me, his eyes brilliant and deep, tender and soothing. “I’m here, baby.”

  36

  JUNIOR

  Charlotte

  Eighteen minutes after he walked into the hospital, Matthew Hamilton holds his firstborn son.

  I’ve never been so proud to be his first lady.

  He caresses my cheek, pride shining in his eyes. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say, smiling weakly.

  “He looks like you, Mr. President,” I hear.

  He winks at me, his arms all for his son, his eyes all for me—staying on mine for a long time, like mine stay on his. Then he looks down at our son, his eyes raking him up and down, glimmering with happiness after I know the night he faced was probably the darkest night of all. “He’s perfect, baby,” he says, then presses a kiss to my forehead.