Chapter 5: The White House’s Desperate Game

Inside the White House…

President Carter, face stormy, handed a letter to the chief of staff and gave his orders.

The West Wing was buzzing—phones ringing off the hook, Secret Service agents hustling through the halls, TV screens blaring breaking news. Carter’s face was set in stone, jaw clenched so tight his temples throbbed. The chief of staff—a wiry woman named Denise McCarthy—stood at attention, a stack of folders in her hands.

“Send this immediately to the Commander.”

Denise McCarthy, chief of staff, had the sharp eyes and sharper tongue of a woman who’d survived three administrations and could gut a senator with a single sentence. She snapped her fingers, and an aide bolted to deliver the message. In the Oval Office, a portrait of Lincoln seemed to watch the proceedings, equal parts judgmental and amused.

In the original novel, Lillian knew she’d be used to threaten me, so as soon as she entered the White House, she tried to take her own life several times.

Of course, she never succeeded—otherwise, the novel couldn’t go on.

Carter, afraid she might actually die, had her locked up and watched around the clock.

Secret Service stood outside her suite 24/7, earpieces humming. Lillian gazed out the window at the Rose Garden, hands pressed to the glass, her reflection pale and determined. She was no damsel, not in this American drama.

Later, worried that a single order wouldn’t be enough to make me come back, he wanted Lillian to write a letter to persuade me.

Naturally, Lillian refused.

Carter then arrested her best friend and personal assistant, threatening, “If you don’t write the letter, I’ll fire them all.”

The threat stung; jobs at the White House were golden tickets, and Lillian’s friends knew it. Still, she held out, defiant as ever.

Lillian wouldn’t give in easily.

So Carter had one of the assistants roughed up.

It was ugly business—security cameras off, a bruised face, a warning whispered in a cold hallway. Lillian’s hands shook when she saw the aftermath, guilt gnawing at her resolve.

Lillian, being a true saint, couldn’t stand to see this and finally agreed to write a letter as Carter demanded.

Of course, the letter contained only one word: Return.

Clearly, Lillian was still reluctant.

Carter didn’t dare push further and had to send me this single-word letter.

The envelope was thick, the handwriting careful—a silent plea pressed between lines. Even now, I could almost hear her voice in that one word, brittle and brave.

In the original, after receiving this letter, the Commander guessed that Lillian had been tortured and was heartbroken.

But now…

“Mr. President! Mr. President! Something terrible’s happened!”

A young intern burst in, panic-stricken.

His tie was crooked, and there was a coffee stain on his shirt—a rookie mistake on his first big day. He was fresh out of college, still sporting a lanyard with his name—Tyrell Jenkins, Political Science major, George Washington University. His sneakers squeaked on the polished floor as he skidded to a halt, face pale as milk.

Carter frowned. The chief of staff snapped, “What’s with all the noise? Get a grip!”

Denise’s voice was sharp as a whip; Tyrell gulped, sweat beading on his brow. The West Wing was not kind to nerves.

The intern panted, “The… Commander is here…”

Carter looked up and laughed, “Hahahaha! I knew it! The Commander loves Lillian more than his own life. If I use her to threaten him, he’ll give in!”

His laughter was forced, echoing around the Oval Office like a bad joke. The air grew colder, thick with the scent of fear and desperation.

The chief of staff flattered, “Mr. President, you’re truly brilliant.”

Denise’s smile was polished—equal parts loyalty and survival instinct. She’d seen enough backroom deals to know which way the wind was blowing.

Carter took the chief of staff’s hand. “You’ve done great. Once I’ve dealt with the Commander, I’ll make sure you’re rewarded.”

She ducked her head respectfully, lips pressed tight. The room felt even smaller, the ceiling closing in with every word.

One insisted on rewarding, the other insisted on refusing—the two went back and forth endlessly.

It was a classic D.C. dance—gratitude and denial, all surface, all performance.

Carter, grinning, casually ordered the intern, “You there, take two security guards and arrest the Commander. Throw him in a cell.”