Chapter 8: The Cost of Survival

By now, I was nearly dead from torture in jail.

My subordinates—a small group from the million Northern Defense troops—broke into the jail and rescued me.

It was a hail-Mary rescue—flashbangs, gunfire, the clang of cell doors. They carried me out, half-conscious, blood crusted on my lips. The scent of antiseptic and cordite lingered as we sped away into the night, headlights cutting through fog like hope itself.

At the time, I was already deep in a coma.

I couldn’t leave Lillian any clues.

It was already August fifteenth. The heroine, still trapped in the White House, had baked a pile of apple pies, hoping to see me.

She’d always baked when worried. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and nostalgia, the crusts golden, the apples tart from a farm in Maryland. The White House staff traded slices in whispered solidarity—everyone rooting for the happy ending that always seemed just out of reach.

The food descriptions in this section are seriously mouthwatering.

When Carter heard the news, he lost it and sent troops to hunt me down.

That day, Carter coldly refused the heroine’s request to see me.

Cue more of the heroine’s struggles and Carter’s torments.

After over a hundred chapters of turmoil, the heroine finally decided to see for herself.

She sneaked out of the White House again and entered the jail.

Honestly, I think…

After discovering I was gone, the heroine returned to the White House and confronted Carter.

Carter bluntly told her I was dead.

The heroine couldn’t bear the shock, fainted on the spot, and lost her memory—she only remembered loving someone deeply, but not who.

Carter took advantage, claiming they were childhood sweethearts, and that person was him.

The heroine believed it.

They began living a shamelessly happy life in the White House.

Two kids in three years.

At this point, you might ask: where did I go?

Actually, I lost my memory too…

After rescuing me, my subordinates fought desperately with the president’s men and were nearly wiped out.

A few survivors put me on a small boat, and I drifted down the Potomac to a fishing village.

There, I was pulled from the water by a fisherwoman.

A romantic commander and a pretty village girl—you know how it goes…

The dock creaked beneath my battered boots as I stumbled ashore. The sun was hot, cicadas screaming in the reeds, and the air tasted like salt and hope. The fisherwoman’s hands were strong and gentle, her eyes bright as the Chesapeake in June. For a time, I forgot the war, the pain, the capital looming upstream.