Chapter 1: Welcome to the Family Snake Pit

I woke up in the body of the President of the United States. Forty-seven years old, Commander-in-Chief, and already my head was pounding.

And let me tell you, the headaches started before I even set foot in the Oval Office. The former First Lady? She loves to show off her moral high ground, with her family throwing their influence around like they're D.C. royalty. The Carters have connections everywhere, and everyone knows it. If D.C. had a royal family, they'd be printing their faces on the dollar bills.

Meanwhile, the Vice President? A total lightweight—no initiative, no guts, always looking for someone else to make the tough calls. The cabinet? Each member's got their own agenda, probably already dreaming about swapping out the Oval Office curtains for something that matches their personal brand.

As for the President’s daughters, they grew up wanting for nothing—except, apparently, a happy marriage. Their husbands and in-laws treat them like chess pieces, and everyone pretends that’s just how the one percent rolls.

Inside the White House, the staff play a high-stakes game of office politics—alliances, betrayals, secret deals behind every closed door. Sometimes, even a throwaway comment about the weather is code for a power play.

And the press secretaries? Sharks in designer suits, circling every word, waiting to bite. Misspeak once, and you’ll be tomorrow’s headline hamburger.

Honestly, being President in this mess? It’s humiliating. I’d take a hostile board meeting over this political soap opera any day.

On my very first day as President, I wanted to fire someone on the spot. Seriously, the urge was crawling under my skin—old CEO instincts kicking in, ready to clear house.

I used to be the CEO of a giant, state-run energy company. Just as I was about to retire to golf courses and backyard barbecues, I played hero—jumped into a river to save two drowning kids, and, naturally, ended up dead. That’s the story of my life: no good deed goes unpunished.

Turns out, saving lives gets you points with the Big Guy upstairs. Saint Peter decided I deserved another twenty years on the clock.

I was ready to cash in my karma chips, dreaming of lazy afternoons with mystery novels, when things went sideways fast.

This guy in a Civil War-era suit—Samuel Jennings, looking like he’d survived Gettysburg—was sobbing in front of Saint Peter, desperate to quit being President.

Back in the day, being President meant real power. You could make or break the country. You didn’t just walk away from that gig unless you’d seriously screwed the pooch.

But here was this guy, acting like the presidency was a prison sentence. If he didn’t want the job, I was happy to grab the wheel.