Chapter 4: Blood, Loyalty, and Power Plays

Lillian obediently left.

This First Lady, whom the original owner called “the most unreasonable troublemaker,” got the message and left meekly, like a kitten. The sound of her heels echoed down the marble corridor, softer than I’d ever heard it.

Having outplayed the press secretaries, warned Senator Carter, and cowed Lillian, I was in a great mood. For a fleeting moment, it actually felt like I was in control of the house again.

That night, I visited the First Lady’s quarters.

The First Lady is a second wife, with one daughter. She started as an intern from a small town in Ohio, worked her way up—classic American bootstrap story. After the first First Lady died, she was promoted from an ordinary staffer to First Lady.

The original owner and the First Lady weren’t close, but she managed the residence with fairness and order, earning some respect. She knew how to keep things running smoothly, never letting personal drama spill out into public view.

As the original owner put it, though the First Lady is plain and silent, she’s clever and resolute, handling things fairly—the only one who can even halfway stand up to the former First Lady. Around here, backbone is a rare commodity.

But now, the First Lady—the only one who could stand up to the former First Lady—was facing her worst crisis ever.

Before I reached the East Wing, her aide stopped me midway.

“Please, Mr. President, go to the Green Room to defend the First Lady.” The aide’s voice trembled, and she looked terrified, wringing her hands as if praying for a last-minute pardon.

When I reached the Green Room, I saw the First Lady and her daughter standing in the hallway for hours as punishment, hands behind their backs, staff pointedly ignoring them. The late afternoon sun painted the scene in gold and shadow—an oddly solemn stage for family punishment.

The youngest daughter stood beside her mother, her face streaked with tears, legs shaking from the long, humiliating punishment. I could see the pain in her eyes, the kind that leaves scars long after the bruises fade.

Even when she saw me, her eyes first lit up, then quickly dimmed as she turned away. That look—equal parts hope and disappointment—hit harder than any political attack ad.

I understood her thoughts—according to the original owner’s memories, the youngest daughter was often bullied by Natalie Jennings, and her father never stood up for her. No wonder she looked at me that way.

The youngest daughter is thirteen this year, the First Lady’s only daughter, and the only legitimate daughter—naturally more privileged than the rest. But privilege in the White House is a double-edged sword.

Yet here she was, forced to stand until her legs shook, hands red from gripping the marble railing. Her hair stuck to her cheeks, sweat mixing with tears—her palms raw and red.

And the one who bullied her was still clinging to the former First Lady, acting spoiled and complaining. The sense of injustice in the air was so thick you could almost taste it.

Even when I, the President, arrived, she barely bothered to stand. Some folks are so used to getting away with things, they forget who’s in charge.

I’d already heard from the aide: Natalie Jennings deliberately picked a fight, bullied the daughter’s head aide, and the youngest, furious, slapped Natalie.

The former First Lady took sides, claiming the youngest lacked decorum and wanted to punish her, even ordering the head aide fired. The White House HR department had nothing on this.

The youngest objected, and the First Lady also thought the former First Lady was wrong, so they argued for ages. This wasn’t just family drama—it was an all-out power struggle.

But the former First Lady accused the First Lady of defiance.

In old American families, respect for elders is everything. Especially in the halls of political power, where tradition can be weaponized.

No matter how right the First Lady was, one accusation of defiance from the former First Lady was enough to make her submit. The threat wasn’t subtle; it was an ironclad expectation, drilled in from childhood.

The youngest, seeing this, also stood for hours to take the blame, begging the former First Lady to punish her instead of her mother. Bravery and love, right there on the White House floor.

That’s exactly what the former First Lady wanted—since you admit your fault, you must be punished.

By the time I arrived, the youngest had already been punished—forced to stand until her legs shook, hands red from gripping the marble railing.

Every instinct from my own childhood—every time I’d been powerless—came roaring back. Not on my watch.

The youngest sobbed in the First Lady’s arms, nearly fainting from pain. My own hands curled into fists.

I was furious and shouted, “The former First Lady has attended church for years and is always compassionate. How could you people ruin her reputation? Look at what you’ve done to the President’s daughter! Even if the former First Lady forgives you, I will not!”

Rage surged, presidential authority filling the room. I didn’t just raise my voice; I let it ring, sharp as a gavel.

“Security, drag out these people who have ruined the former First Lady’s name and defied her will—fire them all!”

The former First Lady couldn’t sit still, nearly jumping from her armchair, glaring at me in shock and anger. The dynamic had changed, and she knew it.

“President, what are you doing?”

I nodded respectfully, then stood up slow, channeling my best West Wing energy: “Mother, don’t be angry. These people have tarnished your reputation, slandering you. You may bear it, but I cannot.”

My voice was icy, each word squeezed out through clenched teeth. I made sure everyone could hear the steel behind my words.

“The legitimate daughter, of presidential blood, was punished by the former First Lady over a staffer’s daughter. If word gets out, the press will raise hell, accusing the former First Lady of being arbitrary and unjust, and demanding punishment for disrespecting the President’s daughter.”

At this, the former First Lady’s anger faded, replaced by a heavy silence. She knew the press could tear apart even the most untouchable reputation.

My voice was as calm as winter water.

“Quentin, are you deaf? Or so old you hesitate at my orders?”

“Tired of being chief of staff?”

I stared at him, face like stone.

Quentin fell to his knees in terror: “This is my fault—I will carry out your orders at once!”

He scrambled up and shrieked, “By presidential order, all Green Room aides and staff below senior level—seize and fire them on the spot!”

At first I was annoyed Quentin only went after senior staff and below, but when I saw the room full of staff being marched out, the screams, the pleas for mercy, the dull thuds of doors closing—I truly felt what ‘a President’s wrath leaves careers in ruins’ means.

The Green Room had only a few dozen staff, but those from the East and West Wings were all called in. The aides scrounged up boxes, and when they ran out, they went to the supply closet.

With not enough boxes, they just tossed belongings in bags.

In front of the Green Room, everyone was busy.

All to carry out my orders.

The aides and staff to be fired all wailed, not daring to resist, only crying for mercy. The sobs echoed down the long halls, a somber reminder of what power can do.

A President is a President. The original owner might have been a bit soft, often grilled by the press and browbeaten by the former First Lady, but he did have some achievements.

At least he was popular and had the generals’ support.

Not a puppet or a fool.

In a fit of presidential rage, even the mighty Green Room was cleaned out.

The firing of over a hundred people was truly shocking to a modern soul like me. It felt like something out of a political thriller.

The First Lady and the youngest daughter were also stunned, clinging to each other and staring at me in disbelief. I could feel their confusion and relief warring in the silence.

The former First Lady was even more shaken, stumbling back until she collapsed onto her armchair, face ashen.

I cheerfully sat beside the former First Lady, took her hand, and gently comforted her: “Mother has always attended church and hates conflict. How could you bear to see this?”

“Mother venerates God and abhors violence—I know this. But these staff, growing more and more insolent, have ruined your good name. You’re a kind grandmother, but thanks to them, people think you’re harsh and unfeeling. I simply can’t stand it! But rest assured, I’m not a heartless boss. These staff have been lightly punished.”

I told Quentin, “Those who restrained the daughter—send them to community service. Those who punished the daughter—fire. The rest, for the former First Lady’s sake, pardon and send home.”

Quentin nodded and went to carry out the orders.

The one who punished the daughter was a middle-aged matron, her face fierce—clearly not a good person. There was something mean in her eyes, like she enjoyed her authority too much.

As she was dragged away, she screamed, “Former First Lady, save me!” But her supposed savior was now busy playing the loving mother with me.

The former First Lady, clutching my hand, wept, “President, thank goodness you arrived in time! Otherwise, if word got out, who knows what outsiders would say about me.”

“It’s not your fault, mother, but these staff deceived you.”

I took the youngest daughter’s hand, looking at her bloody palms, almost moved to tears.

I knelt beside her, gently brushing the hair from her tear-streaked face. “I’m sorry it took me so long,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

“My poor daughter, I can’t bear to harm a hair on you, yet these wretches abused you so. I wish I could wipe out their entire families!”

The former First Lady shuddered, quickly summoned the White House physician, and apologized to the youngest, weeping, “All grandmother’s fault, I misjudged people. I only meant a light punishment, never thought they’d be so cruel. The President firing her is just.”

The youngest daughter was still dazed, looking from the former First Lady to me, unable to believe it.

The First Lady gave me a deep look—she was much more composed. Though she’d just been forced to stand and lost face, now she was gentle, calm, and respectful.

She smiled and said, “It’s not mother’s fault. You are grandmother, the elder—it’s right to discipline us. But the staff abused their authority, ruined your compassionate image, and damaged your bond with the youngest. Thanks to the President’s timely action, who knows what rumors might have spread otherwise.”

The former First Lady was pleased: “The First Lady is right. Today you and the youngest have been wronged.”

Then she rewarded the First Lady and youngest with many treasures. She had a knack for turning guilt into grand gestures.

The original owner was truly devoted to the former First Lady, always offering her the rarest gifts from all over. Antique jewelry, art pieces, artifacts—you name it.

The former First Lady had plenty of good things.

Even just one or two would make people outside fight for them.

Not to mention, to compensate the First Lady and her daughter, she handed out eight treasures at once, each worth a fortune—worth millions in today’s money.

With such generous rewards, even the biggest grievance would be nothing.

But someone was unhappy.

Natalie Jennings actually complained to the former First Lady: “Grand-aunt, wasn’t this diamond tiara meant for me?”

The former First Lady’s face darkened. “Silence!”

“The diamond tiara should naturally go to my own legitimate granddaughter.”

Not letting Natalie finish, the former First Lady continued, “You’ve been in the White House for days—your grandmother must miss you. Hurry home to her.”

Maybe spoiled from childhood, Natalie actually said, “Grand-aunt is kicking me out?”

The former First Lady’s face turned livid. Having such a clueless niece must be exhausting.

Of course, I knew the former First Lady was trying to send Natalie away to spare her from my wrath.

But I wouldn’t let her off, coldly questioning Natalie.

“Almost forgot about you. I heard you even hit the daughter’s head aide?”

Natalie didn’t care, but the former First Lady grabbed my hand and said, “President, my leg hurts again.”

The former First Lady had greatly helped the original owner ascend to the presidency.

Back when he was Vice President, he was nearly forced to resign by the late President’s suspicion.

The former First Lady knelt before the late President for a day and night to save him, leaving her with a leg ailment.

After becoming President, he was very devoted, personally attending to her.

But the former First Lady took his devotion for granted, always seeking help for her family.

If he refused, she would use her ‘leg ailment’ to guilt-trip him.

The original owner was soft-hearted, always giving in.

I shouted, “How do you serve the former First Lady? As long as it involves the Jennings women, her leg always gets worse.”

The former First Lady was anxious, switching from anger to sorrow: “The President forgets so easily—have you forgotten why I have this leg ailment?”

I said, “I remember. Whenever it rains, your leg acts up. Is it going to rain tonight?” Changing the subject, “I see no sign of rain. There must be another reason for your pain.”

The former First Lady’s chest heaved: “Perhaps from sitting too long. A little rest may help.”

The First Lady and I helped her to the inner chamber to rest.

As the doors slammed shut behind Lillian, I realized: in this house, power wasn’t just about titles. It was about who dared to use it.