“They’re starting to line everyone up.”
I follow her out of the room, down another hallway, and toward the staging area where the family is being assembled. My father is already there, looking presidential in his navy suit, an American flag pin on his lapel. He’s talking to the Chief Justice, laughing at something, completely at ease.
He doesn’t see me approach, doesn’t notice when I take my place in the family lineup, doesn’t acknowledge my presence until the photographer calls for our attention.
Then he looks at me, and his smile freezes for just a fraction of a second.
“Mara, you look lovely,” he says.
“Thank you, Mr. President-Elect.”
The title is technically correct—he won’t be President until he takes the oath—but using it now feels like a small rebellion.
He notices—I can tell by the way his jaw tightens infinitesimally.
But we’re surrounded by staff and photographers and important people, so he can’t say anything. He can only stand there and play the role of proud father while I play the role of dutiful daughter.
The photographer arranges us—Father in the center, Mother on his right, me on his left, Milo beside me. We smile. We pose. We look like the perfect American family.
The pictures will be beautiful.
The pictures will be lies.
“It’s time. President-Elect Black, if you’ll follow me. Family members, you’ll be escorted to your seats on the platform,” an aide announces.
This is it—the moment everything changes. The moment my father becomes the most powerful man in the world.
I take my seat on the platform, arranged between my mother and Milo, with a perfect view of the podium where my father will take his oath. The crowd below is massive—tens of thousands of people stretching down the Mall as far as I can see.
The ceremony begins with the national anthem, everyone standing with hands over their hearts. Then prayers, speeches, musical performances—all the pomp and circumstance of democracy in action.
And then it’s time.
The Chief Justice steps forward and my father stands, resting his hand on the Bible.
“Repeat after me. I, Clark James Black …” the Chief Justice says.
“I, Clark James Black...”
“Do solemnly swear…”
“Do solemnly swear...”
“That I will faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States...”
I should be proud. Should be moved by this historic moment, this peaceful transfer of power, this demonstration of democracy.
Instead, all I can think about is Evangeline’s body floating in the catacombs. About the girls sold at Syndicate auctions. About Chase’s hands on my throat and my father’s signature on the engagement announcement.
About all the ways power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
“So help me God,” my father finishes.
The crowd erupts and cannons fire—a 21-gun salute that makes me flinch despite knowing it’s coming. The Marine Band launches into “Hail to the Chief,” and my father turns to the crowd, hand raised, that megawatt smile firmly in place.
President Clark Black.
My father, the monster.
