He gives his inaugural address. The words are pretty—carefully crafted by speechwriters who know how to manipulate emotion. The crowd eats it up.
The speech concludes to thunderous applause, and my father steps back from the podium. Then we’re all standing, waving, playing our parts for the cameras one more time.
After, we’re hustled off the platform, back into the Capitol, and toward the limousines waiting to take us to the parade route.
“Well done, dear,” my mother says, adjusting my coat. “You looked perfect up there.”
“That’s all that matters, right?” I can’t quite keep the bitterness from my voice.
She pauses, studying me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. “Mara?—”
“I’m fine, Mother. Just tired.”
“The day’s not over yet. We still have the parade, the ball, the dinner?—”
“I know the schedule.”
“Then you know you need to pace yourself. No more of this... attitude. Not today.”
She sighs, and for just a moment, she looks old—tired. Maybe even sad.
But then the moment passes and she’s Eleanor Black again—perfect, poised, unshakeable.
“Come along,” she says. “The cars are waiting.”
I follow her out to where the motorcade is assembled, a long line of black vehicles with flags and security details and all the trappings of power.
But before I reach our designated car, a hand catches my elbow.
Milo.
“Ride with us,” he says, gesturing to where Valen and Kade are waiting by a different vehicle. “Father won’t notice, and you look like you need a break from Mother’s scrutiny.”
I glance at my mother, who’s already being helped into the lead vehicle by a Secret Service agent.
“She’ll notice eventually,” I warn.
“By then we’ll be at the White House and there will be too much chaos for her to say anything.” Milo tugs me toward the other car. “Come on. Consider it your twin using his one useful power: being equally expected and therefore interchangeable.”
I let him pull me into the car with Valen and Kade. The door shuts, and we’re moving—part of the long procession heading down Pennsylvania Avenue toward 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
Toward the White House.
Toward whatever comes next.
“That went well,” Valen says, watching the crowds through the tinted windows. “No one tried to assassinate your father, the oath went smoothly, and you managed to look appropriately dutiful without vomiting on camera.”
“The bar is so low it’s in Hell,” I mutter.
Kade laughs. “She’s not wrong.”
“Tonight is going to be harder. The inaugural ball, the dinner—that’s when the Syndicate will really be out in full force. Every major player will be there, celebrating their puppet’s ascension,” Milo says.
“We’ll be ready,” Valen says.
“Then we strike,” I finish.
The car rolls on, carrying us toward the next performance, the next lie, the next battle in a war most people don’t even know is happening.
