A soft glow is cast across the room as you reach out instinctively, expecting to find Kamala beside you, but the sheets are cold, empty. You open your eyes, confusion settling in as you realize you're alone. Her side of the bed is already made, as if she'd never been there at all.
A pang of worry gnaws at you as you reach for your phone on the nightstand. There's a single message waiting:
"You don't need to come in for the rest of the week. Take some time."
The message is formal, impersonal—jarringly different from the night before. You stare at the screen, half-expecting another message to pop up, some explanation, but nothing comes.
There's no "Love, Kamala," no reassurance.
A strange unease settles over you as you get dressed, sliding into your usual business attire as if on autopilot. Kamala's brief message doesn't answer anything; if anything, it just raises more questions.
When you arrive at the White House, the familiar surroundings somehow feel hostile.
You approach the West Wing entrance, but before you can take another step inside, two security personnel step forward, blocking your way.
"Excuse me?" you ask, confusion quickly becomes rising irritation.
The guard's face is expressionless as he relays the message: "President Harris has informed us that you're not permitted to enter the West Wing. You're on leave and your clearances have been revoked temporarily. If you attempt to, we're instructed to escort you out."
Your jaw tightens. "President Harris." You mutter and roll your eyes, knowing exactly what she's done.
"This must be some kind of mistake," you argue, your voice low, controlled. "I didn't request leave."
The guard's tone remains matter-of-fact. "It's a direct order. You're to be sent home immediately if you attempt to enter. Your request was filed this morning and approved by president Harris herself"
Your patience is wearing thin as you go back and forth with the guards, their expressions unchanging as they repeat the same line about orders and protocol.
You blink at the guard, determined. "This has to be some kind of mistake. Let me talk to someone, anyone—this isn't right."
The guard's eyes flicker with a hint of sympathy, but he shakes his head. "We're under direct orders, ma'am. No exceptions."
You cross your arms, ignoring the guard's resigned look, you pull out your phone and dial Kamala's number. She picks up after a few rings, her tone warm and teasing, like she's fully aware of what she's done.
"Are you enjoying your time off, or are you about to go feral on those poor agents?" she asks, her voice playfully challenging.
You roll your eyes, half smirking despite yourself. "Kamala, I don't need time off."
"Oh, really?" she teases. "Because you sound about one second away from a hostage situation. Come on, Jess. Take the break—you need it. I didn't exactly go easy on you last night?"
"I don't need a break," you argue, exasperated. "I can handle this—whatever you think I'm struggling with."
Kamala chuckles, but there's a softness behind it. "Jess, you're acting like me. You're denying what's obvious. Just admit it. You need some rest." She pauses, her voice tender. "You've had to deal with so much. It's okay to just... relax, for a while."
You roll your eyes again, feeling a little foolish but warmed by the tone in her voice. She's being petty, yes—playful, even—but in that caring, sincere way that somehow makes everything feel lighter.
"Go home, Jess," she says softly, the humor fading a little.
"I've stressed you out enough already."
For a moment, you hesitate, but then you sigh, feeling the tension drain a bit. "Fine. But only because you're asking so nicely."
Kamala chuckles. "Good girl. Now, go home and don't make me come and punish you"
You hang up, feeling a mix of frustration and something hotter, something arousing. But as you turn and head back towards the exit, you can't help but smile a little, already feeling the pull to go home—for her, if for no other reason.
March 28th, 2025
The whining ring of your phone jolts you awake, pulling you from the soft warmth of sheets you've wrapped yourself in. Half-asleep, you fumble for the phone, squinting at the screen before answering with a groggy, "Hello?"
The staffer on the other end immediately starts rattling off today's schedule and updates, but their words barely register. Instead, your mind drifts back to the last two days, unexpected bliss you realized now you'd needed. You'd strolled through stores, treating yourself to new clothes, shoes, things you hadn't thought of in months. You even made time for a spa day, something slow and calm, nothing like the relentless pace you'd grown used to.
Working with Kamala, being her right hand through endless campaigning, late nights, early mornings—it had become second nature. You'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have free time, time that was yours, to do whatever you wanted without an agenda. But you had to admit you didn't want it any other way.
The staffer's voice fades into the background as you savor those memories, smiling a little to yourself. But then something they say cuts through, dragging you abruptly back to the present: "Trump's visit today will proceed as planned. The White House will shut down early, and only authorized personnel will be allowed restricted access starting at 11 A.M."
Your eyes snap open as you glance at the clock.
9:27 A.M.
The date rings a faint bell in your mind. Blinking, you check your phone's calendar, March 28th.
It hits you all at once, the visit you'd completely forgotten about.
The staffer's words echo in your mind now with sharp clarity: "The White House will shut down early, and only authorized personnel will have restricted access. Around 10 they'll stare, ushering stall and visitors out"
you stay silent, biting hard on your lip as you make low groans to pretend you're listening until they eventually hang up
"Shit!" you mutter
Your heart races as you scramble to get dressed, each action feeling like a sprint against the clock. You tug on your blouse, fingers fumbling as you button it up, cursing under your breath.
" Kamala knew exactly what she was doing, keeping me out of the way."
You pull on your heels, almost tripping as you hop across the room, grabbing your purse and keys in one swift motion.
With a sharp intake of breath, you burst out the door and dash toward your car. Sliding into the driver's seat, you slam the door shut, the engine roaring to life. Peeling out of the driveway, you tear down the road, mind racing just as fast. You grip the steering wheel tightly, frustration mingling with an anxious unease.
"Kamala knew damn well this visit was today—and she's trying to keep me from taking that damn gun, stupid 'you deserve time off bit '". You grit your teeth.
"Of course, she'd plan this to keep me busy and off her tail." And it fucking worked. You say slapping the steering wheel
The thought twists in your chest, stinging even more as you hit the main road and are met with a wall of bumper-to-bumper traffic. Your heart sinks, frustration replaced by a mounting panic as you grip the wheel harder, knuckles turning white.
"This can't be happening right now."
An uncomfortable silence fills the car as the reality settles in.
"She's going to that meeting alone," you realize,
"and it's with, of all people, Trump, UGH!" You can already picture Kamala's detached, guarded mask slips for Vanessa, so will it for Trump...
"Does she have her gun? Is it locked up like you asked? Are they already talking right now, what was the time?" You say as you look down at your cars clock
10:05 A.M You begin to wonder if your clearance is good enough to be allowed in, or if she still has the guards ready for you
Your breath catches, eyes narrowing as you take in the scene. Just up ahead, police cars flank a line of sleek, black vehicles inching forward through the standstill traffic. Red and blue lights flash, casting an ominous glow over the entire road as they lead the way.
There's no mistaking it—it's his motorcade.
"What in the hell?" you mutter, stomach sinking.
You grip the steering wheel, fingers trembling slightly as the realization fully hits. You're this close, just a few cars away, and yet there's a chasm separating you from the White House, from Kamala.
Every second those cars get closer to the White House, Kamala gets closer to facing him alone.
Your mind reels, replaying what little you overheard from the staffer, the bits, and pieces of protocol that seem insufficient now.
Would he say something to push her over the edge?
Would she pull the gun?
Or worse, would he have something planned that no one saw coming?
You stare ahead, heart pounding.
"If only I could get around this damn traffic."
You snap out of your trance, taking a sharp breath as the answer hits you. Ditch the car.
With a quick glance around, you pull off to the shoulder, ignoring the angry honks of irritated drivers trapped in the jam. You find a small side street a block away, pulling into the first empty spot you can find and practically vaulting out of the car. You leave everything behind except the essentials, slinging your purse over your shoulder as you half-run, half-speed-walk toward the White House. Your heels click loudly against the pavement as you weave around pedestrians, your heart thudding with each hurried step.
Your mind is racing just as fast as your feet. The motorcade was on its way, but you knew a different route, the path security had taken you on during Kamala's first few days in office, designed to avoid the main thoroughfare. You clutch your purse tightly as your jacket flaps behind you, determination driving you forward, step by step, toward her.
— — —
Inside the Oval Office, Kamala stands in front of the tall windows, her gaze fixed on the sprawl of Washington, D.C., stretched out before her like a battlefield. The city looks quiet from up here, shrouded in the cool, gray light filtering in through the windows. She takes a steadying breath, letting the calmness of the view settle her nerves as she prepares for what's ahead.
The room is dark, only faintly lit by the hazy morning light. It casts long, soft shadows over the polished wooden desk and the plush armchairs, making everything feel distant, almost surreal. She turns away from the window, her eyes drifting to her desk. Her movements are purposeful but deliberate, as if she's conserving every ounce of focus, every bit of control.
With a small sigh, Kamala leans down and opens one of the lower drawers, her gaze settling on its single, solid occupant: her gun.
As her hand reaches down, the memory of your voice echoes in her mind: "Show me your hip."
She pauses, jaw tightening as the reminder presses on her. She shakes her head, pushing the thought aside.
"You're not even here"
She tells herself, justifying the small lie as she tucks the gun into its holster on her hip. This was for protection, nothing more, she insists silently.
Kamala checks the time on the clock.
10:37 A.M.
One hour and eight minutes before the meeting.
In an hour, she'd be facing him, making sure her words are carefully chosen, expression neutral. She closes the drawer, her fingers brushing the edge of her desk as she steadies herself, walking away from it.
You glance down at your phone as you finally reach the last set of steps before the staff entrance. Your legs burn from the sprint, and your breathing is uneven, but you push forward.
10:48 A.M.
Every second is ticking away faster than you'd like. Your hand reaches out, gripping the cool railing as you take a steadying breath, heart pounding. You shove your phone back into your bag, refocusing on getting past security and into your office without raising any alarms. The thought of Kamala's orders makes you nervous, wondering if they'd still be enforcing them even if you had the clearance.
—
Kamala's heels echo through the empty White House hallways, each step deliberate, her stride strong as she makes her way toward the designated conference room. She can hear the faint murmur of distant voices, hushed and intent on spreading rumors about the shortened day, fading as she gets closer to her destination.
—
Back outside, you reach the entrance and duck through, catching sight of the nearby agents. You swallow, hoping they won't question you. There's no time for explanations or delays. As you stride purposefully past, one of them glances in your direction, his gaze lingering, and for a split second, your heart stalls.
'Stay calm' you remind yourself.
You're just here to grab something you forgot, is your line, You throw him a polite nod, offering the most casual smile you can manage, and keep moving, praying your clearance will hold up if he asks. You step further through the hallways, and make your way towards your office, slipping through pockets of shadows as if you're just another ghost in the White House halls.
—
Inside the conference room, Kamala settles into the farthest chair, the one directly across from the door, her gaze fixed on the entryway. Her fingers drum once against the table's polished surface before she stills them, inhaling deeply as she grounds herself.
She glances down at her watch. 10:57 A.M.
—
Trump arrives at the White House with his own team.
Unqualified fake Secret Service agents—men well-dressed and well rehearsed, hired to mimic a real group.
No one is aware, though...and by the time he reaches the conference room at exactly 11:00 A.M., the charade is complete. He is inside.
Everyone who hadn't made it out of the White House yet is trapped in there with them.
Kamala watches him enter, noting the slick grin stretched across his face, the poorly applied hairpiece crowning his head. He doesn't offer his hand, doesn't greet her. He simply sits, leaning back with an air of casual disregard that makes her jaw clench. Still, she keeps her composure, hands folded neatly on the table, her expression a measured calm. Trump wastes no time, jumping into conversation without pleasantries. Every chance he gets, he cuts her off, his words dripping with smug undertones. Kamala feels her pulse quicken, but she forces herself to listen, her eyes hardening with each interruption. It's a carefully orchestrated display, he wants to rule her, push her to crack. She knows this, yet still, a slow burn of frustration simmers beneath her controlled exterior.
Then he switches gears, a mocking smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he offers a false congratulation on her win.
"Big achievement, huh?" he sneers, leaning forward.
"You must be really proud of yourself." Before she can respond, he steers the conversation elsewhere, his eyes narrowing.
"Oh, and I had an interesting chat recently... with Vanessa."
The mere mention of Vanessa's name tightens a rope around Kamala's neck. She shifts, hands curling slightly as her mind reels, caught off guard by the direction he's taken. Her usual armor slips just enough for him to notice.
He smirks, pressing on.
"Yeah, I think the public would love to hear what Vanessa, and Marcus have to say about you." His voice grows cold
Kamala's discomfort only seems to fuel his cruelty.
He leans in, a gleam in his eye. "Must be hard," he adds, his voice laden with insinuation, "thinking about the next young girl you'll sink your claws into. Tell me, Kamala, what did you give that beautiful pair of legs on Christmas Eve?"
The words slice through the air, and Kamala's eyes narrow, yet she holds back a retort. But this time, he cuts too deep.
"Don't you mention her," she snaps, voice low but firm, the anger unmistakable. Her patience is fraying, and every nerve in her body is taut. "She's not involved. She's irrelevant to this meeting, and I suggest we stick to the agenda. We're here to discuss how we can move past these games of 'he said, she said.'"
"Fine I won't mention your girlfriend, or do you and Beyoncé call her your stud at those dance parties" he said as his eyes become thin, and he tilts his head and a smirk, as if he's done something, Kamala returns and confused look as he quickly redirects himself seeing his attempt at making a 'black joke'.
Trump leans back, eyes gleaming with that self-assured smile. His voice is low, almost mocking.
"Whatever you call it, I think you should have the charges dropped, and we can move past all this," he says smoothly, as if it's a reasonable request.
"No one believes I could've actually done any of those things, Kamala. Planning your murder? C'mon," he scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. "You said it yourself—all I've got are 'concepts' of a plan, nothing actionable."
Kamala rolls her eyes, barely masking her disdain. It's clear to her that they'll be locked in this room all day unless one of them finally bends—and it's certainly not going to be her.
"No," she says, her voice steady,
"That's not happening. Not now, not ever. You nearly got two people killed, Donald. And you were directly involved in a conspiracy to assassinate a sitting president. What you did wasn't just reckless; it was an act of terrorism." Her gaze hardens, her words cutting through the tension in the room.
"You're not getting away with it, especially while I'm in office. So, if that's all you came here to say, then I guess you're shi—"
A sudden, sharp sound, a gunshot.
Kamala's shoulders tense, and she sits up straighter, instincts kicking in as she darts a glance at the door. Her hand, hidden below the massive conference table, moves closer to her hip, where her fingers tighten around her own gun. Her eyes flicker to Trump's face, gauging his reaction, but he just sits there, unfazed, a knowing smile spreading across his face.
The door opens quietly, and an agent steps in, weapon drawn, the muzzle aimed squarely at Kamala. They take a position just behind Trump, their stance professional. Trump leans forward, watching Kamala's expression with a twisted satisfaction.
"If my agents don't convince you to do as I suggest" he drawls, "Foreign agents will. And believe me Harris they can make things extremely painful for you, Rose, and that sister and those nieces you've got"
Kamala's gaze shifts to the agent, then back to Trump. "Is that supposed to scare me?" she retorts, her voice unwavering.
Trump chuckles, shaking his head.
"Oh, Kamala, you're so naive. You think the public will keep supporting you if they knew you manipulated everyone just to get sympathy points?" He lifts a brow, his tone almost playful. "Especially after a story breaks from a very trusted source about how you were lying this whole time. Say, someone like... Vanessa."
Kamala's jaw tightens, but she forces herself to maintain her composure. She knows exactly what he's doing.
"Vanessa?" she says, the name bitter on her tongue.
"So, what? You're forcing her into releasing some bogus statement, and you actually think that'll be enough to tarnish me?"
"Not just any statement, Kamala. She's going to tell the world you lied. That everything you've ever said about me—all those wild accusations, the conspiracies, your desperate sob stories, was all a ploy. The abuse, the corruption, the threats. Fabricated," he sneers, leaning in closer.
"She'll say you created a sob story to gain sympathy and push your radical policies. And what's better? She'll be willing to do it live, on Fox."
Kamala feels a flare of anger simmering in her chest. She can't let him see it, though. "And you think people will just believe that?"
"Of course they will. Especially coming from her while crying!" he laughed, "The poor girl, manipulated and lied to by the 'power-hungry' president."
Kamala clenches her jaw, resisting the urge to react. She knows she can't give him that satisfaction. Her hand moves from her gun, no use in letting them know you have it.
You rush through the halls, heart hammering as you make it to your office. Desperately rummaging through papers, you finally find the memo with the conference room number—36A. Just then, a gunshot echoes down the halls. Your stomach clenches, but this isn't the first time you've heard that sound in a place meant to be safe.
Gunfire erupts in rapid bursts, shouts, and the sickening sounds of bodies hitting the floor filling the silence between shots.
The fake Secret Service agents are attacking, overpowering staff and taking real agents' hostage.
You run to the door and press your ear to it, listening to the sound of doors slamming down the hallway as the intruders sweep each room.
The door next to yours slams open, and in a split-second decision, you dive under your desk, clutching the memo and holding your breath. A rush of footsteps fills the hallway, and then, your door bursts open. You keep a hand clamped over your mouth, forcing yourself to stay still, praying they'll move on. After a tense pause, the footsteps retreat, and you hear them continue up the hall. You exhale slowly, counting before daring to peek out.
Glancing at the memo in your hand, you realize there's no time to waste. Kamala's in 36A, downstairs. You can make it, but there's no way you can risk being heard. Your heels suddenly feel weights.
You wince at the thought of leaving them, but as you slip them off and place them neatly by the door, you know Kamala's safety is worth more than any shoes. With the utmost caution, you make your way down the hall, footsteps silent against the polished floors. Every noise, each gunshot, each distant shout, sends a spike of adrenaline through you, but you grit your teeth and stay focused, your eyes fixed on the stairwell.
Taking a sharp right at the base of the stairs, you finally spot the door to 36A, slightly ajar. Quietly, you slip inside, closing the door behind you with a relieved sigh. Just as you start to turn, you're backed into something cold and metallic. You freeze.
It's the barrel of a gun.
You feel yourself going rigid, as you turn, caught between Kamala's fearful gaze and Trump's smug satisfaction as he starts your first meeting by stepping closer, his expression twisted into a smirk.
"Nice to finally meet you, Miss Rose," he says smoothly, extending a hand as if this were a formal introduction.
It hits you that Trump is behind this, all without issue. The gunshots and chaos outside swell with intensity, each shot echoing in your mind. The White House is under siege, and yet, here you are, caught in a twisted, staged encounter in a room that becomes more like a trap with each passing second.
Trump's grip on your hand is firm, and before you can react, he lifts it to his mouth and presses a mocking kiss to your knuckles.
"A beautiful woman like you shouldn't waste herself on that woman," he sneers, his eyes sliding pointedly to Kamala.
The hatred in his gaze is chilling.
You attempt to pull your hand away, but he tightens his grip, drawing you close, so close you can smell the cloying scent of cologne mixed with something old, him.
"Let go of me," you say, your voice clear yet low.
Kamala's expression shifts, anger simmering behind her otherwise calm facade. Trump ignores you, his fingers grazing the curve of your hip as his hand slides lower, possessively grabbing at your backside. You recoil, batting his hand away, and he laughs, a deep, unsettling sound that echoes throughout the room.
"Careful now," he warns, smirking.
"Harris might be gentle with you, but I don't have to be. Especially not with a color like you." The word drips with contempt, and you feel a surge of anger bubble within you, swallowing hard to keep from reacting.
Kamala shifts in her seat, and her hand inches toward her gun, but Trump catches the movement, holding up a finger to her, wagging it like she's a disobedient child. "Don't even think about it," he murmurs, pressing his lips together in a faux pout.
"Wouldn't want anything bad to happen here." He hands taking hold of your arm with definite grip yanking you closer to him, you yelp slightly as Kamala relaxed back into her chair eyes flickering between your discomforted expression and his movements to sit
You hold your breath as he pulls you onto his lap, wrapping an arm around you, trapping you against him. It's almost like a grotesque mockery of a holiday photo with Santa, only this is anything but innocent. He keeps you close, his hands sliding over you with intentional slowness, his fingers grazing your shoulder and squeezing your arm. Every movement is deliberate, meant to make you feel small.
He glances over at Kamala, satisfaction in his eyes.
"See, Harris? This is what real power looks like. The ability to take whatever—or whoever—you want." He tightens his hold on you, pulling you against him, and your face contorts with disgust. Kamala's face is a mask, but you can see the fury in her eyes, the way her fingers clench, the silent rage simmering.
The air grows thick with tension, and you feel his breath hot on your cheek.
"Now," he says, his voice smooth and cutting,
"Let's talk about that press release. Shall we, Jessica, know all about those, right? I have Vanessa on standby, ready to tell Fox everything. She's willing to say you manipulated her, made her say all those things about me, to get sympathy points, make the public think you're some poor little victim, rather than the manipulator you really are."
"There's evidence dumb-"
"You two doctored it." He snapped as he shook you violently to silence you
Kamala's expression is a mixture of fury and disgust, her jaw clenched as he continues.
"We'll get her to recant, make a nice little statement about how you've twisted her, Marcus too—hell, he's more than ready to tell the world about the monster you are if it pays those debts." He leans back, giving Kamala a mocking, triumphant smile.
"And you know what the beauty of it is? I'll have the world eating out of my hand, and your own people will turn on you."
Kamala sits stone-still, her face a mask of forced composure, but her hand twitches trying to stop from taking hold of her gun while you were there. The weight of her broken promise worsening her predicament, you were in the crossfire now.
"You really think people will believe your lies over me?" She lets out a short, harsh laugh, though her hand remains carefully still.
"You're so desperate to ruin me, you're willing to drag others you've already ruined back into your games? You're a sore loser." you jump in again, not your smartest idea
His eyes darken, and he shifts his hold on you, tugging you closer as he leans forward, lowering his voice.
"Call it me being desperate. But you're the one who'll be desperate to even find a job when this is all over." He smiles coldly, his eyes glinting with malice
. "By the end of today, you'll be nothing but a disgraced figure on every screen in America."
Just then, a sound cuts through the tense silence—a loud, panicked knock at the door. Trump stiffens, and his grip on you loosens slightly. The door swings open, and a real Secret Service agent steps into the room, surveying the scene with a wary gaze.
"Madam President," he says, nodding toward Kamala.
"The White House has been compromised. As protocol dictates, we need to move you, Mr. Trump, and Ms. Rose to the panic room in the lower levels. It's safer down there."
Kamala's eyes flicker to the fake agent's gun, still visible but now momentarily unnoticed by the real agent. Her gaze shifts to Trump, her expression deadly calm as he throws her a warning look, daring her to say anything as his hand tightens around your arm once again. His fingers press into you harder, this time sure to leave a bruise. Kamala meets the real agent's eyes, her voice steady and deliberate.
"Everything is fine," she says slowly, a hint of steel in her voice. "Please, lead the way."
The real agent nods.
Kamala's calm facade barely cracks as the real Secret Service agent gestures toward a hidden doorway concealed behind a sliding panel in the conference room wall. She moves first, following the agent through the dim passage that winds down to the lower levels of the White House. Behind her, Trump gives you a rough push, his fingers pressing hard enough to leave bruises, his grip ironclad. The fake agent lingers just a step behind him, the cold glint of his gun still at the ready
As you descend deeper into the White House, the sounds of gunfire and shouts echo from above. Your heart pounds with each step, every inch of your body tense, painfully aware of Trump's hand still clutching your arm. Kamala walks ahead, keeping her composure, but you can sense her eyes always find their way back to you. Besides assessing her options as they grow more limited by the second, she's making sure Trump doesn't touch you more than he has.
You can help but feel stupid at this moment, what if Kamala had been alone with him?
The air feels colder as you all descend further into the basement. The path opens into a large, reinforced panic room designed for absolute security, reinforced beneath layers of concrete and steel. A sterile, utilitarian space with a metal table, six chairs, and a single desk with a phone and small, glowing security panel. It's reminiscent of the conference room above, but without any windows, and the quiet in here feels oppressive. The real agent nods once to Kamala as they all step inside, but you can see Trump's false agent slide his hand toward his twitch the moment they're shut inside.
"Thank you, Agent," Kamala says, her voice calm but her gaze steely, even as Trump's hand tightens once more on your arm. She takes a measured step forward, barely keeping her expression under control.
The real agent steps forward to secure the door, but as soon as it seals shut, Trump locks eyes with his man. His smug expression twists into a sick smile as he gives a barely perceptible nod. In an instant, the fake agent draws his gun and fires.
It happens in an instant.
The gunshot rings out, echoing off the steel walls. For a moment, everything goes still. The real agent falls forward, a look of shock frozen on his face as he crumples to the floor, lifeless. The silence that follows feels heavier than the panic room's reinforced walls.
You barely suppress a horrified gasp, instinctively stepping back, but Trump's grip on your arm tightens, his fingers digging in like claws. A twisted grin spreads across his face as he watches you struggle. Kamala's reaction, though, is almost indifferent. She stands still, barely blinking as her gaze fixes on the fallen agent. Her expression is stone, not a flicker of emotion crossing her face. But as you watch her closely, you see her jaw clench and her hands tighten into fists at her sides. Her eyes linger on the agent's body, and there's a flicker of something—hope, that seems to fade.
Your own panic surges, threatening to spill over. This is the second time you've witnessed someone shot and killed right in front of you. The room spins slightly, and it takes every bit of strength you have to keep from crying out or collapsing. Your heart pounds so loudly it feels like everyone in the room can hear it.
Kamala finally tears her gaze away from the body, fixing Trump with a hard, calculated stare. If she's afraid, she doesn't let it show. Her calmness is eerie, unsettling. In a different moment, you'd feel relief at her strength, but right now, all you feel is fear—fear for yourself, fear for her, fear you'll never leave this place.
His hand slides down your arm, fingers pressing harder, reveling in the power he holds over both of you. "So, shall we continue with the statement?"
Kamala's voice is low, as she looks up, she's firm as she speaks. "If I agree to this, you let her go unharmed."
Trump's grin widens. "Oh, Madam President, that's entirely up to you."
Kamala doesn't respond, but her fingers twitch, subtly curling tighter. She glances once more at the agent's body, her eyes colder than ever, and for a split second, you think you see her resolve harden.
"Now then," Trump says, releasing your arm and nudging you forward so that you're caught between him and Kamala.
Trump gestures toward the chair at the end of the table. "Have a seat, Madam President. We're going to have a little chat," he sneers, nodding to his agent to keep his weapon trained on you.
He looks at Kamala with a twisted grin, his voice low and mocking. He takes the time to allow them both to sit down to ensure Kamala won't object.
He pulls you along to sit on his lap...
"Time to set things right, Madam President. Here's what's going to happen. You're going to recant every single thing you've said about me, Vanessa, Marcus—all of it. The interviews, the evidence, your speeches—they're all going to be admitted as fabrications. You're going to say you made it all up to garner sympathy, boost your ratings, get the public behind you."
There's a silence for a moment before Kamala speaks.
"You put on this pathetic display to make me step down, you want me to ruin my career just to save myself?" Kamala's hands are clenched into fists, her face composed but deadly serious.
"You think one statement will change everything? You think I'm going to throw away everything I've worked for, every single piece of truth we've put into the public eye, just to save my own skin?"
Trump laughs, a slow, mocking sound that fills the room. His face darkens, and leans closer to you, chest against your back, and arm holding steady to your wrists to keep you there. He takes in a sharp breath, a shadow falling over his expression.
"It's not just your skin on the line, Harris." He gestures toward you
"You don't do what I say, she's the one who pays."
"But maybe I should rephrase it, since you don't fully understand. You're going to do what I say whether you like it or not, or one of you pays. And I think I like payment in the form of a young woman" he continues as you begin to try to pull away.
You thrash against him, a soft whimper escaping your lips before he suddenly throws you forward and hastily pulls you back to make you calm down. Kamala crosses her arms, unyielding. You wonder if she's blocking out what he's doing or about to blow his brains out. But as she goes to speak, her voice is firm.
"You really think I'd hand you the presidency after everything you've done? You're delusional."
"Oh, I don't need you to hand it to me," Trump replies with a chilling smile, giving you a harsh tug, pulling you closer.
His fingers dig into your skin as he presses you down onto him, his agent still standing guard. He leans in, eyes narrowing. "You're going to give it to me, or beg for my mercy because if you don't, I'll make sure she suffers for it."
You tense as his words sink in, the threat hanging heavily in the air.
Kamala's jaw clenches, her gaze flickering briefly to you. You can see the gears turning, her mind racing to find a way out of this, to regain control, but Trump's winning...
"Now," he says, sitting his phone propped up, its camera lens pointing directly at her.
"Let's begin, shall we?" he clicks a button as you start down at the screen, eyes glued to Kamala as she sits there.
Kamala's eyes darted to the phone, then back to Trump. She lets out a slow breath, her voice dangerously calm. "If you think I'll break just because you're holding someone I care about, you're sorely mistaken." she says coldly as your heart sinks
You love Kamala, but you aren't sure she won't throw you to the wind to save herself.
Trump's face tightens, his smile falling as he clenches his jaw. He presses harder, leaning in close. "You will say exactly what I tell you, or I'll make sure she never leaves this room."
The agent raises his gun again, aiming it directly at you.
You meet Kamala's gaze, feeling her desperation and fury as she looks between you and Trump, but she keeps her voice steady.
"Lie to the American people and declare it all false, just like that? Do you expect anyone to believe that my entire administration has been one big performance?"
Trump's mouth curves into a smirk. "Oh, they'll believe it, especially once Vanessa and Marcus make their statements on Fox. They're ready to give the public what they want to hear...how you manipulated them, how you brainwashed them to serve your agenda."
Kamala's jaw tightens, and she takes a slow, controlled breath. "Even if I did agree, that doesn't mean you'll get what you want. Resigning doesn't hand you the presidency or the vice presidency; it doesn't change the line of succession."
He shrugs, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "Well, you'll just have to sign an executive order declaring me as your chosen successor. All it takes is a pen stroke, and I'm in."
Kamala's eyes flash. "That's not how it works, and you know it. Even if you managed to pressure me into doing this, I can't rewrite the Constitution with an executive order."
"JUST DO IT!" He yelled in her face as he slammed his hand down on the table, you flinched as he did so.
"You'll say whatever I tell you to say, Harris. You'll tell the country you've chosen to install me as President, and that's all anyone will need to hear." He shifts, glancing at his agent, who keeps the gun trained on you.
"Now, let's get this over with. It'd be a shame if Miss Rose here suffered because of your stubbornness."
A new wave of fear washes over you, but she holds Trump's gaze, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her break. Kamala's eyes shift subtly, the faintest flicker of a plan forming.
"Fine," Kamala finally says, her voice steady but eyes unyielding. She glances down at the phone and then to you, her gaze softening just for a second.
"But I'd like to ask for one last thing, first."
Trump raises an eyebrow, surprised by her sudden compliance. "Go on."
"Let her go, please" Kamala says, her voice dropping, calm and clear. "If you want me to say whatever lies you want, you'll let her go. No one has to know she was here."
Trump's eyes narrow, his fingers tapping the table thoughtfully. "Tempting offer, but why would I let her go? You'd be far too comfortable knowing she's safe."
Kamala leans forward, her gaze fierce. "Because you need her alive to get what you want. The only way I'll cooperate is if she walks out of here unharmed."
For a moment, Trump seems to consider her words, his expression unreadable. His grip loosens just slightly as he glances between the two of you.
He isn't buying it.
His grip suddenly tightens enough to send pain shooting through your arm. You face contorts.
"I'll make the statement, I'll even give the order. But you don't lay a finger on her! " Kamala exclaims as she shuts her eyes and quickly rises to her feet, almost launching across the table to get you away from him. Your hand shoots out to stop her, but you both quickly compose yourself, remembering the gun mere inches away from both your skulls.
"You can force my hand, Trump, but you'll never get the loyalty of the American people. They'll see right through you."
He scoffs, waving off her words. "What matters is control, not loyalty. And by the end of today, you'll be nothing but a footnote."
Kamala stares him down, her expression unyielding. "If you think you can use fear to break me, you're mistaken."
Trump laughs softly, a sinister sound that echoes off the walls. "We'll see, won't we?" He gestures to his agent, who keeps the gun trained on you as Kamala is forced to sit at the table. Trump pulls out a pen and a pad, sliding them across to her. "Write down your statement. And don't miss a word." he says as he reaches over to a blank notepad and pen and slides them to Kamala
She glances at the paper, then back to you.
She takes the pen, her hand steady but her eyes blazing with silent resistance. As she begins to write, Trump leans in, his gaze flicking between you and Kamala with smug satisfaction, knowing he's backed her into a corner.
Kamala grips the pen, her expression fiercely controlled as she begins to write, her gaze steady despite Trump's intense scrutiny. Each stroke of the pen is deliberate, precise. She carefully embeds her true message within the words on the page, concealing it from Trump but leaving it plain for anyone who might later find the letter and understand the need to look deeper. Trump stands close by, a triumphant smirk on his face as he watches her, sure that he's broken her down enough to get what he wants. He leans in, eyes fixed on the paper, relishing each word she writes... .
---
> "To Marcus Maddox, Vanessa Young, and Donald Trump,
> HOSTILE behavior on my part in recent months may have led to certain misunderstandings. I realize now that statements I made regarding Mr. Trump's involvement with both Marcus Maddox and Vanessa Young were regrettably misinformed. Falsified evidence created by my team under direct order from me was used to obtain public sympathy and support.
> PRESIDENTIAL actions must remain above reproach, and I apologize deeply for any misleading accusations I have made, especially those that suggested impropriety by Mr. Trump and his affiliates. I understand and take full responsibility for failure to act according to the standards of a president.
> FALSE claims were spread through my words without sufficient evidence to support them. I should have exercised restraint in my language, recognizing the potential harm my statements would cause.
> STATEMENTS shared in public forums were based on misunderstandings and personal judgments. I hereby retract these assertions and claims, I regret any damage caused to Mr. Trump's reputation.
---
With each capitalized letter starting a line, Kamala's true message spells out "HOSTAGE PRESIDENT FALSE STATEMENTS."
---
As she finishes, Trump leans closer, his smug expression widening as he skims over her words, sure that he's won.
"Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he sneers, reaching over to tear the paper from the notepad. His fingers linger over it in triumph before he carefully folds it, tucking it into his pocket with a satisfied smirk.
Kamala holds his gaze, her expression as steady as stone. "You can force my hand, Trump, but you'll never get the American people."
He scoffs, waving her off dismissively. "What matters is control, not loyalty." His hand tightens possessively around your arm, pulling you closer as he turns his gaze back to Kamala, his eyes gleaming with a twisted sense of power.
You swallow hard, the weight of her forced statement crashing down on you. The tears you were holding back finally spillover as you realize the gravity of what she's had to write, if he walked out of that room... Kamala's expression softens for a fleeting moment as she meets your gaze, offering you a silent reassurance.
"Well, Kamala, it was fun talking, but I think it's time we end things." Trump's voice is icy, casual, as he nods to his fake agent. The agent raises their gun and aims it at you, their gaze cold and unfeeling. Trump roughly pushes you off him, and you stumble forward, catching yourself just in time to face the barrel pointed at you,
Your heart races. Tears blur your vision as you close your eyes, raising your hands defensively, bracing for the end. You can almost feel the cold metal pressing against you, and a quiet, resigned numbness fills you.
A gunshot rings out, sharp and deafening...
"Jessica!" Kamala exclaims as she tries to reach you