Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Charlotte
The air in the General Assembly Hall was heavy with anticipation and the faint smell of old paper, perfume, and too many diplomats packed into one gilded chamber.
I sat in the United States’ designated seat, flanked by my deputy Benicio on the left and a quiet, tight-lipped aide on my right whose name I still didn’t know.
My heart was pounding.
The great ceiling panels loomed above us like a celestial ribcage, the huge golden emblem of the United Nations gleaming down at the center of it all.
Delegates rustled papers, checked phones, whispered to aides.
There was a low hum of international breath.
My hands rested on the folder in front of me—the one that contained both versions of the speech.
I’d made my choice before dawn, but the folder still felt like a live wire buzzing under my fingertips.
Katya’s face flickered in my mind.
She hadn’t asked questions when I dropped her off at her building that morning.
She didn’t need to. I’d barely been able to form words.
John had been waiting at the steps like a shadow made of muscle and suspicion, arms folded, brow furrowed.
He watched me like a hawk as I leaned in to kiss Katya’s cheek, murmured something forgettable about calling her later.
The President of the General Assembly, an even-voiced diplomat from Ghana, struck the gavel.
“I now declare the General Assembly of the United Nations in session. We will begin today’s agenda with statements from Member States concerning election integrity and foreign interference.
The floor is now given to Her Excellency Ambassador Marianne Lefevre, Permanent Representative of the French Republic. ”
Applause followed as the French ambassador made her way to the central podium.
She was a striking woman in her early fifties, tall and unapologetically elegant in a sharp navy suit.
Her voice, when she began, rang clear and resonant in French, a simultaneous translation feeding through the earpieces of every delegate.
“We are no longer speaking in hypotheticals,” she began, fire already threading through her tone.
“The sovereignty of our electoral systems is under assault. Belaruska has crossed a line—again—by funding disinformation campaigns, hacking party servers, and deploying operatives within our borders to stoke division and mistrust.”
Murmurs rippled through the chamber. She paused, her eyes scanning the room like a woman who refused to be dismissed.
“France will not stand by while democracy is weaponized. We will not tolerate cyber attacks that threaten our institutions, nor the corrupting influence of foreign regimes that sow chaos to tighten their grip on power. We demand consequences—real ones. Sanctions, accountability, and a global reaffirmation that our shared values are not for sale.”
She ended to scattered applause, a few delegates nodding vigorously, others stone-faced. I caught the briefest eye contact with her as she returned to her seat. Her gaze was unwavering.
My chest ached.
She’d spoken with such clarity, such certainty. I wondered if I would appear that confident when I took the podium. Would my voice tremble? Would they see the hesitation clinging to my edges?
The President struck the gavel again.
“The floor is now given to His Excellency Ambassador Mikhail Ivanovich Karpov, Permanent Representative of the Russian Federation.”
There was a stillness as Karpov stood. The silence wasn’t reverent—it was wary. Karpov was a wolf in diplomat’s clothing. His suit was tailored, his tie expensive, but everything about him exuded the chill of a man who knew how to smile while slipping the knife in.
He approached the podium with calculated slowness, lips already curled into that smirk he wore like a shield.
“Colleagues,” he said smoothly, the translator barely keeping pace with the low purr of his Russian, “it is unfortunate that today we must waste this chamber’s time with baseless accusations and political theater.”
My fingers curled tighter around the folder.
“It is convenient, is it not,” Karpov continued, “for certain Western nations to blame external forces for their internal failures? When the French people disagree with their leaders, it must be Belaruska’s fault. When Americans lose faith in their institutions, surely the Russians are behind it.”
His eyes swept the room, deliberately, theatrically. He wasn’t addressing the Assembly. He was performing for the cameras.
“Let me be clear. The Russian Federation categorically denies any suggestion that we—or our allies—have interfered in the sovereign elections of another nation. We believe in national sovereignty. We respect international law. And we urge this body to focus not on scapegoating, but on fostering cooperation.”
Lies. Every damn word of it.
And yet, there were nods. A few murmurs of agreement from delegations whose governments couldn’t afford to antagonize Moscow. Some because of economic ties. Others because they feared what would happen if they stood up.
I stared at Karpov, bile rising in my throat.
He was a master of implication, of rhetorical sleight of hand. He never denied Belaruska’s involvement directly. Karpov didn’t have to. He cloaked it in mockery and turned the lens on everyone else.
He finished with a smile.
“I thank you, Madam President.”
Polite applause followed. Forced, shallow.
Karpov returned to his seat two rows ahead of me. He didn’t glance back, but I could feel him—like a storm gathering at the edge of a field.
The gavel struck again.
“The floor is now given to Her Excellency Charlotte Jason Tyler, Permanent Representative of the United States of America.”
My stomach twisted. I stood slowly, folder in hand, heels clicking against the polished floor as I made my way to the podium.
Every step rang with the weight of what I was about to do.
I looked out over the great sea of faces—rows upon rows of delegates, ambassadors, ministers, and aides. Some were attentive, some bored, some already composing rebuttals in their heads. It should have been terrifying. Instead, it felt like I wasn’t even inside my own body.
For a long moment, I said nothing.
The silence stretched.
I opened the folder slowly. My hand trembled, just a little, but I kept my face still. I stared down at the pages. The top copy was mine—the version that condemned Belaruska plainly and without euphemism. The one that told the truth.
It was an excellent speech. Honest. Sharp. Full of conviction.
And I knew exactly what it would cost me.
I could already feel the words swelling inside me, the first sentence on the tip of my tongue.
Then I saw him.
A subtle shift in the room, and a few heads turned. Secretary of State Whitaker had just entered the chamber through the side doors, flanked by his aides. He didn’t take a seat. Whitaker didn’t need to. He just stood there at the edge of the room, his eyes locked on me.
My strength crumbled.
It happened so fast it was almost mechanical. My hand moved without thinking, sliding the top pages to the back of the folder, revealing the government-approved version underneath. The one with the sanitized language, the soft warnings, and the platitudes.
I felt numb as the words spilled from my lips.
“Madam President, distinguished delegates, esteemed colleagues—on behalf of the United States of America, I am honored to address this assembly on the matter of electoral transparency and international cooperation.”
Somehow, my voice didn’t shake.
“The United States reaffirms its commitment to democratic values and the peaceful exchange of ideas. We recognize that in today’s interconnected world, safeguarding electoral integrity is a responsibility we all share.
We must act not in division, but in unity, to promote systems that are secure, fair, and representative of our diverse populations. ”
I heard it for what it was. Fluff. A soft, bloated nothingburger of diplomatic non-speak. I said everything and absolutely nothing.
I chanced a glance to my left.
Ambassador Lefevre was shaking her head slowly, her mouth pulled tight in a grim line. She looked like she’d just been betrayed in real time—and maybe she had. She’d spoken with fire. And here I was, dousing it with a bucket of lukewarm piss.
Across the hall, Ambassador Karpov was positively glowing. That smirk of his had stretched into a full, self-satisfied grin.
And then—God help me—I looked at Whitaker.
He nodded once. That was all. A single, precise nod of approval. And then, without ceremony, he turned and walked out of the room.
I kept reading.
“We believe in constructive dialogue and diplomacy as the cornerstone of mutual respect. Let us not fall prey to division or escalation, but instead join together to reaffirm our commitment to international norms and cooperative progress.”
Katya’s face came to me suddenly. Clear and vivid. She would hate this speech. She would call it what it was: cowardice dressed as decorum.
And she’d be right.
But then, I reminded myself—this wasn’t her job. It was mine. I was the face of American diplomacy, not some activist playing rebel in the margins. I was here to represent the administration, the State Department, the quiet machinery of stability.
I’d accepted that role. No one forced me.
And if I hadn’t wanted to toe the line, maybe I shouldn’t have taken the damn job.
I finished the speech.
“Let us go forward not with blame, but with purpose. Not with suspicion, but with resolve. Thank you.”
I stepped back. The applause came quickly—loudest from the Russian and Belaruskan delegations, joined by a few states who would benefit from my timidity. The rest of the chamber? Shell-shocked silence. A few polite claps. Many weren’t clapping at all.
I sat back down, feeling like I’d just walked off a cliff.
Benicio leaned in, his brow furrowed, but I didn’t hear what he said.
I couldn’t hear anything.
My ears were ringing.
I wanted to go back in time. To say the words I’d written. To see the look on Karpov’s face then—not the victorious grin I had handed him. I wanted to be the woman Katya believed I was.
Instead, I was a coward.
And as the next speaker approached the podium, and the chamber moved on, my mind echoed with a single question:
When did I become someone I wouldn’t respect?