Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Charlotte
Two weeks had passed since the Belaruska debacle, and although the memory of that insufferable speech still lingered like smoke after a fire, I felt…
clearer. Lighter. Stronger. The nightmares had dulled, the pressure in my chest had lifted, and the dark moods that threatened to pull me under were now just occasional ripples in otherwise steady water.
The only bad thing was Katya was currently in Los Angeles, meeting with her new agent.
I sat in my office, the late morning sun catching the glass of the East River. Across from me, Ambassador Reyes of the Philippines was mid-sentence, charming as ever, his hand slicing the air with each point he made.
“We believe a regional initiative on coastal preservation, led by ASEAN but supported by U.S. expertise, would signal real cooperation. Particularly after… recent frictions with China.”
Smiling politely, I nodded. “I think that’s a worthwhile idea. I can’t commit us to anything unilaterally, of course, but if you send the proposal over officially, I’ll see that it’s reviewed with priority.”
Before he could respond, my intercom buzzed. Mary Ellen’s voice, crisp but slightly breathless: “Ambassador Tyler, the Secretary of State needs to speak with you immediately.”
My stomach turned. There was something about those words—the Secretary of State—that always made the air feel thinner.
I turned to Ambassador Reyes with an apologetic tilt of my head. “I’m terribly sorry, but I need to take this. Please forward your documentation to my office. We’ll review it promptly.”
He stood, bowing his head slightly. “Of course. It’s always a pleasure, Ambassador.”
We exchanged brief handshakes, and I waited for the door to click shut behind him before turning to my computer. I tapped the screen to life and then switched the wall monitor on with a flick of the remote.
The monitor flickered, lines jittering, then resolved into the familiar, loathsome face of Secretary Whitaker.
Smug as a cat in a vat of cream.
I summoned a smile—not warm, but the kind that passed for polite in this city. The kind that covered a thousand knives behind the teeth.
“Secretary Whitaker,” I said smoothly.
“Charlotte,” he said, leaning back in his chair, that damn toothy smirk plastered on his face like he thought it was charming. “You look well. Less shell-shocked than last time.”
I didn’t take the bait. Just kept the smile.
He didn’t waste time.
“I’m supposed to be on Meet the Press this Sunday. Something’s come up. You’ll do it instead.”
It wasn’t a question.
My smile faltered just slightly, but I forced it back. “Understood.”
“You’ll get an email from my assistant with talking points. Stick to them. Word for word, Charlotte. This isn’t the time to go rogue. After your speech at the General Assembly, the party has some faith in you. Let’s not screw that up.”
I clenched my jaw. “Of course.”
“You’ll do great,” he added, clearly not listening to a word past his own voice. “Stick to the script. Hit the economic cooperation line hard in regards to the Russian Federation. Say we’re in talks with key allies. Emphasize stability.”
He didn’t wait for acknowledgment. The screen went black.
No goodbye. Just vanished, like a demon retreating to his lair.
I let the smile drop and turned back to my desk. My laptop pinged—an email from Whitaker’s Assistant, subject line: MTPS Talking Points - URGENT.
I clicked it open, already dreading it.
And there it was. Paragraph after paragraph of the same diplomatic dreck that I’d been forced to deliver before was there.
Sanitized soundbites. Buzzwords drained of all meaning.
“Strategic partnerships,” “bilateral dialogues,” “mutual economic interest,” “regional cohesion.” It was almost word for word the same speech I’d given at the UN—the one I still heard in my head at night, like a song I hated stuck on repeat.
I groaned, rubbing my temples. It was like being asked to regurgitate a lie while smiling through your own slow death. I was supposed to sit in front of millions on Sunday morning and recite this garbage like I believed it. Like I hadn’t felt something fracture inside me the last time I did.
I wasn’t a puppet or a parrot.
But I’d agreed. And agreeing was as good as sealing my mouth shut.
I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. I needed air. Or maybe Katya. Or maybe just five goddamn minutes without some man telling me what words to put in my mouth.
But Sunday was coming fast, and I’d be ready.
Even if it killed me.
The door to my office burst open.
I jumped slightly in my seat, adrenaline spiking—ready for another fire to put out.
It was my chief of staff, Jamie.
But something was wrong. His face—usually so composed, so dryly amused—was drained of all color. His dark eyes didn’t sparkle with their usual cleverness. They were flat. Haunted. He walked stiffly to my desk and laid a sealed envelope on the polished surface, not saying a word.
I stared at it. My breath caught.
No.
No, no, no.
I shut my eyes and bowed my head, already feeling it—the dread thickening in my chest like smoke in a locked room.
When I opened them, he was still standing there, hands at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore.
“It’s my resignation,” he said, voice quiet. “Effective immediately.”
The words hung in the air like a bell toll.
I let out a long breath and opened the envelope with fingers that didn’t feel like they belonged to me. Inside was a letter, typed neatly in the formal, bureaucratic tone Jamie had always mocked in others. But it was real. Final. There was no flourish, no plea for understanding. Just a clean break.
I looked up at him.
“I had to,” he said, his voice raw now. “You’ll understand in a second.”
He dropped into the chair opposite me, leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I have a contact at Langley. Not some crank. A genuine source. Old friend. Reliable as hell.”
My heartbeat quickened.
Jamie swallowed hard. “They’ve known for months that Belaruska and Russia didn’t just meddle in the French election. They compromised it. Same with last year’s election here.”
I blinked, my mouth parting, but before I could say a word, he continued—like the dam had finally broken and he couldn’t stop the flow now.
“And it wasn’t just neglect, Charlotte. The administration knew. They had full knowledge of the operation. Hell, they coordinated with the Russians.”
The world tilted slightly. My stomach lurched, like I was in free fall.
“They made a deal. Get us elected, and we’ll play nice. Sanctions relief, diplomatic support, all of it. That’s why Whitaker’s bending over backwards to keep the Russians happy. That’s why they handed you that goddamn speech. They’re not just appeasing Moscow. They’re working with them.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Jamie looked at me, and there was pain in his eyes I’d never seen before. Betrayal. Fury. Shame.
“I can’t be part of this anymore,” he said, voice breaking just slightly. “I didn’t sign up to be part of a regime propped up by foreign adversaries. And I didn’t give my life to this job just to help a bunch of traitors hold power.”
My eyes burned. Not just with unshed tears, but with the heat of fury surging through me. I clenched my fists in my lap. My vision blurred slightly at the edges. I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, and someone had just shown me the abyss below.
And yet... I wasn’t surprised. Not really.
Some part of me had known. Suspected. But knowing it in your bones differed from having it laid bare.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to walk out, just like Jamie. To say no more. But I couldn’t. Not with so many eyes on me. Not until I knew what to do with the truth.
Jamie reached into his coat, pulled out his phone, and tapped something. Then he slid it across the desk to me, the screen still glowing.
“Here,” he breathed. “Read it.”
I picked it up with trembling fingers and began to scroll.
Emails. Transcripts. Surveillance summaries. Russian government communications. American names. Coordination dates. Encryption signatures. CIA intercepts. Redacted files—but not redacted enough.
I stopped halfway down the screen. My mouth fell open.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “You’ve got proof.”
Jamie nodded. “And there’s more. My contact gave me a way to pass it along securely. But I wanted you to see it first. Because if you’re staying—really staying—you need to know exactly what you’re protecting.”
His words hit like a punch to the gut.
I stared at the phone, the bitter truth burning into my brain.
I couldn’t cry. I wouldn’t. But every nerve in my body was lit up like a warning flare, and I suddenly felt like I was standing on cracked ice. One wrong move, and the whole damn world would collapse beneath me.
I looked up at Jamie, my voice barely audible.
“What do we do?”
Jamie shook his head slowly, his expression weary but resolute. “I know what I’m doing. The question is, what are you doing about it?”
I didn’t answer. Not right away.
Instead, I reached into my desk drawer, still dazed, and pulled out the small bottle of ibuprofen I kept buried beneath a tide of paperclips and emergency lipstick. I twisted the cap, peeked inside.
Empty.
“Goddamn it,” I muttered.
I dropped the bottle back into the drawer and stared at nothing for a long moment, thoughts colliding behind my eyes like cars on a foggy freeway.
Then—
An idea sparked.
I didn’t know if it would work. I didn’t know if I had the guts to follow through. But suddenly, my pulse steadied, and my spine straightened. For the first time in what felt like weeks, I smiled. Not the diplomatic kind. Not the fake kind I reserved for Whitaker.
A genuine smile, like I had when I was with Katya.
I turned to Jamie, my voice calm. Clear. “Jamie… can you please hold on to your resignation until next Monday?”