14.
A man's voice wakes me.
Soft enough that it's almost a hum instead of actual words.
My eyes flutter open, lashes sticking together for a second before the room comes into focus. It takes me a moment to remember where I am.
Not my bedroom.
Not the White House.
Grant's living room.
I'm still curled on the couch, one of his throw blankets pulled halfway up to my chin. My shoes are gone, sitting neatly by the coffee table.
I push myself up slowly, the blanket sliding down to my lap. He's in the kitchen, back turned toward me, phone pressed to his ear.
"...yeah, I know," he's saying quietly. "No, I'll come by this weekend. I promise."
He's trying to whisper, but his voice is too deep for that to really work. It vibrates through the quiet house, low and steady, like it has its own gravity.
He turns slightly, and his eyes catch mine.
For a split second, he looks surprised. Then his expression softens, and he gives me a small, apologetic smile.
"Mom, I gotta go," he says into the phone. "Yeah. I'll call you later."
He hangs up and walks over, running a hand through his hair.
"Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"It's okay," I murmur, voice still thick with sleep.
I glance toward the front door. The light spilling through the windows looks soft, pale. Early. Not the sharp brightness of midday.
"What time is it?" I ask.
He checks his watch. "Nine forty-two."
My body jolts upright.
"Shit—shit, shit." I start patting around the couch, the blanket, the cushions. "My phone—where's my phone?"
Grant points toward the kitchen counter. "Over here. It was dead, so I put it on the charger."
I stand and hurry over, grabbing it. The screen flickers to life just long enough to show a few notifications before dimming again.
"I was supposed to be at barre at nine," I say, more to myself than him.
Grant leans against the counter, arms loosely crossed. "How often do you go?"
"Once a day. I switch it up sometimes pilates or hot yoga once and then barre either in the morning or evening."
His brows lift slightly. "Every day?"
I nod. "Even if I'm traveling. They build it into my schedule. It's kind of non-negotiable."
As soon as the words leave my mouth, my arms fold around myself automatically. My fingers press into my sleeves, gripping the fabric.
What if Rodney checks?
What if he asks the trainer?
What if Taylor notices in the measurements?
The anxiety creeps in fast, tightening around my ribs.
Grant notices immediately.
"Hey," he says gently. "It's just a workout class. Missing one isn't going to ruin anything."
He steps closer, stopping right in front of me. He's looking down at me with that same soft, steady concern he always does. Like he's trying to figure out the safest way to reach me.
And for some reason, that look alone makes my throat tighten.
I want him to hug me.
I want him to wrap his arms around me and tell me it's fine, that I'm fine, that nothing bad is going to happen because I skipped one stupid class.
The thought hits me so hard my eyes sting.
One tear slips out before I can stop it.
I wipe it away quickly. "Sorry," I mutter. "I'm being ridiculous."
Grant doesn't say anything. He just pulls me into a hug.
It's not tight or possessive. Just warm. Steady. One arm across my back, the other resting lightly near my shoulder.
Grounding.
"You know," he murmurs, "working out every single day like that probably isn't great for your muscles anyway."
My voice comes out softer than I expect. "I hate working out."
The words surprise me as soon as they leave my mouth.
Because I don't hate it. Not really. I know it's good for me. Good for my health. Good for my body.
But I'm not doing it for me.
I'm doing it because Rodney tells me to.
I pull back from the hug, suddenly aware of how long I've been standing there.
"I should go," I say. "I don't even know what's on the schedule today, and I don't want to start the day late."
Grant nods. "Do you want something to eat first? I can make you food or—"
My hand instinctively goes to my waist.
If I eat a real breakfast and skip barre, Taylor will see it. Even if it's just temporary bloating, she'll notice the difference in my measurements immediately and then Rodney will know.
I shake my head. "I'm not really hungry yet, but thank you."
He doesn't push it.
I pick up my phone from the counter and tap the screen again. Only a few notifications. No frantic missed calls. No texts from Rodney.
Relief washes through me.
We walk toward the front door together, our steps almost in sync.
At the door, we turn to face each other.
"So," I say, slipping my phone into my purse, "I'm assuming Thursdays are off the table now."
He glances at me. "Probably for the best."
"Yeah," I murmur. "Probably."
A small silence settles between us.
The corner of his mouth lifts. "Maybe just Thursday nights."
I can't stop the smile that begins to creep on my face. "We'll have to see."
I hesitate, not quite ready to leave but not sure what else to say.
"But I guess," I say, "I'll see you... when I see you."
He nods. "Drive safe."
I give him a small smile before stepping outside into the cool morning air.
And even as I walk to my car, I can still feel the warmth of his arms around me.
Not in a dramatic way. Not like cologne soaked into fabric. Just something faint and clean that lingers in the quiet space around me, like the night hasn't fully let go of what happened.
I sit there for a second with my hands on the steering wheel.
Then my phone lights up.
Reese calling.
I answer on the second ring. "Hey."
"Hey, stranger," she says. "You missed barre this morning."
Right.
Barre.
"I know," I say, pulling out of the driveway. "I'm so sorry. Shauna called me over early because she needed something from my mom, and I had it."
The lie comes out smoother than I expect.
Reese hums. "Well, you missed a killer class. I almost died during the last set."
It feels normal. Easy. Like the way our conversations always used to feel before everything in my life got so complicated.
"I don't know how you genuinely enjoy barre," I admit as I turn onto the main road. "I literally dread that class every day."
"I love it," Reese says. "It's like therapy."
Reese has always had the kind of body that people killed for. No soft spots anywhere. She never gives in to cravings. Never orders dessert. Never "just this once."
She's built for this world.
Sometimes I think she's more first-lady material than I'll ever be.
I glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror.
"How's that going by the way?" she asks. "Therapy?"
I bite my lip. "I decided to stop seeing him. I'm just going to take a little break until the stuff with Rodney cools down."
"I think that's for the best too honestly."
There's a pause, then the faint sound of another line beeping in.
"Oh, I've got another call," Reese says. "I'll text you later."
"Okay. Talk to you soon."
She hangs up.
At the exact same moment, my phone lights up again.
Vivian calling.
My stomach tightens. I answer quickly. "Hi, Vivian."
"Naomi," she says, voice clipped. "I've been trying to reach you all morning. Secret Service hasn't had eyes on you in over twelve hours."
Twelve hours.
That sounds worse when she says it like that.
"I'm so sorry," I say. "I had to step out early. Shauna needed something from my mom, and I went over there first thing and decided to stay."
There's a small pause on the line.
I can practically hear her deciding whether she believes me.
"Well," she says finally, "we don't have time to get into that right now. You're coming to Kentucky with me."
"Kentucky?"
"Yes. Wheels up in an hour. Be at the White House in twenty minutes."
The call ends before I can ask anything else.
The light turns green, and I keep driving toward the White House, trying to ignore the lingering warmth in my chest from this morning.
The private entrance to the White House always feels quieter than the front.
No crowds. No cameras. No tourists pressed against barricades trying to get a glimpse of inside.
Just gates, stone, and men in dark suits.
My car rolls to a stop, and one of the agents nods me through. I pull into the familiar drive and spot Vivian standing near the side entrance, her phone pressed to her ear.
She ends the call the second she sees me.
"Good," she says as I step out. "You're here."
"Traffic," I offer, even though we both know that's not why I'm late.
She doesn't comment. Just gestures toward the doors.
"Come on. We're already behind."
We walk side by side through the corridor. The floors shine under the overhead lights, polished to the point where I can almost see my reflection in them.
Vivian talks as we move.
"We're taking the PJ. Taylor has already packed everything you'll need for the trip. Two dinner looks, one daytime event look, and a backup in case there's a press appearance."
I nod. "Okay."
"Remember the criminal justice initiative is going to be your lane for a while. Panels, school visits, community roundtables. It's good press, and it suits you."
That part doesn't bother me.
If anything, it's the only part of this role that feels like it belongs to me.
I just wish I was doing more than speeches and photo ops.
We reach the doors leading toward the back offices, but before we can go inside, Vivian's hand closes around my elbow.
Not painfully.
But firmly enough to stop me.
I look down at her hand, then back at her face.
Her expression is different now. Softer. More personal.
"I'm not buying the excuse you gave me earlier," she says quietly.
My stomach drops.
For a second, I have absolutely nothing to say. No backup lie. No quick explanation.
Just the sharp, sinking feeling of being caught.
Vivian studies my face.
Then her eyes soften even more.
"My lips are sealed," she says. "But I can only protect you if I know what's going on."
Protect me.
The word feels strange coming from her.