Chapter 14 #2
Then the president’s expression eased. Not quite a smile. Just acknowledgment.
“According to one of our agents, you’re just like him, you know. Stubborn. Said he had an independent streak too. But you should know, he resigned for your family. Because he wanted to be with you.”
West looked away. Drew in a breath. Looked back. “Is that the only reason you wanted to talk to me? To offer me a job?”
“No.” President White pulled out the chair.
Sat. Suddenly he looked older. More tired.
Less like the president and more like a father who’d almost lost his daughter.
“I wanted to thank you. And to tell you—” He stopped.
Sighed. “My daughter is twenty-six years old. And I’m not blind.
I know she thinks she’s in love with you. ”
West couldn’t move.
“She hung up on me. And it was because for the first time in her life, she made a choice that wasn’t about duty or image or what I needed from her politically. She chose you.”
West held the president’s gaze.
“And I’m telling you that choice was a mistake.”
The words hit harder than the debris in the water. Harder than slamming into the ocean at terminal velocity. West fought to breathe through what felt like a direct punch to the chest.
West’s hands gripped the armrests tighter. “Sir—”
“You’re a good man, West. You saved my daughter’s life multiple times. But you can’t give her what she needs.” The president’s voice was firm. Final. “The security. The stability. The future she deserves.”
“With respect, Mr. President”—West forced the words out through a throat that felt like it was closing—“that’s not your decision to make.”
“Probably not. And I know I’m being overly cautious, but she’s the only family I have left.
And the enemy knows that. You saw today what could happen if she falls into the wrong hands.
” White stood. “I’ll be honest with you, son.
You saw what I almost had to do today—choose between the plane my daughter was on and the lives that depend on me…
” He shook his head, presidential authority in every line of his body.
“For as long as the threat stands. And I’ve decided this ends now. ”
West stood too. His legs wobbled but held. His head screamed but he ignored it. “You can’t do that.”
“I can. And I am.” White’s expression didn’t soften. “Britta is going back to Washington. She’ll have a full Secret Service detail. She’ll resume her duties as First Daughter. And she’ll put this”—he gestured between them—“whatever this is, behind her.”
West’s voice came out too loud. “She won’t do that, sir. We have plans. We talked about—”
“About waiting three years?” The president’s eyebrow rose. “Until I’m out of office? Until she’s free from presidential oversight?” He shook his head. “That’s not a plan. That’s a fantasy. And I’m not letting my daughter waste three years of her life waiting for something that can’t work.”
“It can work.” West’s hands fisted. His shoulders squared. “If you’d just—”
“What? Let you be together? Let you two try this?” The president’s voice hardened. “And then what? You think you can handle the scrutiny? The media attention? The political implications? You think loving her is enough?”
“Yes.” The word came out simple. Certain. “I do.”
The president stared at him. Long. Assessing. Something flickered in his expression. Respect, maybe. Or pity.
“She won’t walk away, sir. I can promise you that.”
President White held his gaze a long moment. Then he nodded. “Probably not. Which is why I need you to do it for her.”
The words silenced him. What?
“You can see her. You can tell her you’re glad she’s safe. You can get closure.” White’s voice hardened. “And then you walk away. You let her heal. You let her move on. You don’t call. Don’t text. Don’t try to maintain contact.”
“No.” West shook his head. “No, you can’t—”
“I can. And you can. For your country, you will.” The president moved toward the door. His hand on the handle. “Because at the end of the day, West, you are just like your father. You’re a patriot. And you know this is for the good of not just her but your country. The world.”
West closed his eyes. Shook his head. But the man wasn’t wrong.
“Yes, Mr. President.” The words were ash in his mouth.
President White opened the door. Paused. Looked back. “For what it’s worth, I meant what I said. You’re a good man. You saved my daughter. I’ll be grateful for that until the day I die.” His voice dropped. “But gratitude doesn’t change what’s best for her.”
But he didn’t leave. Not right away. He stood in the open door, and something crossed his face—there and gone—that West’s concussed brain couldn’t name. Regret, maybe. Or a question he wasn’t ready to ask himself yet.
He walked out.
West stood there. Breathing. Just breathing.
He could just…leave. Let her think—
But that wasn’t right either.
He could refuse. Could tell Isaac White that presidential authority didn’t extend to personal relationships. Could fight for Britta despite the obstacles.
But that would put her in the middle. Would force her to choose between her father and West. Would make her life harder than it already was.
And West loved her too much to do that.
So he opened the door. Walked into the hallway and toward the Secret Service agents.
Clearly they’d been briefed. Probably heard every word through the closed door. Probably had orders to make sure West left after the goodbye.
“Second floor, room 247,” one of them said.
He nodded, walked to the elevator, and pressed the button.
The doors opened. He stepped inside.
His reflection stared back from the polished metal. Rumpled clothes, bandage on his head. Face pale. Eyes haunted.
He looked like someone who’d survived the impossible.
And was about to lose everything anyway.
The elevator dinged. Second floor. Doors opened.
West stepped out into the empty hallway, probably cleared for Britta.
A sign on the wall pointed right. East wing. Rooms 200-250.
West turned right. Started walking, his body heavy. His head pounded. His shoulder ached. His ribs protested.
And he cared nothing about it.
I’m sorry, Britt.
The physical pain was nothing compared to what was coming.
Room 235. 239. 243. 245.
West stopped outside the door. His hand raised to knock. Froze.
Behind this door was Britta. Alive. Safe. Probably bruised and terrified and traumatized, but alive.
How was he supposed to walk in there and say goodbye? Never in his life had he wanted to break the rules more. Burst in, grab her up, steal her away—
But that wasn’t the answer, was it?
West knocked. Soft. Barely audible.
“Come in.” Britta’s voice. Slightly hoarse but alive and real and everything West needed to hear.
Here went nothing. He opened the door.
“Miss White, you need to rest.”
Britta looked up at the nurse.
She couldn’t stop shaking. The IV in her arm pulled every time she moved. The monitor beside her beeped a steady rhythm that should have been comforting but just reminded her that she was alive—and West might not be.
The nurse checked the monitor. Adjusted something. “Your vitals are elevated. You’re in shock. The doctor wants to keep you overnight for observation.”
Britta didn’t answer—just stared out the window at the darkness.
West was out there, freezing, dying.
No, she couldn’t let her brain go there.
Except—well, she could ask again. She turned to the nurse. “Has anyone—” Her voice came out hoarse, still raw. “Has anyone found the man who was on the plane with me?”
The nurse’s expression shifted. “I don’t have that information, ma’am.”
Of course not.
The nurse left. Closed the door quietly. Left Britta alone with the beeping monitor and the image she couldn’t stop seeing.
West standing in the emergency doorway. Looking down at her as she fell. Getting smaller. Farther. Gone.
Then the plane exploding. Fireball. Black smoke. Debris raining down.
Britta’s hands gripped the blanket. Twisted it. Her throat closed. Her eyes burned.
She’d asked everyone who came in. Nurses. Doctors. The Coast Guard crew who’d pulled her from the water. Even her father.
No one knew about West. No one had information. No one could tell her if he’d gotten off the plane or if he’d died in the explosion or if he was floating in the debris field somewhere.
No one knew anything.
And worse, she’d had a terrible fight with her father after they’d arrived at the hospital.
He’d looked wrecked, all the way until they’d determined that she was fine, just in shock, nothing serious.
He’d followed her to the room, stood, mouth tight, while the orderlies got her settled. He’d come over and taken her hand when they left the room.
“You had me scared there, princess.”
Aw, Dad. She’d sighed and he’d leaned down and pulled her into his arms. Held her tight. “I can’t lose you.”
Britta had let herself be held. Let herself feel safe for a moment despite everything.
Then she’d pulled back and met his eyes. “I need you to find West. The man who was protecting me. West Young. Did they—is he—”
Her father had nodded. “The Coast Guard is out there, searching the debris field.”
Still searching. Not found. Not confirmed alive or dead. Just searching.
Britta’s chest had tightened. “He was on the plane. And then it exploded and—”
“I know.” Dad’s hand had squeezed her shoulder. “I know. We’re doing everything we can.”
Everything wasn’t enough. Britta needed confirmation. Needed to know. Needed West to walk through that door and prove he’d survived.
“I need to see him,” Britta had said. “As soon as they find him. I need—”
“Why?”
The question had stopped Britta cold. Her father’s tone—suddenly quiet, assessing. As if he’d already known the answer.
“Because he saved my life. Multiple times. Because—” She’d stopped. Hadn’t been able to finish under her father’s gaze.
“Because you have feelings for him.”
Not a question. A statement.
Britta’s chin had lifted. “Yes.”
Her dad had sighed. Long. Heavy. The kind of sigh that said he’d expected this but had hoped he was wrong. “Britta—”