“Are you still riding?” Fitz asks, raising his head to look at my boots by the door.

“Not as much as I want to. Can we stick to the task at hand?”

“I am . Shouldn’t I know if my wife to be still has the same hobbies she used to as a kid?” Fitz rubs a hand over his face. “So what? I just pull up to the White House and say, ‘Hey, Mr. Montgomery, how have you been? I’m here to marry your daughter?’”

I lower the bottle of beer down from my mouth. “ President Montgomery.”

Fitz drops his fork into the box. In the past two hours, we’ve put away one and a half cookie cakes and nearly all the beer in my fridge, which, thankfully, wasn’t much. If I have another, I might outdrink my impulsive sober decision and convince myself that fake marrying my childhood best friend is probably not the smartest idea I’ve ever had.

But I guess when it comes to Fitz, I could probably do worse. For one, I know him and he knows me. And for the other… I could probably do a lot worse than a guy who is worth millions but has no issue eating while sitting on the floor, even if that means having to cross and uncross his thick, strong legs repeatedly to get comfortable.

“Hey, President Montgomery,” Fitz practices. “I know you haven’t really seen me since before I finished going through puberty, but I’m here to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage?”

“Well, I hope you come up with something a little more heartfelt than that. I mean, come on, Fitz. You were the boy next door.” Being slightly above average at five-eight, I’m a little more mobile than him in the tight space. I push up onto my knees and lean closer. “This has the greatest love story written all over it.”

Yeah , Parker, I think to myself. You could’ve done way worse.

In addition to the tree trunk legs, Fitz also happens to be stupidly handsome. I don’t need another beer. If I keep staring at the swirl of green in his hazel eyes and the perfect contrast of his pink lips against the dark scruff of his beard, I won’t be able to walk in a straight line.

Fitz tips his head to the side. “It would be kind of funny if this turned out to be the greatest love story of all time, wouldn’t it?”

His words pull me out of my thoughts and further away from him. “It won’t. We’ll always be friends, won’t we?”

“Better ask yourself that.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugs, looking down at the crumbs we’ve left in the box. “You could take the money and run.”

“I told you. This isn’t about the money.”

“You could still run.” Fitz lifts his head. “You did before.”

“It’s different this time.”

“How?” he asks.

I pause, wondering if I tell him everything now, maybe all bets will be off. But that’s bullshit. I don’t want to tell Fitz what happened because I don’t want him to suddenly look at me and find himself searching for a problem. I’ve got many. I don’t think any of them justify what was done to me. But other people might. He might. After all, people don’t just send their unproblematic daughters away to be tortured.

“This time,” I tell him, “you’re driving the getaway car.”

I’m thankful for his laughter that cuts through the intensity of the moment.

“It’ll be fine. We just have to put it out there. Publicly.”

“Publicly?”

It’s ironic that I worked so hard to escape the public eye for more than a decade. But I realized something—publicity, it offers me protection. They can’t just make me disappear again, not if I’m front and center on the campaign trail, and certainly if I’m not about to be Captain America’s wife.

“We launch this before they even have time to process it. We force them to go along with it,” I decide. “It won’t exactly bode well in the court of public opinion for the president to clearly be at odds with his daughter over a wedding. I mean, that’s what this is all about for them—optics.”

Fitz leans forward, his eyes narrowing in on mine. I watch his jaw tic as he thinks, captivated by his short beard that’s just long enough, I imagine, to be that perfect combination of rough and soft.

“I forgot how much of a menace you can be.”

“Is that bad?”

“If I’m being honest, Parker.” He sort of hums my name. “It’s kind of hot.”

The flush on my cheeks undoubtedly is due to the cheap beer and not Fitz’s words, and certainly not the way his mouth smooths out into a lopsided grin that quickly fades.

“What?”

He shifts his lips back together in thought. “The campaign.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” I tell him. “I’ll handle that.”

Fitz sighs. “But do you have to? I mean…”

“Listen,” I begin. “What I need from all this, money can’t buy. It’s more about me being on the campaign, about me having the right kind of platform to get what I want.”

I could’ve figured out a way to go to the press hundreds of times over the last decade. But dropping this at the convention, in front of every important member of my father’s political party? That’s the kind of bomb I want to drop—nuclear.

“What do you need , Parker?”

I catch the tip of my tongue between my teeth. God, I don’t want to do this. Ever, but especially, not yet. Not right now. Because the truth, maybe it’s too much right now for Fitz. Maybe he’ll hop in the getaway car and leave me on the curb.

And maybe, I wonder, as my throat spasms together, I can’t tell him yet. But I can show him.

Slowly, I stand and step around the coffee table, feeling Fitz’s eyes follow me. I grab the bottom of my white shirt and lift it over my head.

“W-what are you doing?” Fitz asks.

By the time I’ve tugged it completely off, his face is red and riddled with more confusion.

He shifts awkwardly. “Parker?”

Reaching behind, I finger the hook of my bra. The truth is, the fabric would only obscure a small part of Fitz’s view, but since I can’t find the words, I want him to see all of it. Because this is only the surface of what they did to me.

This isn’t even the worst part.

“Parker?”

Before my bra loosens and my breasts fall free, I slowly spin, giving him my back.

And all of my scar.

My throat loosens now that I don’t have to face him, but I manage to find enough words. “What I want,” I breathe out, turning my head so he can hear me, “is revenge.”

After one second, my hands begin to shake.

After two seconds, I begin to tremble.

But after five seconds, just when I worry I’ll fall entirely apart into a mound of regret, Fitz is behind me, clasping my bra. The edges of his tough fingers brush just below my scar before he hands me my shirt.

“Who did this to you?” he asks, his voice grave and low, bordering on predatory. I’ve never heard anything like it. “Your parents?”

I tug the white fabric over my head and take a deep breath, facing him again. “They were a part of it.”

Fitz says nothing, and I take his silence for the possibility that he’s about to back out, after realizing this is bigger than a house.

But then Fitz reaches out, lifting my hair still trapped in the opening of my shirt before he takes my left hand and squeezes it.

* * *

“Where do you want to be let out exactly?”

I stare out the window as we drive through the nation’s capital. April is a great month to visit. It’s peak cherry bloom season. With all the fragrance, you can hardly smell the bureaucratic bullshit.

I’ve been to Washington hundreds of times over the course of my father’s political career—I took my first toddling steps in the Capitol building, just outside Dad’s office when he was a congressman. I lost—okay, I yanked out—my first tooth during a presidential inauguration we attended while my father was a senator. The first time I visited the White House was shortly after that. I remember not caring too much about the history. I kept tugging my father’s hand, asking when we could go back home to Honey.

“Here is fine,” I tell the taxi driver as I open my bag for some cash. I don’t have to dig very far like usual. After Fitz left my apartment, he returned with what had to be an amount greater than the ATM’s daily withdrawal limit.

“Two things aren’t negotiable. Money, and you living with me.”

I have a note in my phone with the amount Fitz gave me. I’ll pay him out when I receive my inheritance. And after I get a car, whatever is left will be put to good use. I haven’t quite figured out what that might be, but I know it will involve taking down my family publicly, starting with my father. He’s the easiest target, after all.

There was his affair with an aide I found out about after walking in on him screwing her on the desk in the library at Captain’s Cottage.

There was the DUI he had back as a senator, which he was never charged with.

There was the time he was so drunk at the holiday party for his staff as a congressman that he began to sing Happy Birthday to Jesus in Spanish.

And, of course, there’s me—the daughter he sent away to a place where I was abused, sexually harassed, belittled, and forgotten.

Leaning forward, I hand the bills over to the driver, including a nice tip. He looks between the cash and the entrance. “It says Authorized Personnel Only .”

I look over my shoulder as I open the door. “I know a guy.”

I step onto the sidewalk and make my way down Pennsylvania Avenue to the entrance we passed, sliding my bag across my body. I didn’t bring much with me, apart from a small duffle bag which I left at the hotel where I plan to stay for a few more days until it’s showtime.

The security guard leans out of his booth as someone brushes past me, scanning their ID to be let in. “Are you looking for the tour entrance, sweetheart? It’s on the other side.”

I straighten. It’s go-time.

The security guard twists his mouth. “Hon, this entrance is for White House staff.”

“White House staff who serve at the pleasure of the president, I’m aware. Is he here today?” I look through the iron gate.

The security guard sighs and steps out of his booth. “Ma’am, please return to the sidewalk.”

“I asked,” I start before clearing my throat. “If the president is here today.”

“I’m afraid that kind of information isn’t shared with me, doll.” He reaches over the partition, placing a hand on my shoulder.

I step away from his touch. “I’ll wait.”

“Wait?”

“I’ll wait while you don’t touch me and instead call and ask if he’s in.”

At this point, some of the staffers making their way through the security entrance begin to drag their feet. Others keep their heads down and continue on with purpose. They’re probably a little more seasoned and have seen this kind of thing more than once.

But not from me .

The security guard chuckles. “Okay, sure. I’ll call the Oval Office. And who should I say is waiting?”

“You can tell the president his daughter is here.”

Rolling his eyes, the security guard now grabs me by my elbow. “Get out of here before I call the police.”

“If you value your job,” I say, looking down at his hand, “you probably should let go.”

“Yeah?” he asks as I bend my knees to avoid stumbling. “Is Daddy going to get upset?”

Over my shoulder, I get a look at the scene beyond the gate, smiling as four Secret Service agents in black suits jog in our direction.

“You must be new here. You should be more worried about my mother.”

* * *

“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

I cross my ankles. “No, thank you.”

“The First Lady is on her way back now. It shouldn’t be long.”

It’s been over ten years.

“That’s okay,” I say. “I don’t mind waiting.”

My phone buzzes from inside my purse, and I push the cash aside, taking it out.

Fitzy

FYI, since we’re about to be married, you might consider checking in with your future husband. Tell me you’re done and back at the hotel already.

I’m waiting to see her royal highness. Don’t worry.

Fitzy

Don’t tell me not to worry when you’re in the one place I can’t get to you.

I told you I didn’t like this plan. You could’ve just showed up with me when I go.

It’s been weeks of back and forth figuring out how we get the ball in motion. If Fitz had it his way, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near the White House without him and would’ve shown up days from now when The New England Rebels pay their post-Super Bowl win visit.

If I don’t respond in an hour, go to the staff gate and tell the security guard you’re Walter’s son-in-law. By the time he grabs your elbow, you’ll have a Secret Service escort inside. Trust me, this works.

Fitzy

Did someone touch you?

I’m in the middle of responding when I feel eyes on me. I look up, and the secretary smiles.

“I’m sorry,” she tells me, speaking with a heavy Boston accent. “I can’t believe how grown up you are. I still think of that little girl in the ad when your father ran for senate. I worked on that campaign.”

“And now you’re here working for my mother.”

“It’s a pleasure to serve the First Lady.”

I try to keep the laughter to myself. If you say so .

The phone on her desk shrills, and she answers it. “You can go in.”

Standing, I look around, wondering where I’m supposed to go when part of the wall opens. The outline of the door is so thin I didn’t even notice it before.

An agent nods at me. “This way, ma’am.”

Before I follow the agent, I turn on my heel, facing my mother’s secretary again and thank her. I want to leave a trail—not just of me , but of what I’m going to do before I do it. “Thank you,” I tell her. “I’m looking forward to seeing you more as I help my father campaign.”

Timidly, the older woman reaches out, shaking my hand before I back away and follow the agent through the opening in the wall.

“Parker.”

I expected to see my mom, and I guess, considering Madeline orchestrated the initial meeting, it’s not odd she’s there. But my father, sitting in a chair across from my mother’s desk, is a surprise.

He stands, adjusting his white shirt sleeves that have ridden up his gray suit jacket, and walks over to me. Apart from a little greyer in his hair, he looks the same, as if campaigns and the presidency haven’t aged him the way I imagine they do other politicians. But Dad isn’t like any other politician. He’s Walter Montgomery. He was born for this. That’s what everyone used to say. Honey, on the other hand, never quite felt the same about her only child.

“In our case, a spare would’ve been helpful .”

I can tell by the way Dad’s arms relax and his careful steps that he’s about to hug me. For a split second, I contemplate stepping around him. But I’m here to show good faith. I’m here to negotiate.

“Hi, Daddy.” I pat his back gently as he circles me.

I can’t, for the life of me, remember the last time we hugged. I guess it wouldn’t matter. I feel absolutely nothing except a bubbling rage. If I wasn’t standing in a place where one wrong move would land me tackled by at least a dozen grown men, I’d strangle him.

“Parker.” He steps back, putting his hands on my shoulders. “It’s good to have you home, sweetheart.”

“If you want to come home, you’ve got to follow the program,” I hear my mother say as I sobbed into the pay phone over a decade ago.

But I’ll never be home. Not with any of these three people, no matter where we are.

“You always have to make an entrance, don’t you, Parker?” Mom asks as I sit in the chair across from her desk. “We did leave you with a number to call.”

I smooth out the pleats in my dark grey skirt. “I thought you’d be happy to see me. I thought you might take this as a sign that I’m willing to do what you want.”

Mom tips her head as Dad steps behind her desk, next to Madeline. “It’s been nearly two weeks since we spoke,” she reminds me. “I figured you’d be too prideful to go through with everything.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been wrong about me.” I smile. “I’m here, and like I said, I’m willing to do what you want if you’re serious about giving me Captain’s Cottage.”

“Yes. We were serious. We don’t exactly have time to waste playing games, Parker. If you haven’t noticed, we’re running a country here.”

I look at the three of them, confused about who is actually doing the work. “I do have conditions.”

Mom laughs sarcastically. “You never like to make things easy.”

“I’ll handle my inheritance. That’s not an issue because, as I told you, I’ve been seeing someone for quite a while, and it’s only a matter of time before we get married. But I want Captain’s Cottage. And the person I’m seeing isn’t involved with your world. In fact, he kind of detests it.”

Madeline scoffs. “I always said she’d marry a communist.”

I smirk at my sister. “No one is more of a patriot than my guy, trust me. But you’ll have me. I know that’s what you want. I know you just want to show off Dad as the family man. I’ll be a part of your campaign,” I say, turning to Dad. “I’ll even give a speech at the convention when”—I pause—"I mean if , you’re given the official reelection go-ahead from your party. You don’t have it yet. That must be embarrassing. But I guess that’s what happens when you’ve spent four years here and your constituents describe you as unapproachable.”

Mom lifts her head to the ceiling, and Madeline huffs.

“I spent the last week reading up. Did you know the majority of your voting base thinks you’re unrelatable? Privileged? Out of touch?” I add, leaning forward and whispering, “A snob ?”

“Enough, Parker.”

I flip my eyes to my mother. “My relationship isn’t your business. I’m enough. You want me here because it looks better for you than having everyone ask Is his other daughter still in Europe? She couldn’t come back to support her father for just one day? That’s what they’re going to ask this time. Last time, they bought your story. I read I was in the Netherlands, training at an equestrian center.” I laugh at the stark contrast to the time I’ve spent around horses. “But by now, after pulling that stunt at the gate, after telling your secretary how excited I am to support Dad, everyone is going to know I’m in town. They’re going to expect to see me.”

I sit back in my chair. I might not be the one at the head of the desk, but for the first time ever in my family, I feel like I’m on the throne .

“You give me Captain’s Cottage and I won’t just be a part of your campaign,” I say. “I’ll star in it.”

I’m a woman of my word. I’ll pretend like I care enough about the Montgomery name to want the Montgomery home. But really, I’ll burn the political legacy and that house to the ground and smile for the cameras while I do it.