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Long before Conrad Dalton placed his left hand on the Bible and swore to defend the Constitution of the United States, he knew that mornings in Washington could be merciless. Every day brought a new crisis to his door— one that couldn’t possibly wait until after the second cup of coffee Carol allowed him. 

Did they want a war?

Usually, yes.

And this morning, the peace they’d spent months stitching together hung by a thread. 

Being Chief of Staff to the President meant his day started before dawn and ended… Well, never. There was no clocking out of managing the free world. At best, he tossed and turned for a few hours each night, hoping no one launched nukes before breakfast.

By 6:30 a.m., the West Wing was already a battlefield. 

He moved through the bullpen, dodging the eager faces of staffers who believed that proximity to power made them important. In the three hundred feet from the entrance to his office, he’d already had three conversations he didn’t want to have— one ending with him promising to circle back, which, in Washington, roughly translated to please forget this ever happened.

The hallways buzzed with the familiar hum of organized panic— aides whispering, phones ringing, and printers spitting out documents that would be irrelevant within the hour. One look at the Press Secretary told him that something was already on fire. He just hoped it had nothing to do with the treaty. Yesterday, he’d told her not to let the press get cute about the foreign minister’s “eccentric charm.” The man was a headline waiting to happen, the kind that the administration never wanted sitting above a peace agreement. 

“Sir,” his aide began, telephone in hand. “I have the Governor of Texas on the line. He’s threatening to mobilize the National Guard over a tweet.”

Just another Wednesday morning at the White House. 

The NSC meeting was scheduled for eight sharp, which meant it really started at 8:06. For the government, it was close enough. By the time he'd slid into his seat, the Situation Room already bustled with the sound of authority trying to outtalk itself. Across the table, generals of every rank squared off— too much brass in too small a room.

Defense made a case for troop deployment, CIA warned about a leak, and a Treasury representative pretended any of it would stay within budget. It was the usual performance— five departments arguing for priority, all of them forgetting that the president was the one in the room who had to answer for it. 

Reluctantly, he listened, half an ear on the conversation while the rest of him catalogued faces and tones. That was the real job: reading the room. Sitting next to the president, he started to note who was nervous, who was bluffing, and who was hiding something. 

God knew they didn’t need another attempted coup.

Then something caught him— not what he saw, but what he didn’t.

The chair across from him sat empty. 

Elizabeth McCord’s chair.

His gaze drifted to the outer wall, over the lineup of aides and deputies who closely orbited the cabinet. 

No Blake Moran.

No sign of State at all. 

Frowning, he checked his watch. 

No call.

No text message.

Nothing.

The woman didn’t miss things– not NSC meetings, not briefings, not even a damn nightcap. 

Certainly, not today. He should be glad she wasn’t here. The meeting would be quicker without her constant meddling. But today was the treaty signing. After this, they were scheduled to have their last sit-down with the foreign minister and his staff.

For once, he almost hoped she was just being difficult.

Dalton hadn’t mentioned it. He wouldn’t, not in front of the council. But he felt the shift, the faint thickening of the air that meant the president had noticed too.

The meeting moved on, voices bleeding together about security guarantees and military strategy. He barely heard them. When the session broke, he was already on his feet, phone in hand, mind jumping to the only conclusion that made sense.

Something was wrong.

He slipped out of the Oval, leaving Conrad to fend for himself. Well, him and five senior staffers, who were more than capable of keeping the foreign minister on track. He had more pressing issues to worry about than another round of pleasantries. 

“I didn't lose her,” Blake gawked. 

By 9:45, he had her assistant sitting across from him in his office.

He’d already called the State Department three times and gotten nowhere. Nadine’s assistant was running interference— politely, efficiently, and with just enough steel in her voice to make it clear she was under orders. 

He couldn’t blame Nadine. Well, he could. And he did. But, if Elizabeth wasn’t there, she was the one holding down the seventh floor— taking meetings, fielding questions about the Secretary’s absence, and sorting last-minute treaty details.

And those could get… specific.

The last time, the other delegation had complained about Elizabeth’s blouse. Well, specifically her breasts in the blouse. It had caused such a fuss that it had been kicked all the way up to him. 

Washington: where international peace talks could be derailed by a C-cup and a hint of black lace.

Usually, Blake Moran was unflappable— annoyingly overprepared, the kind of assistant who color-coded briefing binders. He had the unnerving ability to manage his boss, which in D.C. was the closest thing to sainthood. If Russell were the kind of man who said things like this (he wasn’t, most of the time), he might have admitted that Blake kept her on a tighter leash than just about anyone else.

Today, he looked pale. His hands fidgeted in his lap, and his eyes kept darting toward the door.  

“Well then, where the hell is she?” Russell asked, sipping his third cup of coffee— don’t tell Carol. 

“At home,” Blake said quickly. “I dropped files off around seven.”

“Is she sick?”

He could work with sick. Sick was manageable. Honestly, sick was ideal.

Blake straightened his tie, even though it didn’t need straightened. “She looked fine. Maybe tired, but that’s normal for her.”

Arching one brow, he leaned forward, voice sharp. “She really didn’t tell you anything?” He didn’t believe it. “You’re with her every damn day. If something’s wrong, you’d know it.”

Blake’s shoulders stiffened. “No, she didn’t tell me she was taking the day. She never tells me when she’s taking the day.” He paused, making what he said next more dramatic. “Because she doesn’t take days.”

After he studied him for a long moment, he decided the kid wasn’t lying. Which meant whatever was going on, Elizabeth McCord had decided to keep it to herself.

And that was… troubling.

By 11:00 a.m., he was stepping out onto the sidewalk in front of the McCord Georgetown mansion. It took eleven minutes to get over here— three less than usual. He’d told his driver to ignore a couple of stop signs. 

As he pocketed his cell phone, his Secret Service agents exchanged nods with the men on her detail.

After signing the visitor log, he waited a minute on the stoop, eyes flicking over the front windows. 

The door opened a moment later.

“Russell,” Henry McCord greeted cautiously, his voice low.

Henry didn’t move right away. He stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, studying him the way a fighter pilot might circle a target— calculating the risk, deciding whether to drop the bomb or let it pass.

“Henry,” he said, softer than usual.

After a beat, Henry stepped aside. “You’d better come in.”

Inside, the house was quiet enough to notice. No phone ringing, no television murmuring in the background, and no clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Just the steady hum of the heat pushing through the vents and the faint creak of old floors settling.

“How is she?” Russell asked. 

Better to get to the point.

Henry’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Quiet.”

“Quiet?” he repeated, staring over his glasses. “The Secretary of State doesn’t get the luxury of being quiet today.”

Couldn’t she have picked last Tuesday, when she’d nearly started a turf war with Defense over whose jurisdiction cyber operations technically fell under?

Or the day before, when she’d corrected the Russian ambassador on his misuse of the word de-escalation?

The room hadn’t been that tense since the annexation of Crimea. 

And today she decided to go mute?

Perfect.

In the entryway, Henry gave him a look that was half apology, half warning. “Why do you think I’m not in the middle of my lecture at the War College right now?”

He felt his blood pressure tick up— whatever was going on, Henry didn’t know either. 

Nodding once, he asked, “Can I see her?”

Henry hesitated only a moment before gesturing behind him. “She’s out back.”

As they walked, his gaze drifted over the framed photographs on the mantel— birthdays, graduations, a family frozen in moments of easy smiles. It was a world away from politics. Passing through the dining room, he half listened as Henry started talking about a dog, though small talk wasn’t in his line of work, especially not today.

Somewhere in the kitchen, he learned, against his will, that Elizabeth’s brother and his wife were in London, and the ten-month-old golden retriever had been left behind for the week. 

“Still learning not to jump,” Henry muttered as he pushed open the back door.

When he stepped out onto the patio, the first thing he saw was the dog— a flash of gold streaking across the yard.

And then he saw her.

Elizabeth stood in the middle of the grass, bundled in a long puffy coat, jeans peeking out from the hem, hair half tied back. She was tossing a tennis ball for the dog with slow, deliberate movements. 

If he were a CIA analyst, he’d say she looked detached.

But he wasn’t.

To him, she just looked like a problem.

With a final glance at Henry, he stepped forward, dress shoes crunching over the frosted grass, as he walked toward her. 

“You know,” Russell said, stopping a few feet from her. “There’s a fair amount of panic in the West Wing right now.” He could only imagine the state of the seventh floor— delegations getting restless, phones ringing off the hook, and Nadine freezing men twice her size with a single icy glare. “The Secretary of State doesn’t play hooky. Especially not when the ink’s still drying on four months of her work.”

Normally, that would’ve earned him a small smile, maybe a dry retort about how he only remembered diplomacy existed when it ruined his schedule. Today, she didn’t laugh. She didn’t even look at him.

Another bad sign.

He took a step closer. “Blake’s about ready to have a coronary. I practically had to waterboard the kid just to confirm you were alive.”

That earned him the faintest twitch of her upper lip, more reflex than amusement, but nothing else.

“Bess,” he began, softer now, his irritation thinned into something closer to concern. “What’s going on?”

Instead of answering, she tossed the ball again, and the dog ran after it, paws slipping on the damp grass.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low. “How was the foreign minister this morning?”

“Fine,” Russell said, arching one brow. “Other than asking where the Secretary of State was.” For a moment, he studied the side of her face, catching the subtle tightening of her jaw. “Why?”

She hesitated. “We got into it last night.”

His heart kicked hard, a consequence of the third cup of coffee he’d snuck. “Got into it?” He blinked. “The night before a signing?” It came out sharper than he intended, but the alternative was panic, and he wasn’t in the habit of entertaining that. “Are you out of your mind?”

Beside him, Elizabeth didn’t flinch. Instead, she stared ahead, watching the dog in the yard, tail wagging as it picked the ball up in its mouth. 

Exhaling through his nose, Russell forced himself to calm down. He’d seen the foreign minister an hour ago. The man had been perfectly cordial. Polished, even. Nothing to suggest a diplomatic disaster. 

Still, he had to know. 

“You got into it,” he repeated. “About what?”

She didn’t answer right away. 

When she was irritated with a head of state, he usually got the full performance— arms crossed in defiance, weight shifted to one hip, and a pointed stare over her glasses. Today, she just stood there, breath fogging in the November air. 

“Well, for one,” she began, fingers touching the collar of her sweater. She pulled the fabric down, revealing the dark bruising around her throat. “He did this to me.”

The tennis ball slipped from the dog’s mouth and hit the grass with a soft thud.

He feared the treaty would soon follow.

“It was late,” she said. Her voice had shifted— factual, distanced, like she was briefing him on an operation halfway around the world. “We were in a back room. He poured a drink, but I declined.” Her jaw tightened. “He didn’t like that.” 

She was staring past him, unfocused. 

“I told him we were done for the night. He got… close. Too close. And before I could react…” She drew a breath that wavered just once. “His hand was on my neck. And then under my dress.”

He’d written off the rumors as ego and cheap charm— a man who liked the sound of his own voice. Not someone who believed treaties, countries, and women all bent to his whim if he just grabbed hard enough. 

Now, the truth stared back at him in sickening purples and blues. 

“Bess, I—”

“I can’t stand in the same room as that man,” Elizabeth muttered, breath hitching. Looking down, she shook her head. “Let alone shake his hand like nothing happened.”

His voice softened in a way that few ever heard from him. “You’re not going anywhere near him.”

Her arms wrapped a little tighter around herself. “They’ll notice if I’m not there.”

“They’ll notice whatever I tell them to notice,” he said, wielding power like some people breathed. “Let me handle it.”

When she finally looked up, he saw it— the exhaustion she’d shoved down, the rage still simmering beneath the surface, and the trust she was placing in him now because she had no other choice. And that responsibility hit him like a weight he was oddly grateful to carry.

“I’ll take care of it,” he told her. “You stay out here. Play with the dog. Breathe. That’s your entire job description for the next hour.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, the faintest glimmer of gratitude. “Russell—”

“I mean it,” he cut in, firmer now. “Let me handle it.”

Turning toward the house, he fished out his phone from his coat pocket. After he thumbed through his recent calls, he tapped on one of his aide’s numbers. Adele answered on the first ring.

“Get Frank in my office. I—”

A weight slammed into his leg. 

The dog.

The damn dog.

And then a paw planted itself in the center of his very expensive shirt, leaving a muddy print behind.

Behind him, Elizabeth let out the smallest exhale, something between a sigh and the hint of a laugh.

He didn’t turn around, but the faintest smirk found its way onto his lips.

“Sir?” Adele questioned.

“And a new shirt,” he muttered.