Billionaire Baby Daddy

On that Monday, I rose early and made a pot of coffee, ready to meet the world once more. I showered for a long time, thinking only of Xavier in an abstract way. “So funny that I once thought the entire earth revolved around him,” I murmured to myself, scraping the grime from my shoulders, from my sides. Down the hall, Rachel could hear me singing a bit as I scrubbed myself. She told me later that she knew everything would be all right again in this moment—that I would return to work and meet my success head-on.

I strapped my tights to my body once more and I marched across the guest bedroom, this room that was suddenly becoming so much like home. I slotted my feet into too-high heels, knowing that I could strut around the office with an assuredness in these suckers that I couldn’t create with the other shoes. I knew I had to dress the part, if I was going to pretend that I didn’t hold any sort of emotion toward the president. I knew I had to convince both myself and the outside world of this fact.

The taxi steamed into the White House once more. I blinked up at it as if I had never seen the monstrosity in my life. At one time, I’d thought it was my home. And now, it was far more like my prison, like a cage. I hoped that one day, I could escape it. But I was far too strong to allow this place—and the people in it—to get to my head.

I paid the taxi driver. He gave me a curt nod and eyed my ass. I wanted to smack him, to tell him that I was a high-level official in the White House. But I was keeping my cool, I told myself. This was my journey toward a better self—a self that kept her emotions in check.

I allowed the Secret Service agents to fondle me on my way in, checking for bombs, for guns, for anything and everything. And then, almost immediately, I marched toward the Oval Office, pursing my lips.

The Secret Service agent who stood outside the door held his eyes wide as I approached. He nodded curtly toward me. “I see you’re feeling a bit better. We were worried about you.”

I frowned toward him, as if it were inappropriate for him to even mention that I might have been ill, that I might have been under the weather. “Is he in?” I asked, nudging my head toward the door.

The Secret Service man pulled himself taller. He shook his head. “He is, but I don’t think he’s expecting visitors.”

“You don’t think he’d like to talk to his campaign manager?” I asked him, giving him an evil stare. “I’ve been out of the office for nearly a week. Surely he’ll need to update me on the proceedings of the previous several days. Don’t you think? You don’t want to mess with the intricacies of the campaign.” I raised my left eyebrow at him, giving him a saucy look. The look told him not to take a single step out of line—that I owned this moment and I was not to be messed with. He raised his hands up and allowed me to enter in that moment.

I spun toward the door and clunked into the Oval Office, bringing the president to swing around in his chair. Beside him, standing at the desk, was his wife, Camille. I raised my eyebrow at them both, unafraid but still feeling that emotion-filled pit in my stomach. “Hello, Mr. President. Hello, Mrs. Callaway,” I said to them both, nodding primly. “I’d love a chance to speak with you about the campaign. So sorry, Mrs. Callaway. I’ve been out of the office for several days, nursing this horrific cold.” I clutched at my throat and coughed lightly.

Camille tapped her heels a bit on the floor, giving me an evil eye. I had clearly interrupted an argument between them. The air in the room hung heavy, like clouds. It looked like Xavier wanted to crawl beneath his desk and hide from the two women before him. He looked desperately toward me, his mouth snapping shut as I stood there.

“Ah, yes. Miss Martin. It’s a sincere pleasure to see you,” Camille stated. She didn’t budge. “You have a good deal to talk to my husband about, is that right?”

I took a step forward, trying to maintain my lack of fear. Unfortunately, I knew that my anxiety was growing. I had plunged headfirst into the deep end. “Yes, Mrs. Callaway. The following next few months are essential to the plot of the campaign. You must understand that, don’t you?” I gave her an evil smile—one so similar to the smile I’d given to the agent outside.

Camille flounced toward the couch then, in an effortless move that caught me off guard. I stepped back, allowing her to bounce on the gleaming fabric. She brought her hands around to the back of her head and gazed at the ceiling, batting her eyelashes lightly. “Go ahead, Amanda,” she sighed evenly. “Speak with him. He won’t find reason with me. I don’t see why you’d have any better luck than I. Of course, you’re not his wife. So what you have to say is far, far more interesting.” She winked at me then. The moment seemed disastrous, like it was about to fall from a precipice, down to a rocky grave.

I stepped toward the president’s desk. With the confusion in this moment, I had actually completely forgotten what I was meant to speak with him about. I cleared my throat and looked toward him, searching for the words. “I’ve been out of the office for several days, and I do apologize for that,” I began. I hoped that his wife wasn’t getting any sort of context clues from what I’d just said; I hoped that she wasn’t assuming something that was—of course—very, very true. “Will you please update me on the events of the p

revious week?”

Up until this moment, I realized Xavier hadn’t spoken. He gaped at me and then brought his hands toward his mouth, gliding across his cheeks. He shook his head, exasperated. His voice was harsh when he spoke. “Miss Martin. I expect you to do your job.”

His words stung, even though I understood that they were well-acted, beyond anything else. But I still felt his anger deep in my heart. I remembered once more how he had pushed me from bed, how he had pushed me into this cruel world. I shivered at the thought.

“I’m doing my job to the best of my ability, sir,” I responded. Behind me, I heard his wife, Camille, pop a bubble from bubble gum rather loudly, allowing it to echo off the walls. I swallowed, knowing that this sort of observation would get him and me nowhere.

Sure enough, he shook his head toward me, biting his lip. His expression said so much. It stated that we couldn’t speak plainly, that he regretted everything. In that moment, so much of the strength I had built for myself fell away. I wanted to fall into his arms, to weep about my struggles. I wanted him to take care of everything with Jason. For the first time in my life, I wanted a man to take care of things for me—to hold my hand and fight for me. I had always fought for myself. But this seemed bigger; this seemed like too much.

“If you want to do your job, you had better get back to work,” he finally said harshly. His eyes were apologetic, keeping us in this strange, round and round conversation. I listened only to the expression that churned from his eyes.

I found my voice, finally. I took his cue. “I’ll get back to my desk and have a report to you in two hours.” I nodded curtly and turned back around, toward the door. Camille still laid on the couch, popping bubbles lightly—almost expertly. I imagined her doing them, over and over in the East Wing, waiting for her husband to come home.

“Good day, Miss Martin!” Camille spewed toward me, her voice lined with malice. As I pulled the door closed, I could hear her as she approached the president’s desk once more. “What a dirty cunt,” she flung her words toward him, loud enough for me to hear. I slammed the door and blinked up toward the Secret Service agent, lost in a sea of memories.

He back toward me, shrugging his shoulders. “I told you not to go in there,” he murmured.

But I turned on my heels and swept back toward my desk. I didn’t understand how this man—the President of the United States—could alter my emotions like this. It seemed all too easy, really. I could remember the first day I had ever truly met him, there in the Oval Office. He’d been interviewing me to become leader of the campaign. Me! A 29-year-old—a girl who was meant to grow and flourish in this political world. And then, I’d resisted him. I truly had. We’d become such fast friends, of course. I’d felt safe with him. Had he forced himself on me? Had I forced myself on him? I couldn’t be certain about anything anymore. All I knew was that I was truly, very much in love with him. Beyond that? I knew nothing.

I couldn’t understand, as I sat at my desk and surveyed the room, how this had all landed upon my shoulders. I had wanted so much from my life. I had wanted to be someone special. And yet, the president had used me, had abused me. He had turned me on my head and disallowed me to care about anything else, in many ways.

I bit my lip and laid my head on my desk. I heard a younger girl, toward the door, whisper to her friend about me. “She’s looking worse for wear, isn’t she? And so skinny. I think she’s losing weight.”

“I’ve heard she’s an alcoholic,” the friend whispered back.

But I couldn’t care anymore. I was “one of them” for these girls. And the president was “one of them” for me. We were ever at war with those who controlled us, I knew. I should have known better from the beginning to trust him—this politician at heart. I should have known better than to ever trust Jason, my supposed second-in-command. I was a puppet to these puppeteers. And I would have to float on like this, continually at war with myself as well, and my continued adoration for Xavier.

Suddenly, I stood up. I walked toward the girls who sat, whispering about me in their chairs. I hovered over their desks, and they peered up at me with such scared, big-eyed expressions. They’d been talking about me, and they’d been caught. I remembered that feeling as a schoolgirl. I brought my hands toward the desk, and I grabbed their papers, their folders, their everything. I swept them from their desks, whisking away the water bottles, the cups of coffee, everything. The cups clattered to the floor and crashed, sending wet specks of dried clay through the great room. The girls blinked up at me with alarm. I felt my anger and emotion pulsing through me. I wanted to scream at them. I wanted to tell them to fucking run, to get out of the White House, to get out of the political center. But I also wanted to tell them that I was on their side—that I wasn’t maniacal, like the rest of them. But I had shoved their lives off their desks, I had clattered their mugs to the ground. They blinked at me with fear, and I struggled with my next move.