White House: Commander In Chief Part 25

It's cla.s.sy, but edgy for a pregnant woman, I suppose.

Matt zips up the dress for me and as I stare at myself in the mirror, he remains behind me, drinking me in. His voice appreciative, his smile wolfish. "You're so gorgeous, sometimes it's too distracting," he chides, turning my face and placing a soft kiss on my lips.

"You have no idea the amount of cells that become inactive in women's brains when you walk by," I say.

He lets go a surprised laugh, and I laugh too, grabbing my little purse as he escorts me out.

There's a party after the movie, and Matt and I decide to hit it for an hour, have a little fun.

During the night, as I meet the lead actors and Matt talks with his producer friend, I notice the women approaching him and I find it very interesting to watch them fawn, even knowing that he's married. He's cordial and polite, of course, he's a Hamilton, but the ease with which he'd been standing is gone and he seems to close himself off from any flirtation. He's so loyal, and I adore him for that.

I'm surprised the women continue to persist, though, too excited and infatuated to notice that he's definitely not interested.

I think it's more than his beauty they're drawn to. More than his power.

I think it's his humanity that calls them. The fact that he never puts on a show or acts as if he's perfect; instead he's always acted as if he's not perfect but attempts to be. As if he knows that all of his imperfections-his amusing and heartwarming overprotectiveness and even his fear of not being both the best husband and father along with the best president-make him real, that all of our imperfections make us real and relatable because not one of us is perfect, not even a president. We simply want the one who will give us his unfailing best. Like he has.

I find myself blatantly staring and when I realize it, I quickly chide myself in silence and turn away. When I turn back, our eyes lock-and his eyes drift over my empire-cut gown, to my abdomen, where I carry his son. I'm due in mere weeks. And like I've noticed these past months, when he looks at me-at what I hold in me-there . . . I see it. A flash so quick and bright, it nearly blinds me.

He seems to push it down, under control, but I saw it. All the love, all the desire, all the craving that could ever be in a man is in him. For me. For us.

"The president never fails to make heads turn," Alison says beside me as we mingle with the crowd, her camera always at the ready for her to snap the next shot.

It's true people stare. Although I know people love him for more than his face, because despite the fact that he grew up with everything, he lacks pretention. His parents reared him to be a normal guy, with ch.o.r.es, discipline, and an att.i.tude that was honest and never self-serving. In fact he never liked people doing special things for him, such as not allow him to pay for things; he always paid his way, even when they insisted they wanted to do the gesture for him. Fairness was ingrained with him, or maybe it's just part of who he is.

The man is unforgettable and he knows it.

And now he's the president, my husband, soon to be my baby's daddy.

I frown when I notice Wilson approach him as discreetly as possible, which, considering how much attention Matt draws, is not very discreet, and Matt ducks his head to him. He nods and then lifts his eyes, his gaze instantly landing on me because he's been keeping tabs on me all night.

Something in his expression alarms me. I pick up my skirts and start walking across the room as he motions me to the door.

"Something wrong?"

"We need to go," he says.

He escorts me to the door, his hand on the small of my back as we climb into the state car.

I know whatever has happened is big; otherwise we wouldn't have left. Something needs his attention ASAP.

"We've been attacked in the Middle East."

I gasp. Then I set my hand on my stomach when a contraction hits. I've been feeling them on and off, and was told it was normal-the body preparing.

"What is it?" He looks at me in concern.

I meet his gaze, unsure. "Hopefully . . . practice." But Murphy's Law says it won't be.

33.

YOU LOVE ME.

Charlotte He's making me time them on our way to the White House, and the contractions are coming regularly, every four minutes.

"Can you wait for me?" Matt asks when we reach the White House and he sits me on the nearest couch.

"I'll try," I promise.

"Wait for me," he says. His tone is firm and sounds like an order to the universe, part command, part request to me as he glances at my stomach.

I can see the tearing need inside him to be in two places at once, a need that is impossible for him to fulfill, even as the most powerful man in the land.

His jaw flexes in the fiercest way. "I hate doing this to you." He leans over and he cups my face. "I love you."

I nod, wanting to appease him. "Every time you hold me close, every time you look at me, I'm reminded of how much you love me. When you do this . . ." I lift his hand and kiss the back of it, the way he sometimes grazes his lips over my knuckles. "That's all I need. Just knowing it's there, that you're there and you're what's best for our country and what's best for me."

I suck in a harsh breath as a contraction hits, and I try not to cringe.

Matt notices. "Another?"

"It's okay. Go."

He hesitates.

"Go."

He mutters a curse.

And then he spins around and heads away.

"Call her mother," he orders Stacey.

"Yes, sir."

I don't tell him my mom is in the Caribbean with my dad and she can't get here to support me no matter how fast she'd want to.

The pain comes and goes in waves, but the concern about what's happening to our people feels even worse.

I feel like I just swallowed gla.s.s, the dread of all that could happen plaguing me as I try to calm down and keep my baby inside me a little longer.

34.

TRAGEDY.

Matt One floor below the Oval Office is the Situation Room.

Manned 24/7, this is the place where you figure out and tackle the important things. The White House brain.

Where I've talked through the videoconference system to other heads of state. And ordered covert operations, among other highly cla.s.sified endeavors.

I walk in with Dale Coin and Arturo Villegas, my chief security advisor.

Before the inauguration, the CIA director briefed me on all the covert operations the U.S. was engaged in against foreign enemies. Those had all been personally authorized by my predecessor, Jacobs, and would cease if I gave the word. If I remained silent, the operations would continue.

It's one thing to be a candidate; another, the president.

Some of those operations were highly dangerous, with little benefit to the United States. But we have allies, too, which was something to consider.

Still, when you command the most powerful army in the world, you cannot treat it as a game. Every move of our operatives needs to be planned, strategized, then recorded and a.n.a.lyzed. And no matter what information we have, there are always too many variations of an outcome. No matter how well briefed an incoming president, nothing prepares you to send your men and women to war.

Priorities s.h.i.+ft. Gaining more access to intelligence causes your views to s.h.i.+ft dramatically as well.

I only hope I made the right calls.

I know as sure as f.u.c.k I'm making the right one now.

The generals are already seated. I take my seat, lean back, and let the wall before me light up with visuals. The Middle East has been a hot b.u.t.ton since long before I took office. Dictators, armed rebels, f.u.c.king ISIS.

"In position," General Quincy says.

They all look at me. The silence is deafening.

One second, two seconds.

"Open fire."

35.

I'M HERE Charlotte I feel another contraction hit and pain ricochets through my body, burning through even my deepest muscles.

I groan and clutch the edge of the table nearest to me.

I feel the baby move inside me and I stop in place, pressing my legs together against his movements.

Holy s.h.i.+t, this baby means business.

We just walked into the National Naval Medical Center. I asked my team to bring me, and we left a message for Matt. Now I'm rushed in by my security guards, and people gasp when they see me enter the hospital alone.

Without Matt.

Without the president.

"Mrs. Hamilton! Goodness me," exclaims a nurse as she sees me waddling in, clutching my huge stomach, discomfort and fear written all over my face.

Fear that is multiplied, seeing as I need to deliver this baby while my husband tries to solve a national security crisis.

I shudder and try to push those thoughts away as another contraction comes. I moan and feel a puddle of water at my feet.

"Let's get the first lady a wheelchair! NOW!"

"Page Dr. Conwell!"

I feel my body being guided into a wheelchair and before I know it, I am in a hospital bed.

I feel needles p.r.i.c.king my skin, see monitors arranged all around me and doctors rus.h.i.+ng in. It seems everyone wants to help deliver the president's baby.

My legs are propped up and a cloth is draped over them, for modesty. But honestly, at this moment, I couldn't give a d.a.m.n about modesty; I want this baby out and in my arms.

I hear some murmurs and the deep, soothing voice of a doctor addresses me: "Mrs. Hamilton, it seems the baby has s.h.i.+fted in your belly and we are going to have to perform a C-section."

"Is the baby okay?!"

"Yes, ma'am. Don't worry, we have everything under control. I will do everything I can to deliver this baby as quickly and safely as possible."

I feel my heart sink in my chest, weighted down by uncontrollable fear.

I gulp back the scream welling in my chest and squeeze my eyes shut.

Get your s.h.i.+t together, Mommy, I tell myself. You got this.

"Okay, Charlotte, here we go. You shouldn't feel a thing, maybe some slight pressure . . ." I hear the doctor's words in the distance, but I am somewhere else.

If Matt can't be here with me, I am going to him.