The President's Wife - Kathy Myme Page 0,23

break one of his rules.

We march to the wardrobe fitting with moments to spare, on a higher floor in a separate area of the White House. The staff in the corridor clearly recognize me now, all staring agog as I walk past. It makes me want to run and hide somewhere far aware, but Jackson continues to nudge me forward.

“Come in, come in,” says an older-looking woman hurriedly. “We don’t have much time.”

She introduces herself as the new manager of my wardrobe, which I suppose is code for ‘I’m no longer allowed to pick out my own outfits’. I’d complain… but I suppose it makes some sense. If President Shepard and I are going to get away with this, I need to look like a real fiancée for him and not just some girl from Cali.

The woman spends at least an hour attacking me with a tape measure and comparing random bits of cloth against my skin-tone. There’s a lot of ‘hmm’-ing and clucking of her tongue. If I try to move, she forces me back in place with an unreasonable amount of strength.

I look to Jackson for help. He just shrugs at me.

When we’re eventually done, I’m desperate to put my feet up and take a break. But Jackson taps my itinerary coolly and drags me onto the next item, which happens to be something called ‘etiquette’.

“What, am I supposed to learn how to curtsy?” I ask Jackson on the way.

He shrugs. I’m starting to think that’s all he’s allowed to do when I talk.

The next hour is grueling. A man in a crisp suit attempts to grill me on every topic under the sun: table manners, conversation, dress codes, and even dancing.

“Is this really necessary?” I ask, after he holds up a tiny spoon in front of my face for the fifth time and asks me what it’s for.

“What are you going to do if you’re at a state dinner, hm?” The etiquette trainer is unmovable. “The President has assured me that you’re going to need comprehensive training. Hours and hours of it. Especially considering your background.”

I can’t help the glare I shoot at him. “My ‘background’? What does that mean?”

“Miss Waters, it simply means that the President informs me that you weren’t raised in an environment where you were likely taught these things.” He wiggles the spoon over my nose. “Now, focus.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Of course there have been more background checks on me. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a bunch of hefty reports about my life on the President’s desk at this very moment.

But then the realization of what the etiquette trainer said sinks in.

“Wait,” I say, leaning over to Jackson. “‘Comprehensive training’? Does that mean I’m going to have to do this all over again?”

He looks somewhat shocked… which for Jackson, isn’t really saying much. “Ma’am, now that you and the President have gone public with your relationship, I imagine you’ll be following his orders every day from now on.”

“You’re joking?”

His brow furrows. “Did the President not explain this to you?”

Sure, he’d told me that nothing would ever be the same again. He hadn’t told me that I’m meant to be his little puppet doll every single day. Cover-up or no cover-up, that’s certainly not happening.

By the time it hits 12:30PM, I’m ready for my briefing with the President. More than ready.

Jackson doesn’t have to drag me this time. Now I’m the one pulling him forwards, striding up to the Oval Office without pausing to catch my breath.

The Secret Service guard posted by the door eyes me up. “The President is in a meeting.”

“I’ll show him a ‘meeting’,” I warn him. “Let me in.”

“Ma’am, that isn’t possible-”

I hold up my hand, showing him the ring. “Do you know who I am?”

Recognition fills his eyes. Of course he knows. “Miss, he’s busy-”

“I will see my fiancée whenever I wish,” I say, trying to channel all the energy of a snooty, entitled socialite. The kind of girl the President could actually be engaged to.

The guard just stares at me. His eyes flicker to Jackson, who - now to my infinite relief - simply shrugs once more. At least he comes in useful sometimes.

“Um…” the guard says, but I’m already pushing past.

“Miss Waters…” Jackson starts.

“You’ll stay here,” I say to him. It’s not a request from some nobody intern. It’s an order from the President’s fiancée.

I use both arms to throw open the ornate doors.

“We,” I say loudly, placing my hands