The President's Secret Baby

by Gage Grayson

  “Oh, thank you.”

  We say our goodbyes, and I get back to work on my computer, wanting to distract myself.

  If someone would have said to me a few months ago that I’d be calling Hope Olivier in a panic because I thought I was pregnant with the president’s baby, I would have laughed and called him crazy.

  Yet here I am.

  I’m thankful that Hope and I have grown close since this all started. I truly do count her as a friend—a good one.

  I nearly jump out of my seat when there’s a sudden knock on my door. I get up and answer it. To no surprise, there’s an intern with an envelope from Hope; I quickly take it, muttering a rushed thanks and shutting the door in his face.

  I walk over to the desk and empty the contents. Sure enough, just like Hope said, a pregnancy test falls between two of the manila folders.

  “Well, here goes nothing.”

  I take it into the bathroom and follow the instructions, and then leave it on the side of the sink.

  I set a timer on my phone for five minutes. I try to finish the email I was working on, but I can’t seem to focus on it. After a few minutes, I give up and just start pacing the room again.

  I’m probably just overreacting. I’ll check the test, and it’ll have that one little blue line, telling me I’m not pregnant.

  That’s it. I’m stressing over nothing, more than likely…I hope.

  I hear my phone’s alarm, and I stride into the bathroom to pick up the test. A soft whimper creeps out from between my lips when I look at it.

  Oh, my god.

  Two blue lines.

  There are two lines!

  I shake my head and blink a few times, trying to focus. I’m dizzy, and the two lines must be a mistake because of how I’m feeling.

  I glance back down at it, and there are still two blue lines. My heart sinks in my chest.

  What the fuck do I do now?

  As if on cue, I hear Hope’s voice ringing out from my office. She must have made her way over here after sending her intern. I didn’t even hear her come in.

  “Beatrice?”

  “In here.”

  My voice is shaky, and I feel like I’m going to pass out, so I brace myself against the door.

  She comes around the corner and sees me leaning up against the door to the bathroom, panic washed all over my face.

  She crosses her arms and gives me a sympathetic nod.

  “Well, I take it there are two little blue lines on that stick, not just one.”

  I nod, unable to speak. I try to respond, but it feels like the words just dry up in my throat when I try.

  I walk back into the office and let myself drop onto the couch. I take a deep breath as Hope sits down next to me.

  I look over at her, my eyes begging as much as my voice.

  “Hope, please don’t say anything to anyone.”

  She scoffs at me and gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, shaking her head.

  “Of course I’m not going to say anything. But what are you going to do?”

  Fuck. I hadn’t even gotten that far to consider my options—do I have options? I’m supposed to be the upcoming First Lady, but this isn’t how this is all supposed to go.

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “Well, what do you want to do?”

  I don’t even have an answer for that.

  I shrug, shaking my head and taking shallow breaths, my gaze floating around the room. I don’t even have an answer to her question.

  “I don’t know, Hope. But one thing I do know is I don’t want to tell Henry. Not yet, anyway. Not until I figure out—just…not yet.”

  I look her in the eyes, and she just nods and gives me a soft smile. “I understand.”

  She stands from the couch and grabs my jacket hanging on my desk chair. She hands it to me, then gesture towards the door.

  “Come on, let’s go get coffee.”

  I sigh and shake my head, looking at the stack of papers I still need to go through. “I really shouldn’t. I’ve got a million things to do.”

  “Oh, so do I. And we’ll do them. We can get coffee and work from the residence. At least there, you won’t be interrupted, and you’ll have some privacy. Henry’s in meetings all day. He won’t be there for hours.”

  Some privacy does sound nice right about now.

  I sigh and nod, then get up and gather my things from my desk, moving them all in my bag.

  I put on my best smile as we walk out of the office. I let one of the staffers know that Hope and I have some things to discuss and that I’ll be out of the office for the rest of the day.

  With that, we head out to get coffee. We go up to the residence, my mind racing.

  “You’ll be fine, Beatrice. We’ll figure it out.”

  I nod and give her a smile.

  I sure fucking hope so.

  Chapter 31

  Henry

  I’m not sure if checking the news was such a good idea. I have staff in the media, of course, who could read, review, compile data, and make a presentation. But I’m nervous like a kid on Christmas morning who doesn’t know if the big glittery box is all his dreams come true or if it’s a mountain of coal.

  The fact is: I love Beatrice. I’d like everyone else to love her, too. It’s not that I really give a damn what people think—even if public opinion did get me elected—but I know it would be easier for her in her future role as first lady if they did.

  That’s how I find myself sitting at my desk in my study with newspapers and magazines literally plastered from one end to the other. I’ve almost buried my coffee with the amount of paper. I have to hunt it out through loose pages before taking a deep sip.

  Most of the really respectable newspapers have only nice things to say. We’re the top of the social pages, but not in the actual news. This could be a really good sign, or it might just mean that it wasn’t a slow week in the news.

  I doubt there’s any industry bias—even though Beatrice is well-respected and admired in her field. I doubt other journalists, at least those with any real integrity, would hold back just for that reason.

  Pushing aside the more balanced newspapers, the bright colors and glossy pages of the magazines look garish. There are dozens of derogatory remarks, and some are quite lewd. I find it difficult to believe anyone could actually print this rubbish.

  ‘Cheeky Journalist Wants To Be First Lady’

  ‘How to Become an American Princess’

  ‘Bountiful Beatrice Takes President For A Ride’

  And my favorite—‘The New Lewinsky’.

  I know it’s just sensationalist, temporary reading. It serves a purpose. It entertains.

  They have to sell their magazines. Lies and dodgy headlines do that.

  I’m just disappointed—and a bit aggravated on her behalf—because none of those headlines are anything like Bea.

  She would never manipulate me or anyone that way, either—her most admirable feature is her integrity.

  I hear the door and look up to see Beatrice walking in. She looks bright and happy, albeit tired. She seems a bit down lately. I hope she’s not coming down with something.

  I’d hide the papers, but there’s no point. She’s going to see it all eventually.

  And truthfully, it’s best we meet this challenge head on together.

  “What are you up to?” she asks, pulling a couple of folders out of her bag. “I thought we could go over that—”

  She pauses, face going still as she looks slowly over the papers across the desk. She reads a few, sliding pages back and forth. Her eyes are fierce when she looks back up at me.

  “Don’t pay much attention to it, Bea. This is just part of the life. Being in the public eye means people are going to be looking at you all the time. Most of them won’t like you, but I wanted to get a rundown on what the country thought of you.”

  She leans over the table, catching her lip between her teeth thoughtfully.

  “It isn’t good,
from the looks of it.”

  “You know the industry. They make up all kinds of things just to sell more papers. Seriously, this is nothing to worry about. Once the wedding preparations start, everyone will fall in love with you. We’ll have to get a nice album done in a good magazine about your dress and how you picked it out. They love that kind of thing.”

  She nods slowly, looking pale and withdrawn. I can’t tell if it’s the bug she can’t seem to shake, or if this has really affected her more than expected.

  “Beatrice?”

  She looks up, smiling, waving a hand. “It’s okay, Henry. I just got a bit of a shock. I’ve worked so hard on my career. Do the people who print this stuff even think about that? Why would I have worked so hard on my career, never even having time to date, if my goal was a trophy husband? It just doesn’t make sense.”

  I can’t help the short laugh, it just bursts out of me.

  “That’s just it; you’re giving them way too much credit. They don’t care about if something makes sense. Hell, I don’t think they even care if people believe it. They just want it to sell.”

  “I know that’s true. In my own work, marketability is important, of course, but it’s the content of the work that matters. It’s about revealing the facts in an entertaining way that isn’t overtly decorated. I can’t even imagine writing something like this, ignoring the facts to focus on sensationalized details.”

  “Well, that’s why we hired you to write my biography: not just your ability to work with facts, but your efficiency at producing them in a readable way.”

  “That, and you wanted me around again.” She smirks and pushes aside the tabloids to look at the papers underneath.

  Well, she isn’t completely wrong.

  “Well, at least these guys have been a bit kinder. I don’t like being noticed more for my associations than for my work, but at least they aren’t calling me a man-eater,” she says with a soft sigh.

  I push the magazines away, trying to stack them at the end of the desk. One of the tabloids has something about an alien baby slashed across its front, right underneath a bad photo of Beatrice and some very unfriendly comments.

  “Hey,” I grin up at her, desperate to break the tension, “It could be worse. At least you’re not pregnant.”

  I wait for her to laugh and brush it off. When she doesn’t, I look up, wondering if she heard me right.

  She’s standing up straight, arms folded.

  “Just what exactly are you implying by that?”

  “Nothing. I—”

  “The idea that I would do such a thing is appalling. You know I wouldn’t do something like that.”

  “Yes, I know—”

  “It’s completely insulting, in the first place, to even think that a woman in my position would forget about something like that.”

  Her mouth trembles and her eyes sparkle, just a bit. She wipes her eyes furiously as she goes on.

  I admit that I’m a bit gobsmacked right now.

  “My career is the most important thing in my life. I’m always very careful. There’s no way I’m going to get pregnant until I’m ready and in a secure position to do so! There’s so much work I want to get done before I even consider having a family.”

  “Okay.”

  This has really taken a bad turn. I’m not sure how we galloped off into such rocky territory.

  This certainly isn’t like Bea at all, and I can only guess that the stress has started to get under her skin.

  And yet I can’t help but feel as if there’s something more than she’s telling me. I didn’t get to where I am without being able to read people, and I like to think I’ve got a good read on Beatrice.

  “So, what if I did get pregnant, what then? Is everyone in the papers going to automatically hate me? It’s just a given that if I get pregnant too early in the dating stage, I must have done it deliberately? Give me a break.”

  She takes a few steps away. Grips her arms as she looks out the window. I get up and step up behind her, placing my hands on her shoulders affectionately.

  “I’m so sorry. I really didn’t think about what I was saying. I just tried to make a joke. A really poor one, obviously. I know, these are very serious things to consider. I shouldn’t have tried to joke about it.”

  She turns to face me, looking more pale and fragile than ever. Her big eyes search mine. She’s so close to me that I can feel her warmth, yet at the same time, she’s miles away.

  I have no idea what’s going on behind those beautiful eyes.

  “I’m sorry, too. The headlines just shook me up a bit. And when you mentioned babies…well, it’s a very serious topic.”

  “Indeed.”

  She stands there, arms crossed, looking up at me. I wrap my arms around her and pull her in tightly. She sighs and leans her head against my chest.

  For a moment, things feel right as rain again.

  “We should really get some work done today. The biography is not going to write itself.”

  “You can take the day off, Bea.”

  “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

  Just like that, she’s all business again as she heads back to the table. Bea picks up her folders. She holds them to her chest, and I make my way back to the desk.

  Bea walks over to give me a quick kiss and a faint smile.

  “I love you,” she whispers.

  “I love you, too.”

  Her smile brightens just a bit at my words, and she heads out of the office.

  My hand rubs against my chin as I watch her leave, and I’m left with this feeling that something isn’t right.

  Chapter 32

  Beatrice

  Why is this so difficult?

  Why can’t I simply tell him?

  It weighs so heavy on me, what the world will make of this—the headlines the press will print in the newspapers and tabloids, how they’ll cover this on TV.

  News of my pregnancy will spread like wildfire once the word is out. Which is exactly why Henry needs to know first and needs to know as soon as possible—yet I can’t bring myself to tell him.

  Shouldn’t we be able to put ourselves first, and be above all the public perception, expectations, and social norms?

  Henry is the most powerful man on the planet, and he has a job to do. I’m torn because the news of my pregnancy seems to pale compared to decisions and problems weighing on his mind, but isn’t it the most wonderful and exciting news you can receive?

  Sharing it with your partner should be a joyous and intimate moment of celebration, and still, I’m holding back, literally biting my tongue.

  I’m pregnant and troubled by how to tell the father of my child. This is not how imagined this special moment.

  I breathe an audible sigh, and from his desk, Henry looks over at me to the table where I’m still pretending to be busy with my folders.

  I take in his look, full of concern and care for me. How can I doubt that he’ll know exactly what to do? How can I withhold this important an information from him?

  I give him a smile, and he smiles back.

  “Henry,” I begin, my voice wavering.

  “Yes?”

  He halts again what he’s doing and fully turns his attention to me.

  “Look, before we continue working on your biography, let’s get one thing out of the way.”

  “Oh, there’s nothing in the way,” he reassures me. “Nor is there anything between us. When I joke as I did before, it’s to loosen up the situation, but know that you can always take me seriously, okay?”

  “Okay. Thanks, Henry.”

  He smiles again.

  “But that’s not really what I meant just now.”

  His steady and firm voice—full of confidence—build up my courage in turn, and I know I can tell him. I’m as ready now as I’ll ever be.

  Come on, Beatrice, the only way out is through!

  I’ve never struggled to find the right words in my writing. Why are all the possible opening line
s stuck in my throat now?

  “Henry,” I begin again softly.

  Just then, there is a short but succinct rapping at the door. Immediately, I swallow all my words back down.

  Without awaiting an answer, the two wings of the door fly open, and Lawrence bursts into the room. The White House chief of staff marches towards us, followed by an armada of generals, taking equally great strides. Trailing behind is a group of what I assume are intelligence officials of the administration, filing in two by two.

  Henry shoots me a quick, apologetic look from across the room, as if to say he’s sorry for the interruption. It’s blatantly obvious that my “business” is not as pressing as whatever this commotion is about. I appreciate Henry’s look, and I know I can’t expect him to put me above official duties.

  But at the same time, I already wonder when the next opportunity will arise to tell him I’m pregnant—and if it will be just as difficult again to muster up the same courage to actually tell him.

  “Mr President,” Lawrence says in the authoritative, deep, and booming voice he uses for serious matters. “A situation has arisen.”

  The last official shuts the door behind him. The chief of staff has arrived at the table, where he begins to spread a huge map. Lawrence quickly glances at me sideways as he moves my folders out of the way. I gather them up hastily—I guess now the moment to work on the biography is over.

  All this looks very alarming.

  Henry walks over from his desk and takes position at Lawrence’s side. The generals gather on the other side, their brass insignia and colorful decorations gleaming in the light, while the intelligence officials cluster at one end of the table, as if they were their own dark and gloomy cloud.

  The formation of the men at the table has shut me out automatically, and yet I linger. I won’t leave unless Henry explicitly tells me to.

  Lawrence seems to have read my mind. Again, he looks at me, then back at Henry.

  “She doesn’t—” he begins, indicating me with a nod of the head.

  “Have the appropriate security clearance,” Henry interrupts. “Not technically, but I’m going to tell her everything later regardless.”

  The answer is good enough for Lawrence, but the others are not convinced. One general looks as though he’s about to say something, but a look from his commander-in-chief shuts him up before he even speaks.