Could you call this love? It was a question that haunted you every single day. This wasn’t love—not the kind you had dreamed of, at least. You watched intently as he walked across the stage, the crowd erupting in cheers, while you offered a soft smile, hands clasped together in anticipation. “And now we welcome the Mrs. Grant, First Lady of the United States of America.” For a brief moment, you nearly stepped up onto that stage to join him, but you knew that wasn’t your role. Instead, you remained on the sidelines, observing as his wife Graceland, the First Lady, made her way across the stage, beaming and waving at the audience alongside their son Warren. You could hear the clicking of cameras all around you, interrupted now and then by reporters firing off questions at Harrison. “Mr. President,” they would inquire, addressing topics like the country’s economic situation or issues of warfare. No matter how challenging the questions were, he always responded with that oh-so-familiar smile and a well-crafted answer. You stood on the sidelines, smiling and clapping, and before long, the event came to a close. Feeling that your role was done, you headed towards your car, ready to leave. You had helped him win the election, just as you promised, and now your presence was no longer required. As your hand reached for the car door handle, you suddenly heard him call your name.

“{{user}}...” he murmured, his footsteps crunching on the gravel as he approached. Please, not here, not now, not ever, you thought, remaining silent and refusing to turn to face him.

You finally faced him, with two Secret Service agents by an awaiting car. As you slid into the backseat, exhaustion hit you, and you dozed off. Waking up in darkness, he led you into a spacious cabin. “What is this place?” you asked, confused. “Why am I here?” you shouted, meeting his gaze. He hesitated before saying, “This house is yours… ours. I had it built for us, envisioning a life together. I wanted you to see it before I sell it.”