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Chapter Text

The morning was too bright for what it was. Washington’s winter light had a cruel way of showing everything—its thin, silvery sharpness catching on the window glass, on the metal fences along Pennsylvania Avenue, on the black lacquered cars lined up like chess pieces waiting for their players.

Emma Frost sat in the backseat of the armored town car, hands folded around a porcelain cup that had long gone cold. The coffee was untouched—she’d been staring at it since they’d left the hotel, watching the surface tremble with each bump in the road. She hadn’t slept much, not from nerves—she refused to call it that—but from the hum of the day pressing against the inside of her skull.

Outside sirens wialed, but inside the car, Emma Frost sat perfectly still. Her reflection in the window was a ghost—white wool coat draped over her shoulders, pale hair coiled at the nape of her neck, blue eyes narrowed not in worry, but calibration. The country was about to become hers. Every word she spoke from this day forward would ripple through markets and homes, through dinner tables and campaign offices. Her name would live in the same breath as Washington and Roosevelt—and yet, all she could think about, absurdly, was whether Sophie had remembered her gloves.

“Mom,” came a voice, thin and sleepy. Sophie was in the seat beside her, one booted foot tucked under her leg, the other swinging aimlessly. “Is it true you have to say the oath exactly right or they make you start over?”

Emma’s lips twitched. “That only happened once,” she said softly. “And yes. But I intend to get it right on the first try.”

Sophie frowned in exaggerated concentration. “But what if you mess up?”

“Then I’ll improvise. That’s what presidents do.”

That earned her a giggle, the sound as pure and sharp as a bell. Across from them, Phoebe and Celeste exchanged matching looks of teenage disdain—the kind that carried both affection and mild exasperation. Sixteen-year-old twins who had long since decided they were the adults in the family, the ones keeping their mother from forgetting the world beyond briefings and handshakes.

Phoebe, ever the serious one, straightened the lapel of her own blazer. “You’re not supposed to improvise at an inauguration, Mom,” she said. “It’s kind of the opposite of the point.”

“Technically,” Celeste added, glancing down at her phone, “if you flub it, Chief Justice Xavier can prompt you, so it’s not a full do-over.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Thank you, walking encyclopedia.”

“Thank you, humorless automaton.”

Emma leaned her head back against the seat and smiled. Her daughters’ bickering—rapid, sharp, familiar—had become the soundtrack of her mornings. It grounded her, tethered her to something human amid the machinery of politics. In them, she saw her late husband’s warmth and her own precision, mixed into something dazzlingly unpredictable.

“Ladies,” she murmured, “if you’re going to argue, please do it about something substantial. Foreign policy, at least. Not ceremony.”

That earned her twin sighs and a synchronized shrug. Celeste went back to her phone; Phoebe crossed her arms, eyes drifting to the frost-lined window. The continued on their journey until Celeste disturbed the silence again.

“Mom, you’re doing that thing again,” Celeste said, eyes flicking up from her phone.

Emma arched a brow, voice smooth, amused despite herself. “What thing?”

“The staring-into-the-coffee-like-it’s-going-to-tell-you-the-future thing,” Phoebe supplied, twin to Celeste and eternal amplifier of her sister’s observations. She leaned back against the seat, legs crossed in her powder-blue pantsuit—one of Emma’s castoffs, tailored to fit her narrow teenage frame.

Emma smiled faintly. “I’ll let you know if it does.”

The youngest—Sophie—sat between them, clutching a small stuffed swan that had been with her since she was two. She watched her sisters with the fascination of someone trying to decode a language they only half understood.

“Does it tell you good things or bad things?” Sophie asked, her voice a careful whisper, as if the coffee really might hear.

Emma’s gaze softened. “Mostly neither. It just tells me to drink it before it gets cold.”

That earned a small giggle from Sophie, and the tension in Emma’s chest eased. The car moved through the city slowly—crowds were already gathering near the Capitol, waving flags and craning for a glimpse of history that hadn’t yet happened. She could see flashes of color, camera lights, the sheen of press lenses through the bulletproof glass.

Sixteen years old, and already the twins were fluent in the language of politics, cynicism, and self-defense. They had grown up with motorcades, press conferences, the constant scrutiny of a mother whose every expression could make headlines. Sophie, at eight, still had the luxury of believing that crowds meant celebration and not judgment.

“You look tired,” Phoebe said, her tone careful, as if tiptoeing between daughter and campaign advisor.

Emma turned her face toward the window, catching her reflection in the glass. The faintest trace of fatigue beneath the perfect foundation, the kind that couldn’t be hidden, only dignified. “You sound like Anna-Marie,” she said lightly.

“She’s not wrong,” Celeste muttered, still scrolling through social media. “Everyone’s already posting about your outfit. They’re calling it the Frost Doctrine of elegance.”

Emma’s mouth twitched. “And what do you call it?”

“Expensive.”

The laughter that followed was genuine, small, and warm. Moments like this were rare—a kind of fragile reprieve from the machinery of power grinding outside the car.

Her daughters didn’t remember the years when she’d built the Frost fortune, when she’d been a CEO before she was a governor. They didn’t remember the sleepless nights spent negotiating with men twice her age who looked at her legs before they listened to her numbers. They only knew her as “Mom,” as “Governor Frost,” as the woman who was about to become the President of the United States.

But there had been a man once—a husband. The ghost of him hovered sometimes at the edges of mornings like this one.

He had been sick for two years before he died, and long before that, they had been strangers sharing a last name. She had stayed when she might have left, and when he died, the relief had come first—sharp and cruel—followed by a guilt so quiet it felt like dust settling.

Emma had told herself she’d stayed for the girls. That was true, but not the whole truth. The other truth—the one she would never say aloud—was that she had stayed because leaving would have been too public, too messy, too human. And Emma Frost had never been allowed to be human.

The car slowed as it approached a security checkpoint. Outside, Secret Service agents moved with silent precision. One of them—Laura Kinney—stood at the edge of the motorcade, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd. Barely out of her twenties, expression unreadable, Laura was lethal grace in human form. Emma trusted her without question.

“Ma’am,” Laura said, voice clipped through the comms. “We’ll be through in two minutes. The street’s clear.”

“Thank you, Agent Kinney,” Emma replied, automatically. Her tone carried the unspoken balance between authority and gratitude—Emma had mastered that particular diplomacy long ago.

Beside her, Celeste whispered something to Phoebe, who grinned.

“What’s so funny?” Emma asked, half amused.

“Nothing,” Celeste said quickly with a blush, but Phoebe's smirk betrayed her.

“She said Agent Kinney looks like she could kill someone with a spoon.”

Laura’s voice crackled back through the intercom. “I could.”

The twins burst into laughter, and even Emma couldn’t suppress a low, approving chuckle. “Remind me to give you a raise, Laura.”

“Noted, ma’am.”

The city passed in shades of gray and steel and old stone. Emma watched it all in silence—the people, the history, the fragile illusion of unity that the inauguration was meant to project. The closer they drew to the Capitol, the more she felt the weight of it—not just the presidency, but the symbolism. The first female president. The first to take office after Lehnsherr’s conservative reign. The first to promise not revolution, but reconstruction.

And yet, there was something else, too—a restlessness under her skin, a whisper that politics had never been enough to quiet.

A soft knock at the divider startled her. Anna-Marie leaned in from the front passenger seat, a folder in hand. Her voice was low, familiar, tinged with that Southern steel that had kept more than one crisis at bay.

“Madam President—sorry, soon-to-be,” Anna-Marie said with a grin. “You’ve got a final update from Hank. Cabinet confirmations are holding. No major surprises.”

Emma set down her cup. “That’s either excellent news or ominous silence.”

“Bit of both,” Anna-Marie admitted. “He wants to brief you on one small change before we reach the Capitol. It’s about the communications team.”

Emma frowned. “Go on.”

“The press office wanted someone new—someone to handle messaging with more subtlety. Bobby Drake pushed for her. Jean Grey. Former journalist. Smart. Knows the press inside and out.”

Emma searched her memory for the name—she remembered a few articles, pieces that had struck her for their clarity and quiet conviction. She remembered, vaguely, the face that had appeared on television now and then: green eyes, red hair, the kind of composed warmth that drew people in without trying.

“She’s already accepted?” Emma asked.

“She’ll start after the ceremony. Bobby thinks she’s the best we’ll get. And honestly, I agree.”

Emma nodded, though her attention had drifted. She caught her own reflection again in the glass—the perfect image of control—and for a moment, she wondered what that new aide would see when they met. The president, or the woman still figuring out how to breathe beneath the armor.

“Noted,” Emma said finally. “We’ll make her welcome.”

Anna-Marie closed the folder. “You’ll like her. She’s sharp. Maybe even sharp enough to keep up with you.”

“Let’s hope she’s smart enough not to try,” Emma said dryly.

That earned a soft laugh from Anna-Marie, who retreated to the front seat just as Hank McCoy’s voice came over the secure line.

“Madam President-elect,” Hank’s rumbling baritone filled the car, “everything is in place. Bishop’s coordinating with Defense. Stark’s already giving interviews about the economy—Lord help us—and Wanda’s briefing the foreign press.”

Emma smirked. “And how many diplomatic fires is she starting?”

“None yet. But it’s early.”

Phoebe leaned forward, whispering to Celeste, “Who’s Wanda?”

“Foreign Policy,” Celeste whispered back. “Mom’s human chess piece.”

Emma shot them a look through the mirror, but there was humor in it.

Hank continued, “One more item. You’ll be meeting President Lehnsherr briefly before the ceremony. Standard protocol. His staff insists it be private.”

“Private,” Emma repeated, the word like a stone in her mouth.

“Indeed. I reminded them that you’re not one for surprises.”

“I’m not one for Lehnsherr, either,” she said, voice cool.

Her daughters perked up at the name. Even Sophie recognized it—he’d been on television enough. “That’s the mean man who said women couldn’t be president, right?” she asked.

Emma glanced down at her youngest, fighting the ghost of a smile. “Something like that.”

Phoebe snorted. “I bet he’s thrilled you proved him wrong.”

Emma’s eyes flicked toward the window again, to the city that would soon call her its leader. “Oh, I suspect he’s not thrilled about much today.”

The silence that followed was thoughtful, humming beneath the steady rhythm of the car’s movement.

It was strange, Emma thought, how the air before power always felt heavier than the power itself. She had lived through this sensation before—before her first election, before every major deal she’d ever closed. The tension before the curtain rose. The knowledge that once she stepped into that light, there would be no returning to darkness.

Outside, the Washington Monument stood like a pale sentinel against the winter sky. The air shimmered faintly from the cold, and Emma imagined she could feel it even through the glass. Her fingers brushed the pearl earring at her left ear—her mother’s—then fell to her lap again.

Phoebe and Celeste had resumed arguing quietly over something—probably the merits of social media strategy versus old-fashioned diplomacy, both of which they discussed with the self-assuredness of miniature campaign managers. Sophie had fallen asleep against Emma’s side, her small hand resting trustingly on her mother’s wrist.

Emma looked down at her, her breath catching in that private space where love and regret blurred. Sophie had been born when the marriage was already crumbling, when the house had been quiet except for the sound of the machines keeping her husband alive. Emma had thought another child might heal something—had believed, foolishly, in redemption through family. But grief had made her harder, not softer.

Still, Sophie’s presence reminded her that tenderness wasn’t weakness. It was proof that she hadn’t turned entirely to marble.

Anna-Marie’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Five minutes out, Madam President-elect. Security’s tightening.”

Emma straightened, brushing invisible lint from her cream coat. “Understood.”

Celeste looked up from her phone again. “Do you ever get scared?” she asked suddenly.

Emma blinked. “Of what?”

“I don’t know. This. All of it.”

Phoebe shot her sister a warning glance, but Emma didn’t mind the question. She considered it, eyes distant. “Of course,” she said softly. “Only fools aren’t afraid. But I try not to let fear choose my direction.”

“That’s very president-y,” Celeste murmured, half teasing.

Emma smiled faintly. “It’s also very human.”

The girls fell quiet after that, perhaps realizing, as she had, that they were crossing a line—not into the Capitol yet, but into something larger, something irreversible.

The motorcade turned onto the final avenue, where the dome of the Capitol gleamed ahead like a promise. Reporters’ voices buzzed faintly through the glass; cameras flashed; the roar of a nation’s anticipation swelled.

Emma breathed in slowly. The scent of leather, perfume, and cold morning air filled the car. She thought, fleetingly, of the man who had once shared her bed and her ambitions, of the empty side of the bed she still occupied each night. She thought of the daughters beside her, of the millions waiting outside, of the quiet echo in her chest that felt too much like longing.

Maybe it wasn’t just power she wanted. Maybe it was connection—something unspoken, unguarded. Something she hadn’t allowed herself since before grief had turned her to ice.

“Mom?” Phoebe’s voice cut through the reverie. “You ready?”

Emma turned her head, smiled—a small, precise expression that had once made entire rooms fall silent. “Always.”

The convoy slowed to a final stop. Laura’s voice came through the intercom again, steady and sure. “We’re here. The President is waiting for you inside.”

Emma exhaled, once, to steady the heartbeat that refused to obey her logic. She brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face, adjusted her gloves, and reached for the door handle. Outside, history waited—alongside Erik Lehnsherr, the man she’d fought for four relentless years to replace.

“Stay with the agents,” she told her daughters. “I’ll only be a moment.”

Phoebe nodded solemnly; Celeste gave a small, conspiratorial smile. Sophie, still half-asleep, murmured, “Be careful.”

Emma paused long enough to press a kiss to the top of her youngest’s head. “Always, darling.”

Then she stepped out into the cold air, the flash of cameras blinding for half a heartbeat. The world roared her name—“Frost! Frost!”—but she heard none of it. The steps ahead led to the Capitol, to the transfer of power, to the beginning of everything she’d built and sacrificed for. But before that beginning, there was still one ending to close President Erik Lehnsherr waited at the top of the steps. And Emma Frost, in the bright, merciless light of morning, walked toward him.

The marble steps of the Capitol felt colder than she remembered. The wind swept across the plaza with an unkind precision, tugging at the hem of her coat, at the golden strands of her hair that refused to obey even the best stylist’s efforts.

It was a beautiful day, objectively. Washington in winter had a way of making power look photogenic. The sky was a hard, perfect blue; the air was clear enough that she could see her breath. And ahead of her, framed by the grand white columns and the nation’s most enduring architecture, stood President Erik Lehnsherr.

He looked every inch the Wall Street monarch turned statesman—expensive charcoal coat, gleaming shoes, the quiet air of entitlement that no election loss could quite strip away. His silver hair was combed back immaculately, and when he smiled, it was with that faint, knowing curve of a man who’d once been untouchable.

“Madam President-elect,” he said, his voice carrying easily over the distance between them. “Congratulations. I suppose congratulations are in order, aren’t they?”

Emma smiled as she approached, that flawless, camera-ready expression she had perfected over decades. “That’s usually how it works, Mr. President. One of us wins, the other pretends to be gracious about it.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “You make it sound like theater.”

“Politics often is.” She stopped just shy of arm’s length, her security detail holding their distance behind her. “Though I’d like to think the script this time has better writing.”

“Ah,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You were always fond of your own dialogue.”

Emma tilted her head slightly. “Only when the lines are good.”

They stood there for a moment—two eras of America facing each other, his presidency fading into her imminent rise. Behind them, cameras clicked, staffers lingered discreetly in the periphery, and the air itself seemed to hold its breath.

Erik broke the silence first, his tone conversational, but sharp enough to cut glass. “You ran a very clever campaign. Idealism wrapped in pragmatism. You managed to make the impossible sound inevitable.”

“Thank you,” she replied smoothly. “You taught me well. If your administration hadn’t made quite so many mistakes, I might not have had such a convenient list of lessons to learn from.”

He chuckled lowly. “Still biting, I see.”

“Still patronizing, I see.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Touché.”

Emma’s gaze flicked briefly to the Capitol steps above them—the stage already set for the inauguration, the flags unfurling in the crisp air. “I imagine it’s not easy, giving this up,” she said softly.

“It never is,” Erik admitted. His eyes, for a moment, softened. “But one learns to accept the will of the people.”

“The will of the people,” she echoed. “Such a gracious phrase for ‘you lost.’”

He laughed—a genuine, deep sound that startled her with its warmth. “You haven’t changed since the debates. Still no filter.”

“Oh, I have one,” she said, smiling. “I just choose not to use it around men who underestimate me.”

His expression darkened slightly. “Careful, Emma. You’ll find that leading is far lonelier than campaigning. Out here, charm has a half-life.”

“I’m not looking for charm to sustain me,” she replied, her tone calm but pointed. “I’m looking for change.”

He studied her then—the sharpness of her posture, the cool gleam of her eyes, the unshakable poise. There was something in his look that reminded her of all the men she’d outmaneuvered in boardrooms, those who thought condescension was armor.

“You really believe you can change it, don’t you?” he said finally.

“I don’t believe,” she said. “I plan.”

Erik’s mouth curved again, but this time, the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Plans. Yes. You always had plenty of those.”

“Better than excuses,” she said sweetly.

For a moment, silence settled between them again. The wind caught the corner of her coat and lifted it, the fabric snapping softly. Somewhere in the distance, a reporter’s voice echoed, the hum of a crowd swelling as the ceremony neared.

Erik clasped his hands behind his back. “You should enjoy this moment. It won’t come again quite the same way.”

“Oh, I intend to enjoy every one of them,” she replied. “Including this one.”

His brows lifted slightly. “This one?”

“The look on your face while you’re still required by law to call me Madam President-elect.”

He laughed again, a short bark of sound. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“Efficient,” she corrected.

They began to walk slowly toward the Capitol steps. Secret Service agents flanked them from a distance—his, hers, a brief overlapping of worlds soon to be separated. The symbolism wasn’t lost on either of them.

“Tell me,” Erik said conversationally, “what’s the first thing you’ll do once you’re sworn in?”

“Undo half of what you’ve done,” she replied lightly.

“I expected as much.”

“You made the country smaller,” she said, voice low. “Tighter. Afraid. I’d like to make it breathe again.”

“And yet,” he said, “you’ll find that fear is the currency of power. It spends more easily than hope.”

Emma stopped walking, turning to face him fully. “Then perhaps you should have spent less of it. You might have had some goodwill left in the bank.”

He smiled thinly. “The markets liked me.”

“The markets always like men who look like you,” she said. “That’s not an accomplishment. It’s a demographic.”

For the first time, his smile faltered. The satisfaction that bloomed in her chest was small but undeniable.

They reached the final landing of the steps. From here, the Capitol lawn stretched out before them, a sea of faces gathering in the cold. The wind shifted, carrying the faint murmur of the crowd, the music beginning to tune.

Erik looked out over it, his profile etched against the pale light. “You know,” he said, “this office—this job—it’s lonelier than you can imagine.”

“I can imagine quite a lot.”

He turned his gaze to her, eyes sharp and assessing. “Then take some advice, from one occupant of that desk to the next: hold fast to your spouse. You’ll need someone to go home to.”

It was said lightly, almost casually. But the words struck her with surgical precision, the air tightening in her lungs.

Her husband’s ghost stirred in the space behind her ribs—an old ache, familiar and dull but suddenly sharp again. She saw the hospital room, the quiet hum of machines, the half-empty glass of water on the bedside table.

Emma didn’t flinch. She met Erik’s gaze, unblinking. “Unfortunately,” she said evenly, “death doesn’t take advice appointments.”

For a heartbeat, even Erik Lehnsherr looked taken aback. Then his expression softened—not with pity, but with respect, perhaps even regret. “You always did have the final word.”

“I make a habit of it.”

A small sound interrupted them—soft footsteps on marble, too light for an adult’s. Emma turned, frowning, just as a small blonde figure appeared from behind one of the pillars.

“Sophie,” Emma said sharply, though her voice was more startled than scolding.

Her youngest daughter stood there in her little wool coat, clutching her stuffed swan. One of the agents—Laura, of course—appeared seconds later, looking half apologetic, half murderous. “She slipped past me, ma’am.”

Emma exhaled through her nose. “Of course she did.”

Sophie’s eyes widened as she looked at Erik, recognizing the face from television. “You’re the mean man,” she said solemnly.

Erik blinked. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Am I now?”

“You said mean things about Mommy on TV,” Sophie said, frowning. “You said she couldn’t do your job.”

Emma closed her eyes briefly. “Sophie—”

“And,” Sophie continued stubbornly, “you were wrong. Because she can. She’s smarter than everybody.”

The air went still. For a long, impossible moment, no one spoke. Then Emma sighed, kneeling down beside her daughter.

“Sophie, sweetheart,” she said gently. “That’s not how we talk to former presidents.”

“But he was mean,” Sophie insisted.

“Yes, he was,” Emma said, glancing up at Erik with an icy politeness. “And now he’s not president anymore. Which means we can forgive him and move on, can’t we?”

Sophie considered that, then nodded reluctantly.

Erik chuckled, surprisingly warm. “She’s spirited. Takes after her mother.”

Emma rose to her full height again. “Let’s hope she chooses better mentors.”

“Ah,” he said. “There’s the Frost I remember.”

She smiled, cool and flawless. “There’s the Lehnsherr I’m replacing.”

He inclined his head, not quite a bow, but something close. “Then I suppose I’ll see you inside, Madam President-elect.”

“Do enjoy your retirement,” she replied sweetly. “Golf courses and conservative think tanks are waiting with open arms.”

He smirked. “You’ll find I’m not so easily put out to pasture.”

“I never thought you were. Just…out of time.”

Their eyes met one final time—old power and new, one era yielding to another not with grace, but with inevitability.

Then he turned and walked toward the exit, his Secret Service detail falling into step behind him.

When he was gone, the air seemed to ease. Emma exhaled slowly, only now realizing how tightly she’d been holding herself.

Sophie tugged at her coat. “Mommy?”

“Yes, darling.”

“I wish Daddy were here.”

The words hit her like a quiet blow. Emma’s throat tightened. There were so many things she could have said—truths that had no place in a child’s world. That her father had been gone long before he’d died. That love and presence weren’t always the same thing. That sometimes grief was easier than disappointment.

Instead, she knelt again, brushing a strand of hair from Sophie’s face. “I know, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Me too.”

It wasn’t true, not entirely, but it was kind. And sometimes kindness was the closest thing to truth a mother could offer.

Sophie frowned, as if sensing the spaces between words. “Are you nervous?”

Emma hesitated. Honesty and image wrestled briefly in her chest. Then, to her own quiet surprise, she nodded. “Yes. A little.”

Sophie leaned closer, whispering as though sharing a secret. “You don’t have to be. You’re the bravest person ever.”

Emma’s eyes stung unexpectedly. She smiled, pulling her daughter into a brief, fierce hug. “You are far too good for me,” she murmured against her hair. “And I promise to try to be brave enough for both of us.”

The sound of approaching heels echoed down the marble corridor. Anna-Marie’s voice carried ahead of her, brisk and grounding.

“Madam President-elect,” she called. “We’re ready. They’re asking for you onstage.”

Emma straightened, brushing an invisible crease from her coat. “Of course they are.”

Anna-Marie’s gaze softened as she took in the sight of Sophie at Emma’s side. “You want me to take her?”

“In a moment.”

Emma crouched one last time, pressing a kiss to Sophie’s forehead. “Go with Anna-Marie, darling. Watch from the front row. I’ll wave.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Sophie smiled and took Anna-Marie’s hand, waving once before disappearing into the corridor.

Emma stood alone for a moment, the echoes of the past and future colliding in the stillness. The weight of the office loomed just ahead—the oath, the cameras, the first day of everything.

She drew in a slow breath, her reflection caught in the polished marble—calm, immaculate, untouchable. And then she smiled, a quiet, deliberate thing. Time to become the story everyone had been waiting for. Anna-Marie’s voice came again, closer this time. “Emma. You’re up.” She turned toward the light. And stepped forward.

 

The sound was the first thing she felt. Not the cold, not the sunlight, but the sound. The crowd stretched down the National Mall like a living ocean—tens of thousands of people pressed together, the distant shimmer of flags, the metallic buzz of drones and camera rigs circling like insects. It was a roar, not chaotic but symphonic, every cheer and chant layering into a single, undeniable truth: Emma Frost had won. The music swelled. The announcer’s voice rang out across the Capitol steps.

“…Madam President-elect Emma Grace Frost.”

For one brief heartbeat, Emma stood just behind the ceremonial doors, the winter air seeping under the edges of her coat, her heart thrumming in her throat. Then the doors opened, and the light hit her full in the face.

The applause hit next. It rolled forward like a wave, cresting as she stepped into view, hand raised in a quiet, practiced salute.

Anna-Marie walked behind her, clipboard in hand; Hank McCoy, dignified and calm, followed a step behind. But this moment was hers. The cameras would see only her—white coat, pale gloves, hair gleaming gold in the morning light, a figure carved from confidence.

And then, among the blur of faces, she found the ones that mattered.

There, in the front row: Celeste, Phoebe, and Sophie.
The twins were standing—elegant in navy coats and small pearls, mirroring her posture like instinct. Sophie, smaller and bundled in pale pink, waved her mittened hand so furiously that the people around her began smiling and pointing.

Emma’s chest tightened. She lifted her hand, subtle but deliberate, and waved back. Sophie’s delighted little shriek cut even through the roar of the crowd It was the smallest thing, but it steadied her completely.

She took her place beside the Chief Justice—Charles Xavier, serene and unreadable as ever—and raised her right hand. The cold bit at her fingers, but she didn’t flinch.

The oath was brief, a string of words she had practiced but never truly absorbed until that instant.
When she said “so help me God,” her voice did not shake. Applause exploded. Confetti began to fall in thin metallic ribbons. Somewhere behind her, the band struck up *Hail to the Chief.*

Madam President Emma Frost.

It sounded both surreal and inevitable. She turned to the podium, waiting for the noise to settle. The teleprompter glowed faintly in the distance, but she didn’t look at it. She didn’t need to. The speech was hers—written and rewritten in hotel rooms and midnight trains, sharpened until every sentence cut clean.

“My fellow Americans,” she began, her voice clear and low, carrying across the plaza.
“We stand together on a morning that feels new—not because the world has changed overnight, but because we have chosen to change it.”

The crowd quieted, the sound dimming to a hush that was almost reverent.

“Today is not about victory,” she continued. “It is about renewal. Four years ago, we were told that fear would protect us. That division would define us. That compromise was weakness. I stand here to tell you that none of those things are true.”

She paused just long enough to let the wind carry her words outward. Flags rippled in response.

“America’s strength has never come from walls or wealth, but from will—the will to question, to dream, to begin again. That will brought us here. And that will is what will lead us forward.”

Her gaze moved over the crowd, lingering briefly on the line of her cabinet seated near the front. Logan, impassive; Carol Danvers, attentive; Tony Stark, visibly fighting the urge to smirk at some private thought. Wanda Maximoff watched her with a diplomatic stillness that Emma almost admired.

“We will rebuild trust where it was broken. We will bring light into institutions long left in shadow. We will make this country once again something worth believing in—not as an idea owned by one party or one people, but as a promise that belongs to all.”

The words came easily now, shaped by conviction rather than rehearsal.

“I do not promise perfection. I promise effort. I promise empathy. I promise the courage to be wrong, and the strength to make it right. Because progress is not clean—it’s human.”

Her voice softened on that last word, and she thought of Sophie’s hand in hers that morning, of her daughters’ laughter in the car, of the man she had once loved enough to stay for.

“We are not the divided states of America,” she said finally. “We are the unfinished ones. And in that, there is hope.”

Silence. Then applause that swelled again, louder, deeper, rhythmic like a heartbeat.

She stepped back from the podium, chest rising in slow, measured breaths.

This was what she had fought for.
What she had bled for, quietly, over years of headlines and closed doors and backroom negotiations that reduced her to adjectives. Cold. Ambitious. Calculated.

But standing there, beneath the pale sun and the rush of noise, Emma Frost felt something startlingly pure—something dangerously close to peace.

The ceremony blurred after that. Handshakes. Photographs. A private signing inside the Capitol. The endless litany of congratulations that all sounded the same: You did it. You’re here. You’re President now.

By the time she returned to the car, the adrenaline had begun to ebb.

Phoebe and Celeste were already inside, half-bickering, half-celebrating. Sophie was asleep against the seat, her head resting on the stuffed swan’s soft wing.

Emma climbed in beside them, closing the door on the noise of the world. The tinted windows made everything outside look muted, unreal.

Celeste immediately twisted around in her seat. “So, Mom, we heard the moving trucks got there already. Our stuff’s been unpacked?”

“Mostly,” Emma said, voice tired but amused. “Your rooms are ready. You’ll each have your own.”

Phoebe’s grin was sly. “And yours?”

Emma glanced at her. “Mine what?”

“The presidential suite,” Celeste said. “Are you going to deep-clean it before you move in? You know—just to get the Erik out of it?”

Emma gave a soft, elegant snort. “I’ll burn sage if it makes you happy.”

Phoebe laughed. “He probably had the place smelling like cigar smoke and capitalism.”

“Phoebe,” Emma warned gently, though she was smiling now.

Celeste leaned her chin in her palm. “You could have the decorators redo it. Something more… Frost.”

“I think a woman’s touch will suffice,” Emma said. “Though perhaps I’ll change the drapes. I hear Erik had a fondness for gold.”

Celeste wrinkled her nose. “Of course he did. Men like him always do. Gold is the color of insecurity.”

“Remind me to put you on my speechwriting team,” Emma said dryly. “You’re wasted on TikTok.”

Phoebe laughed again. “You should see her DMs. She’s practically running her own political meme campaign.”

Emma gave her a pointed look. “Please tell me you’re not posting from the White House Wi-Fi.”

“Not yet,” Phoebe said innocently.

The twins exchanged a conspiratorial glance that reminded Emma so strongly of herself at their age—sharp-tongued, confident, far too observant—that she had to look away for a moment.

She turned instead to Sophie, who stirred beside her but didn’t wake. The little girl’s cheek rested against Emma’s shoulder, breath warm and steady. The soft weight of her grounded everything—the noise, the ceremony, the meaning of it all.

Emma smoothed Sophie’s hair back gently, her gloved hand tracing the curve of her daughter’s head. For all the pomp and the speeches, for all the grandeur of history being made, this was what steadied her. The quiet. The personal. The reminder that power meant nothing if it couldn’t protect what you loved.

Celeste had turned back to her phone again, scrolling idly through live coverage. “They’re already calling your speech one of the best inaugural addresses in modern history,” she said.

Emma smiled faintly. “Flattery travels faster than truth.”

Phoebe looked up. “You didn’t read it off the teleprompter half the time. Was that on purpose?”

“It always is,” Emma said. “A good speech is like a conversation. The trick is to make the country feel like it’s talking back.”

Celeste grinned. “You make it sound easy.”

“Nothing worth doing ever is,” Emma said softly.

Outside, the convoy moved through Washington, the familiar streets now transformed by ceremony and spectacle. The city seemed both larger and smaller—every block a stage, every intersection watched.

Emma’s phone buzzed once in her coat pocket: a text from Anna-Marie.
“Security cleared. We’ll have you at the residence in fifteen.”

Fifteen minutes until the first day truly began.

She leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes briefly. The exhaustion was bone-deep, but beneath it was a hum of exhilaration that refused to fade.

Phoebe spoke again, her tone curious. “Do you think you’ll sleep tonight?”

Emma didn’t open her eyes. “Unlikely.”

Celeste smirked. “You should christen the office instead. You know—power pose behind the desk, glare dramatically out the window.”

Emma laughed, low and genuine. “You two should really consider careers in satire.”

“Or politics,” Phoebe said.

“God forbid,” Emma murmured. “One Frost presidency is quite enough.”

The twins exchanged amused glances, but didn’t argue.

The car rolled past the Washington Monument, sunlight glinting off the marble. Emma opened her eyes, watching the reflection ripple across the glass.

She remembered what Erik had said earlier that morning. *The presidency is lonely.*
He wasn’t wrong—not entirely. But loneliness had never frightened her. Dependence had.

Still, the thought lingered—the idea of that vast, empty residence, of the echoing rooms and heavy history pressing against its walls. She wondered, briefly, if she would feel the absence of him there—not Erik, but her late husband, the man who had once shared her life before ambition and grief consumed it.

Sophie stirred again, mumbling softly, and Emma brushed another lock of hair from her face.

Celeste caught the motion in the corner of her eye, her voice quieting. “You were amazing today, Mom.”

Emma looked at her daughter through the rearview reflection. “Thank you.”

Phoebe smiled, suddenly shy in a way that reminded Emma how young they still were beneath the polish. “Dad would’ve been proud.”

Emma’s throat tightened. She didn’t answer immediately.

She thought of the man he had been—the warmth, the weariness, the distance. Pride hadn’t been something they shared easily, not at the end. But perhaps the girls needed to believe it. Perhaps she needed to let them.

“Yes,” she said at last, her voice steady. “He would have.”

The silence that followed was not heavy, but soft. The kind that holds more than words can carry.

As the motorcade turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, the distant outline of the White House appeared ahead, framed by trees and history. It gleamed pale and perfect in the afternoon sun.

Sophie stirred again, blinking awake. “Are we home?” she mumbled.

Emma looked down at her. “Yes,” she said quietly. “We are.”

The little girl smiled sleepily, settling back against her mother’s shoulder.

And as the car rolled through the gates—the cameras flashing, the flags snapping in the wind—Emma Frost let herself breathe.

President. Mother. Widow. Woman. Progressive. Leader. or as some had called her: Cunt.

The titles layered like glass, each reflecting a different version of her. But beneath them all, there was still the same truth she’d carried from the start: she would not let the world define her. She would define it.

Celeste leaned forward, peering through the window. “It looks smaller than I imagined,” she said.

“That’s because you haven’t seen the bills yet,” Emma murmured, smiling faintly.

Phoebe snorted. “You’re really gonna sage the suite, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Emma said, eyes still on the house. “I might even repaint.”

“What color?” Celeste asked.

Emma’s smile turned sharp. “Black.”

The twins groaned. Sophie giggled sleepily. "You silly, Mommy." And outside, as the car doors opened and history waited, Emma Frost stepped into her new life—not as someone’s opponent, not as someone’s widow, but as herself. The cameras would catch the wave, the smile, the perfect composure. But for one private second, as she looked down at Sophie’s small hand clutching hers, she allowed herself a softer truth. It was not power she felt. It was peace.

Chapter Text

The Oval Office smelled faintly of polish and lavender. The curtains had been changed overnight—soft cream replacing Erik’s heavy crimson—and the morning light pooled golden across the carpet, turning the seal beneath Emma’s heels into something almost alive.

She had been awake since five.

The suit was immaculate: white, tailored within an inch of perfection, the lapels sharp as intent. A single diamond pin at her collarbone caught the light whenever she moved. On her desk—her desk, at last—sat a neat binder labeled Transition Briefing: Cabinet Session I.

And tucked into its cover, slightly crooked, a pink post-it note written in childish scrawl:

Good luck, Mommy! You are the best president. Love, Sophie.

Emma had found it when she opened her notes that morning. The handwriting was uneven, the heart drawn at the bottom slightly lopsided. It shouldn’t have affected her the way it did—but it had.

So, she left it there.

Now, as she glanced around the room, filled with the murmur of voices and the soft clink of coffee cups, she almost smiled.

Her cabinet—her people—were assembling.

Tony Stark was already seated, lounging with practiced arrogance, flipping through his folder as if it were a menu. Carol Danvers stood near the window, posture impeccable, eyes flicking between notes and the distant Washington skyline. Wanda Maximoff, serene and unreadable, adjusted her bracelet, crimson nails glinting faintly as she took her seat beside Lucas Bishop, who was quietly scanning the defense briefing like a man memorizing a weapon.

Nick Fury leaned against the wall rather than sitting, his expression one of controlled skepticism, while Logan sat with arms crossed, the permanent frown undercut only by the faintest hint of a smirk.

Lorna Dane, bright in an emerald suit that made her green hair almost too on-the-nose, typed something rapidly on her tablet; Natasha Romanoff, beside her, was utterly still—calm, silent, composed in that way that felt faintly dangerous.

Anna-Marie, clipboard in hand, hovered near the side of the room, quietly making sure no one sat out of order.

Laura Kinney stood near the door, black-clad, focused. Emma didn’t need to look at her to know that Laura’s attention was fixed on every shadow, every twitch, every gesture in the room.

And there, sitting opposite Emma, the unmistakable posture of Scott Summers—the Speaker of the House—neat suit, dark tie, hands clasped, that carefully measured politeness of a man trying not to remind everyone that he had once been the party’s rising star before losing the nomination to her.

Emma clasped her hands together lightly on the desk. “Good morning,” she said.

The room fell silent.

“Let’s begin.”

They started with the essentials—the transition of power, the state of federal departments, the remaining confirmations still pending in the Senate.

Carol led the discussion on foreign relations, speaking with the quiet authority of someone who had once commanded starships instead of embassies. “We’ll need to send clear signals,” she said, “especially to the European alliance. The last administration left… scars.”

Tony leaned back in his chair. “Scars, or opportunities? Let’s not mistake global exhaustion for hostility. We can pivot trade policy within sixty days if Treasury gets clearance to—”

Emma raised an elegant hand. “You’ll get clearance once the ethics review on your offshore accounts is complete, Mr. Stark.”

Tony’s grin flickered. “Ah. The honeymoon phase ends early.”

A ripple of quiet amusement moved through the table.

Logan muttered, “Can’t say I’m shocked,” under his breath.

Emma caught it, smiled faintly, and continued. “Ms. Danvers, you’ll coordinate with Wanda and Bishop on security frameworks for diplomatic missions. I want a draft by Friday.”

“Understood,” Carol said.

Wanda inclined her head. “You’ll have it.”

They moved through Homeland updates—Logan’s voice low and steady, the cadence of someone who had seen too much and learned to speak only what mattered. Lorna spoke passionately about climate measures, words tumbling too fast but bright with conviction. Jubilee, perched on the end, chimed in with data on social metrics, her tone rapid but insightful.

It was a rhythm Emma loved—the orchestra of minds at work, each one different, each one sharp in its own way.

Her eyes flicked once to the pink post-it on her notes, barely visible to anyone else. Sophie’s scrawl steadied her more than the coffee ever could.

And then— A knock; three sharp raps, hesitant but insistent. Laura was on her feet before Emma could speak.

“Come in,” Emma said.

The door opened.

And a woman hurried in, nearly out of breath, cheeks flushed from the cold. Auburn hair spilled loose from a messy knot, and her green blouse caught the light like the color of spring under storm clouds. Her dark blazer was slightly off-center, her skirt creased, and yet somehow, impossibly, she looked radiant.

“Madam President—” she began, voice quick, apologetic, warm. “I am so sorry I’m late. I only got the call about the position at four this morning. The security clearance hold-up took hours and—”

Her words faltered as her eyes flicked across the room—and landed on Scott Summers.

The air shifted.

For the briefest moment, the confident rhythm of the meeting fractured into stillness. Scott’s jaw tightened, his hand moving slightly against his folder. Jean’s lips parted—something like surprise or regret flickered across her face, then vanished.

Emma noticed everything.

She took in the nervous tilt of Jean’s posture, the freckles that dusted her nose, the tremor in her fingers as she smoothed her blazer. The contrast between her youthful earnestness and the sharp, polished cynicism surrounding her. Ten years younger, easily—but there was an energy about her, unpolished, alive.

Emma leaned back slightly. “Ms. Grey, I presume.”

Jean straightened. “Yes, ma’am. Jean Grey. Communications aide.”

“Welcome to the White House,” Emma said. Her tone was measured, faintly cool, though her curiosity pricked like static under her skin. “Please, take a seat. We were just discussing transition logistics.”

Jean nodded quickly, moving to the empty chair near Bobby Drake. She gave a small, uncertain smile as she sat.

Bobby, ever the extrovert, leaned over and whispered something—Emma caught the word coffee and Jean’s answering laugh, soft and embarrassed.

The sound was lighter than it should have been. It lingered.

Emma looked down at her notes, forced her attention back to the pages.

“Now,” she said, regaining her rhythm. “As I was saying, we need to reestablish trust with federal agencies that were sidelined under the previous administration. Nicholas, your department first.”

Nick Fury nodded, his gravelly tone filling the room. “We’re scrubbing personnel data. There’s a backlog of unvetted hires. Might take a few weeks to filter out the political plants.”

“Do it quietly,” Emma said. “I don’t want headlines about purges. Just… recalibration.”

Nick gave a rare half-smile. “Understood.”

Carol raised an eyebrow. “You’re not worried about blowback?”

Emma’s eyes glinted. “If we make enemies for doing the right thing, I consider that a sign we’re on course.”

Tony whistled low. “Remind me not to end up on your bad side.”

“Oh, I assure you, Mr. Stark,” Emma said sweetly, “you wouldn’t survive it.”

Laughter rippled around the table again. Even Logan cracked a grin.

Jean, still quiet, was scribbling notes in a small leather journal. Emma’s gaze caught the faint tremor in her pen, the way she seemed to write like she was trying to anchor herself in the moment.

When Jean finally looked up, their eyes met.

For a fraction of a second, Emma forgot her next line.

Jean’s eyes were green—not bright, but deep, layered, like something that held too much emotion for one person to carry. She smiled, uncertain but sincere.

Emma blinked, the faintest pause, and returned to her notes.

“Let’s move to communication strategy,” she said. “Mr. Drake, outline your plan.”

Bobby perked up immediately. “We’re rebranding the administration’s online presence—less corporate, more human. Daily briefings, behind-the-scenes transparency, outreach videos. We’re building an actual narrative of accessibility. America needs to see you.”

Jean raised her hand slightly, hesitating before she spoke. “If I may, Madam President?”

Emma gestured. “Please.”

Jean’s voice was steady, but careful. “The message is good, but… maybe we focus less on you as a figure and more on the idea of collective leadership. People are tired of personality cults. If the narrative emphasizes the administration as a team—competent, united—it could build credibility faster than individual charisma.”

The room stilled.

Tony arched an eyebrow. “You’re suggesting we make the President less visible? That’s not how optics usually work.”

Jean met his gaze, then glanced at Emma. “Optics aren’t just about light. Sometimes they’re about shadow. People trust what feels organic.”

Emma watched her carefully.

The suggestion was… good. Simple, elegant, and risky. Exactly the kind of risk Emma respected.

She turned to Bobby. “Work with Ms. Grey on a framework for that. I want something on my desk by this afternoon.”

Jean blinked in surprise. “Of course, ma’am.”

Bobby grinned. “Guess we’re partners now.”

Emma smiled faintly. “Let’s hope it’s a productive one.”

The meeting continued—policy reviews, confirmation schedules, funding logistics—but Emma found herself distracted, aware of Jean’s presence at the periphery. The way she listened so intently. The way her hand curled around her pen like she was afraid to let go.

By the time the meeting concluded, two hours had passed.

“Excellent work, everyone,” Emma said, closing her binder. “We’ll reconvene at sixteen hundred. Anna-Marie will coordinate follow-ups.”

Chairs scraped. Papers rustled. Conversation resumed in low, professional tones as the cabinet filtered out. Tony made a quip about “photo ops and firewalls.” Logan muttered something about coffee strong enough to kill a horse. Wanda and Carol exchanged quiet words about briefing schedules.

Jean hesitated near the doorway, her folder pressed to her chest.

Emma looked up from her desk. “Ms. Grey.”

Jean turned, eyes wide. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Welcome aboard,” Emma said softly. “I look forward to seeing what you can do.”

Jean’s answering smile was quick, genuine, disarming. “Thank you, Madam President.”

Then she was gone—hurrying after the others, auburn hair catching the light like flame.

Silence settled again.

Laura closed the door behind the last person, stepping back into her quiet, watchful stance by the window.

Emma exhaled slowly, letting the noise fade. The faint buzz of the city hummed through the glass.

She glanced down at the pink post-it still clinging to the edge of her notes. You are the best president.

For the first time that morning, she allowed herself a small, unguarded smile.

Laura turned slightly. “All clear,” she said.

“Thank you,” Emma replied.

Laura hesitated, her usual stoicism softening slightly. “You did well today.”

Emma looked up, one brow arching. “Is that a professional assessment or a personal one?”

Laura’s lips twitched. “Both.”

Emma laughed quietly. “I’ll take it.”

She rose from her chair, crossing to the window. The sun was climbing now, painting the Mall in pale gold. Crowds had dispersed; the city was breathing again after the storm of the past week.

Her reflection stared back at her—composed, immaculate, untouchable.

And yet, beneath the surface, something had shifted.

Jean Grey.
A name, a face, a flicker of something that should not have mattered—and yet did.

Emma pressed her fingers lightly against the glass. “Let’s see what kind of world we can build,” she murmured.

Behind her, Laura stood silent, the embodiment of vigilance.

And in the reflection, beyond the mirrored sky, Emma thought she saw the faintest glimmer of red hair and a smile she hadn’t expected to remember.

 

The corridors of the West Wing still felt like borrowed space.

They were too white, even for her, too bright, humming faintly with recycled air and the footsteps of people who moved with urgency even when they had nowhere particular to go. Emma walked through them with Laura at her shoulder, every stride measured, her heels quiet against the polished floor.

Her mind, however, was already three meetings ahead.

“House leadership is grumbling again,” Laura said from beside her. Her voice was low, even, that peculiar mixture of soldier and shadow that Emma had come to rely on. “Scott Summers may play polite in front of cameras, but several committee heads are already signaling resistance on the education reform package.”

Emma didn’t slow her pace. “Of course they are. It’s too early for them to remember that obstruction looks worse than collaboration.”

Laura’s expression barely shifted, though her dark eyes flicked toward the guards stationed at the end of the hall. “You think you can push it through anyway?”

“I think I can make them look like fools if they don’t,” Emma said, her tone almost lazy. “The key to political reform, Laura, is never brute force. It’s theater. I’ve already written the script.”

“Let me guess,” Laura said. “They play the villains?”

Emma’s lips curved faintly. “They always do.”

They passed a row of framed presidential portraits—some smiling, some severe. Erik’s, still freshly hung, stared down at her with that familiar smugness. She did not look at it for long.

“Security-wise,” Laura continued, “the daughters are adjusting. Your youngest has managed to escape her escort twice this morning. We’re tightening rotation.”

“She’s eight,” Emma said dryly. “You’re trying to outwit an eight-year-old.”

Laura didn’t blink. “And losing, apparently.”

Emma allowed herself a soft laugh. “Sophie’s her mother’s daughter. You’ll have to plan accordingly.”

“I’ll double her detail for public appearances.”

“Do,” Emma said, pausing before the door to her office. “But don’t cage her. She’s already growing up in a fortress. Let her at least think she’s free.”

Laura inclined her head. “Understood.”

They stepped inside.

The Oval Office was brighter now—the sunlight spilling generously across the rug, making the white furniture gleam. The scent of lilies drifted faintly from the vases Lorna had sent that morning, a symbol of renewal. Emma set her tablet down on the desk, exhaling as she sank briefly into the chair that once belonged to Erik Lehnsherr.

It was still strange, feeling the weight of that seat. Power didn’t hum; it pressed, subtly and constantly.

Laura took up her usual place by the door. Emma began reviewing her notes for the upcoming call with Prime Minister Braddock when—

A sharp knock.

Laura’s posture changed instantly. “Enter.”

The door opened, revealing a familiar figure in a crisp navy blazer, tablet clutched in one hand.

Phoebe.

Her eldest daughter—sixteen, confident beyond her years—walked in with the kind of composure that made even senior aides step aside. Her hair was perfectly brushed, her expression self-assured, and her voice, when she spoke, had that distinct Frost cadence: cool, sharp, and laced with irony.

“Mother,” she greeted smoothly, “you have a minute?”

Emma arched an eyebrow. “Do I ever?”

Phoebe smiled faintly, already crossing to the desk. “I spoke with Secretary Danvers this morning.”

Emma blinked. “You spoke with Carol.”

“Yes. About the State Department’s youth diplomacy programs. I want to intern there this summer.”

Emma leaned back, hands steepled. “You want to intern with the Secretary of State.”

“Correct,” Phoebe said, perfectly straight-faced. “I think it would look good on my college applications. And she said she’d consider it, provided I have parental approval.”

Emma gave a slow, amused sigh. “You do realize the approval process for White House internships usually involves more than a hallway conversation?”

Phoebe shrugged. “I thought I’d start at the top.”

Laura’s mouth twitched, just barely. Emma ignored it.

“And what about school?” Emma asked.

“I’ll handle it remotely,” Phoebe replied with teenage certainty. “I’ve already spoken to my counselor. Besides, if we want to prove that women can lead internationally, wouldn’t it be poetic if your daughter started in foreign policy?”

Emma smirked despite herself. “You’re quoting my own campaign slogans at me now.”

“They work,” Phoebe said simply.

“Indeed they do.”

Phoebe tapped her tablet and swiped it toward Emma’s desk. The screen displayed a paused video—bright graphics, a scrolling chyron, and the unmistakable mug of J. Jonah Jameson in full bluster behind his news desk.

“Oh,” Emma murmured, recognition dripping with disdain. “The prophet of the post-truth age himself.”

Phoebe pressed play.

Jameson’s voice filled the room: “So here we are, folks. America’s brand-new Commander-in-Chief—President Emma Frost. A widow, a single mother, a Harvard-educated elitist who thinks empathy makes good policy. How long before emotions cloud her judgment? How long before the Oval Office turns into a therapy session for suburban mothers? I give it six months.”

Emma reached for her coffee, unbothered. “Ah, yes. Subtle as always.”

Phoebe’s eyes were on her, sharp, evaluating. “He’s wrong, obviously. But… he has a point.”

Emma paused mid-sip, one brow arching. “I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t mean he’s right,” Phoebe said quickly. “But people could believe him. You’re a woman, and you’re a mother. It’s not fair, but perception shapes power. People might see you as emotional, not decisive. You’ll have to work twice as hard to prove otherwise.”

Emma studied her daughter, a flicker of pride stirring behind the faint amusement. “You’ve been listening to too many campaign analysts.”

“I listen to everyone,” Phoebe said simply. “Even the idiots. Sometimes they reveal what smarter people won’t say aloud.”

Emma regarded her for a long moment. “That’s a dangerous kind of wisdom for sixteen.”

“It’s your fault,” Phoebe replied lightly. “You raised me this way.”

Emma couldn’t argue with that. “So what’s your proposed countermeasure, darling? Should I stage a televised display of stoicism? Perhaps refuse to cry at funerals?”

“Not quite,” Phoebe said, lips curving. “But maybe you should lean into it. People expect steel. Show them steel wrapped in silk. That’s harder to imitate.”

Emma smiled. “You’re frighteningly good at this.”

“I know,” Phoebe said, picking up her tablet again.

Before Emma could respond, the door burst open.

Celeste.

If Phoebe was precision, Celeste was chaos dressed in designer sneakers. She strolled in without knocking, her phone in one hand, an apple in the other. Her expression was pure mischief.

“Can my daughters just barge in everywhere?” Emma asked dryly.

“Yes,” Celeste said without hesitation. “We’re part of the administration now. The unofficial advisory board of teenage brilliance.”

“God help me,” Emma muttered.

Celeste leaned against the edge of the desk. “I was just talking with Natasha and Wanda.”

“Oh?” Emma asked, suppressing a smile. “And what profound geopolitical insights did you gain?”

“They’re either fucking,” Celeste said, biting into her apple, “or about to.”

Emma nearly choked on her coffee. “Excuse me?”

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Celeste.”

“What?” Celeste asked, unbothered. “You saw the way they looked at each other in the meeting. It was intense.”

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. “We are not discussing the romantic entanglements of my cabinet in the Oval Office.”

“Fine,” Celeste said. “Then let’s talk about your love life.”

Phoebe groaned. “Celeste—”

“No, seriously,” Celeste continued. “I saw Bobby’s new aide. The redhead. Cute. Totally your type, Mom.”

Emma’s composure fractured for half a second. “I beg your pardon?”

“You know,” Celeste said breezily, “smart, sarcastic, probably a little emotionally unavailable. You have a pattern.”

“Celeste,” Emma said warningly, standing now, “this conversation is over.”

Celeste grinned. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not blushing,” Emma said.

Phoebe smirked. “You kind of are.”

Emma glared at both of them, but her lips twitched despite herself. “Out. Both of you. I have a call with the Prime Minister in five minutes, and I’d like to speak with her without my children psychoanalyzing my cabinet.”

Phoebe gathered her tablet, still smiling. “We’ll go. But think about my internship, okay?”

Celeste winked. “And about the redhead.”

“Out,” Emma repeated, pointing toward the door.

They were halfway there when the door opened again.

Jean Grey stood in the doorway, her auburn hair slightly windblown, a faint pink on her cheeks from the cold. In her arms was a small, squirming bundle of blonde curls and boundless energy.

“Madam President,” Jean said, slightly breathless, “I found your daughter wandering the halls alone. She said she wanted to see you.”

Sophie looked up from Jean’s shoulder and beamed. “Mommy!”

Emma blinked, then shot a look toward Laura, who was already muttering something into her earpiece about increased perimeter checks.

Jean looked apologetic. “She was very determined.”

“I see that,” Emma said, softening despite herself. “Come here, darling.”

Jean carefully set Sophie down. The child immediately ran to her mother, wrapping her arms around Emma’s waist.

“Sweetheart,” Emma said gently, “you can’t just wander around the West Wing.”

“But I wanted to tell you something!” Sophie said earnestly. “It’s important.”

“I have a call in a few minutes,” Emma said, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter’s forehead. “Can it wait?”

Sophie’s lower lip jutted out. “No.”

Emma crouched to meet her eyes. “Is someone hurt?”

“No.”

“Is something broken?”

“No.”

“Then it can wait.”

Sophie pouted dramatically, then, with the unerring instinct of all children, climbed straight onto Emma’s lap despite the protest. “Please, Mommy? I’ll be quiet.”

Jean stood frozen by the door, clearly torn between laughing and apologizing again.

Emma sighed, defeated. “Five minutes. Then you have to go with your sisters.”

“Promise?” Sophie asked.

“Promise. And tonight, you get to pick the bedtime story.”

Sophie brightened instantly. “I want The Velveteen Rabbit!”

“Done,” Emma said.

Celeste groaned. “You’re so soft with her.”

“Go,” Emma said, pointing again. “Both of you.”

Phoebe took Sophie’s hand. “Come on, little diplomat. Let’s go before the Prime Minister catches us.”

Sophie giggled, sliding off Emma’s lap. She waved at Jean. “Thank you for finding me, Miss Red Hair!”

Jean smiled, cheeks flushed. “Anytime.”

As the three girls filed out, the room quieted again. Laura followed, shutting the door behind them to restore order.

Jean lingered, uncertain. “Should I—should I go too, Madam President?”

Emma looked up from her desk, her gaze lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“No,” she said finally. “Stay. I want to talk after the call.”

Jean blinked, surprised. “Of course.”

Emma gestured to the chair beside her. “Make yourself comfortable. It shouldn’t take long.”

Jean nodded, sitting carefully, smoothing her skirt as though unsure what to do with her hands. The faint scent of her perfume—something floral, faintly citrus—reached Emma across the short distance.

Emma turned toward the phone on her desk, her reflection in the polished surface briefly overlapping with Jean’s in the glass of the nearby window—two women, fifteen years apart, caught in the strange quiet between power and possibility.

The light in the Oval Office shifted as the clock moved past three. The winter sun had begun its slow retreat toward the Potomac, a wash of pale gold falling across the room. Emma adjusted her jacket slightly, smoothing the line of her white suit. It gleamed against the mahogany of the desk, like an assertion of purpose — an armor of elegance.

Across from her, Jean Grey sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, posture immaculate despite the nervousness that seemed to hum around her edges. Emma could sense it, the way she might sense tension before a storm. Laura stood near the door, still and watchful.

The phone chimed softly.

Emma pressed the secure line. “Prime Minister Braddock,” she greeted, her tone composed, precise — every syllable shaped for diplomacy.

A crisp British voice replied, warm but firm. “Madam President. It’s a pleasure to finally speak with you in this capacity. Congratulations on your victory. I believe both our nations watched that campaign more closely than the Olympics.”

Emma smiled faintly. “Thank you, Prime Minister. It’s an honor. I hope the transition here hasn’t caused too much anxiety abroad.”

“Quite the opposite,” Elizabeth Braddock replied with a touch of dry humor. “You’re rather popular among our analysts. They think you might bring some… much-needed modernity to international relations. Though I daresay you’ve inherited quite the fractured landscape.”

Emma leaned back, her gaze briefly drifting to the globe in the corner. “Fractured is a polite way of saying it. My predecessor wasn’t exactly in the business of bridge-building.”

“No,” Braddock agreed delicately. “And I suspect you’re calling those bridges your first order of reconstruction?”

“That’s the plan,” Emma said. “Repair what’s been neglected. Re-establish trust. Especially with our allies.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Braddock said, her tone brightening. “Because, to be frank, our relationship with Washington has been… strained, shall we say, these past few years. Between tariffs, trade disputes, and Erik’s charming habit of telling the EU to ‘earn America’s friendship,’ well — we could all use a bit of mending.”

Emma allowed herself a low chuckle. “He did have a gift for subtle diplomacy.”

“You might call it that,” Braddock said with a laugh. “Regardless, if you’re open to it, I’d like to invite you to London within the month. We’ll host a small summit — nothing extravagant, just a few key players. Mrs. Darkholme-Adler will attend on behalf of the EU, and Mister Wagner from Berlin as well. I think a little face-to-face time might start this new chapter on the right note.”

Emma’s fingers tapped lightly against the desk, considering. “That sounds ideal. I’ll have the State Department coordinate the logistics with your office. Secretary Danvers will reach out directly.”

“Excellent. And if I may — a small piece of advice, woman to woman in this business?”

“Please,” Emma said.

Braddock’s tone softened. “Don’t let them mistake courtesy for weakness. There’s a particular brand of arrogance that still lingers in our halls — especially among those who think the postwar order never ended. They’ll smile, they’ll flatter, and then they’ll test you. Be ready.”

Emma smiled — cool, sharp. “I’m always ready.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Braddock said warmly. “Then I’ll expect your team to confirm soon. Welcome to the stage, Madam President. It will be good to have someone sensible on the other end of the line again.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Emma replied.

With a click, the line went dead.

The silence that followed seemed to stretch through the room. The faint hum of the air vents, the distant echo of footsteps outside, the ticking of the clock — all of it felt louder after the clipped tones of diplomacy.

Jean was still seated across from her, notebook on her lap, though she hadn’t written a word.

Emma turned toward her. “Well,” she said softly, “that went better than expected.”

Jean smiled — a small, genuine thing that made the corners of her freckles shift slightly. “You sounded very at ease.”

“I’ve learned the art of sounding at ease even when I’m not,” Emma said, closing the folder on her desk. “Half of diplomacy is pretending you already have control of the situation.”

“I think that’s true of journalism, too,” Jean said, her tone thoughtful.

Emma studied her for a moment, then tapped the edge of the slim blue folder in front of her. “Speaking of journalism — I was hoping we could talk, Ms. Grey.”

Jean straightened a little. “Of course.”

Emma opened the folder, glancing over the printed text. “I’ve read your personnel file — or, rather, I’ve skimmed it. You’ll have to forgive me; I’ve been somewhat occupied with governing the free world.”

Jean gave a soft laugh. “Understandable.”

“I prefer not to rely solely on paper,” Emma continued. “The file tells me you’re competent. Intelligent. Decorated. But paper is terribly bad at showing who a person actually is.”

Jean hesitated. “What would you like to know?”

Emma tilted her head. “Whatever you think I should know that the file won’t tell me.”

For a heartbeat, Jean looked uncertain — then something steadied in her eyes. She drew in a breath.

“Well,” she began, “I started early. I was sixteen, writing for my high school paper. Our biggest story at the time was about cafeteria food until I… stumbled onto something else.”

Emma arched an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh?”

Jean smiled faintly, nostalgic. “I found out our drama teacher and the superintendent were having an affair. It was a whole scandal. We were doing Wicked that year — and we suddenly had enough funding for professional-grade rigging equipment to make Elphaba fly. It didn’t take long to connect the dots.”

Emma gave a low, elegant laugh. “Please tell me you didn’t publish it.”

“I did,” Jean said with a smirk. “Full front page. I got suspended for a week and made editor-in-chief the following semester.”

“Ambition and chaos,” Emma mused. “A promising combination.”

Jean’s eyes sparkled. “I directed that production, too. Everyone hated me for about a month. But we sold out every show.”

Emma leaned forward slightly, chin resting on her hand. “You were the director. Of course you were.”

Jean shrugged, a touch shy now. “I like stories — especially the ones that aren’t supposed to be told.”

“Clearly.”

Jean continued, her voice growing more assured. “I went to college on a journalism scholarship. Spent most of it chasing stories no one else wanted. After graduation, I joined The Post. My first major piece was the Flint Water crisis follow-up — that got some attention. Then I volunteered for a foreign desk assignment in the Middle East.”

Emma’s expression softened. “That’s not an easy post.”

“No,” Jean agreed. “But it was important. I learned a lot — about politics, people, survival. Took a few field training courses with embedded units, mostly for safety. That’s where I picked up some combat training.”

Emma’s eyebrow lifted. “Combat training. Not exactly common in communications aides.”

Jean gave a small smile. “It helps when you’re the only reporter in a room full of soldiers.”

“I imagine it does.”

Jean’s gaze drifted slightly, her tone growing more subdued. “After that, I came back to Washington. Started covering the campaign circuit — that’s when I uncovered one of the funding irregularities in Erik Lehnsherr’s first run. I thought it might derail his campaign.”

Emma let out a quiet hum. “It didn’t.”

“No,” Jean said. “It didn’t. The public decided they preferred his charm to his ethics.”

Emma leaned back, amused. “That’s a recurring theme in politics.”

Jean’s lips curved, then fell again. “After that, I took a step back from field reporting. Too many whispers about partisanship. It’s hard to maintain integrity in this town if people think you’ve already picked a side.”

“Unless you work for Jameson,” Emma quipped dryly.

Jean laughed softly. “Exactly. But I like to think my integrity is worth more than a syndicated paycheck.”

Emma’s eyes warmed with quiet approval. “It’s rare to hear someone say that sincerely in this building.”

Jean hesitated then, her fingers twisting together faintly. “I suppose that’s when my personal life got… complicated.”

Emma’s gaze sharpened subtly. “Complicated?”

Jean looked down for a moment before meeting her eyes again. “I was married. To Scott Summers. We met while I was covering the House. He was a Representative then — young, ambitious, idealistic. We fell fast, got married faster. But politics isn’t kind to idealism, or marriages. The divorce was… public.”

Emma frowned slightly, though not from judgment. “I wasn’t aware.”

Jean gave a small, sad laugh. “You had a campaign to run. I’m not surprised you missed it.”

Emma’s tone softened. “I’m sorry. Divorce under the spotlight is—”

“Awful,” Jean finished with a small nod. “Yes.”

There was a moment of quiet between them. The ticking of the clock filled the air again, soft but insistent.

Then Jean added, almost shyly, “For what it’s worth, I voted for you.”

Emma’s lips curved, faintly teasing. “Even in the primaries?”

Jean blinked, then flushed slightly, her freckles standing out more vividly. “No,” she admitted. “I voted for Parker. Before he dropped out.”

Emma put a hand to her chest, mock-scandalized. “My own vice president? Betrayal of the highest order.”

Jean laughed, the sound bright and warm. “In my defense, he had a great education platform.”

Emma smiled. “And now he’s my vice president. You see? We both made good choices.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Jean said softly.

The air between them shifted — not charged, not quite — but something subtle. The light caught in Jean’s hair as she turned her head slightly, the auburn strands gleaming against her blazer. Her boots, knee-high suede, rested neatly beneath the chair; her posture was perfect, but her hands betrayed her — a faint tremor, a nervous rhythm against the notebook in her lap.

Emma found her eyes drifting, noting details without meaning to: the small constellation of freckles near Jean’s collarbone, the faint trace of ink on her thumb. She caught herself, drew in a breath, and straightened.

“Well,” she said smoothly, “thank you for your candor, Ms. Grey. It’s refreshing to meet someone in this administration who still believes in truth.”

Jean smiled faintly. “It’s rare, isn’t it?”

“Endangered,” Emma corrected.

Jean rose then, gathering her notebook. “Is there anything else you need, Madam President?”

Emma hesitated for a fraction of a second — a flicker of something unreadable passing through her mind — then shook her head. “No. That’s all for now. I have to meet with the vice president shortly. He’s sitting down with the Joint Chiefs — Rogers, Barnes, Wilson, Ross. I should make an appearance.”

Jean nodded, stepping back. “Of course.”

Emma stood as well, smoothing the line of her jacket again. “You’ve made quite the impression today, Ms. Grey.”

Jean’s eyes widened a little. “Good impression, I hope?”

Emma allowed the smallest of smirks. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

Jean laughed under her breath, then inclined her head respectfully. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

Emma’s tone softened, almost private. “Jean—”

Jean paused at the door, turning back.

“Welcome to the White House,” Emma said simply.

Jean’s answering smile was quiet but bright. “Thank you, Madam President.”

The door shut behind her with a soft click, and the room felt just a little emptier.

Emma exhaled, her eyes falling briefly to the chair Jean had vacated — the faint impression of movement still lingering there. Then she turned, collected her tablet, and pressed the intercom.

“Anna-Marie,” she said. “Get me the vice president. I believe I owe him a conversation before he meets with the generals.”

Her reflection in the darkened window looked back at her — calm, poised, immaculate.

But beneath it, a current had shifted.

Something new had begun to stir.

 

The meeting with Vice President Parker and the Joint Chiefs had gone precisely as she expected — equal parts ceremonial reassurance and barely disguised territorial contest. Generals Rogers and Barnes had their polite smiles; Ross had his blunt skepticism; Sam Wilson had been the only one with a genuine question about forward strategy. Parker, ever the golden boy, had handled it all with the measured charm that had made him beloved by half the electorate. Emma admired that, in a way. She could weaponize warmth if she had to — but for him, it came naturally.

By the time the brass left and her security detail gave the all-clear, it was past eight. The White House had taken on its nocturnal hush: aides gone, hallways quiet except for the muted shuffle of polished shoes and distant hum of generators.

Emma’s heels clicked softly against the tiles as she made her way down toward the private kitchen. She hadn’t eaten since noon. Her reflection passed through the marble corridor — white suit immaculate, pearls still perfectly aligned. A president’s composure never clocked out, but exhaustion hid behind the grace.

Inside the kitchen, the light was warm and domestic, humming with a low familiarity she missed from her Boston home. Anna-Marie sat perched on one of the counters, tablet in hand, while Laura stood near the fridge, her earpiece still in, one hand casually resting on her holster.

Phoebe was already there too, hair pulled back, tablet open, her tone serious — too serious for sixteen.

“Evening, Madam President,” Anna-Marie said, smirking faintly. “We were just debating whether to order in or let you eat actual White House food.”

Emma arched a brow and opened the fridge herself. “I see my staff has taken up mutiny in my absence.”

“Not mutiny,” Phoebe said without looking up. “Intervention.”

Emma retrieved a small plate of cold salmon, some asparagus, and poured herself a glass of sparkling water. She set it on the counter and glanced at her eldest daughter. “Intervention? Do I need one?”

“Politically, maybe,” Phoebe said, eyes flicking up from the tablet. “I’ve drafted three executive orders you could issue in your first hundred days. They’d boost approval ratings and signal decisive leadership.”

Emma nearly choked on her first bite. “Three? My darling girl, I’ve only just sat down.”

Phoebe grinned, undeterred. “First — student debt interest freeze. You can’t erase debt overnight, but a temporary freeze buys goodwill. Second — expand EPA authority, especially under Lorna’s purview, gives the progressives something to tweet about. Third — a small business stimulus package; Tony would love to draft it.”

Anna-Marie laughed, low and impressed. “You’re raising her to replace you.”

“I’m raising her to outdo me,” Emma replied smoothly, sipping her water. “But I’ll have to review your orders before I sign away the republic, Phoebe.”

Phoebe smirked. “You’ll sign them.”

Before Emma could respond, Celeste entered — tablet in one hand, half-eaten apple in the other, blond hair tousled from leaning over her laptop.

“I’m not drafting legislation,” she said, hopping up onto a stool beside her mother. “But I’ve got something important too.”

Emma gave her a look, one eyebrow delicately arched. “Oh, I tremble in anticipation.”

Celeste smiled sweetly. “You know how the First Lady usually decorates the White House for Christmas?”

“Yes?”

“I want to do it.”

Emma blinked. “You?”

Celeste nodded firmly. “Think about it — it’s good press. ‘First Daughter Revives Holiday Tradition.’ You’d get family coverage instead of policy drama for at least a week.”

Anna-Marie laughed, shaking her head. “She’s not wrong. And it’d drive the conservative networks wild. They’d be forced to smile while complaining about tinsel.”

Laura, quiet until now, tilted her head slightly. “Decorating security protocols might need revising.”

Emma gave her a wry look. “Laura, I assure you, the garlands won’t be weaponized.”

Celeste continued, undeterred. “And I was thinking — Jubilee could help. She’s brilliant at media optics. We could make it a campaign of joy or something. Humanize you a bit.”

Emma froze with her fork halfway to her mouth. “Humanize me?”

“You know what I mean,” Celeste said quickly. “You’re perfect, obviously, but the press thinks you’re cold. Jubilee could fix that. You need an image refresh.”

Emma sighed, setting her fork down. “I’m starting to wonder if I’m raising a political communications firm rather than daughters.”

Phoebe smirked. “We’re a family of overachievers.”

Celeste leaned on her elbows, watching her mother closely. “Also, I’ve been thinking… about dating.”

Emma gave her a look. “Excuse me?”

“You,” Celeste clarified, pointing at her mother with her apple slice. “Dating. It could be either really good press or really bad press. There’s no neutral middle ground. People either love a president in love, or they call her unfocused.”

Emma blinked. “I am not discussing my romantic prospects over salmon.”

Anna-Marie grinned. “Why not? The world’s dying to know.”

Phoebe laughed. “The tabloids already have theories. Senator Worthington’s name came up twice this week.”

Emma gave a disdainful hum. “Then they’ve clearly run out of imagination.”

Celeste smirked. “So, hypothetically—”

“Hypothetically,” Emma interrupted, “this conversation is over.”

Anna-Marie chuckled. “She’s deflecting. Classic politician move.”

Emma shot her chief of staff a pointed look. “Careful, Anna-Marie. I can have you reassigned to Alaska.”

Laura’s mouth twitched in the faintest smile — for her, that was laughter.

Before the conversation could descend into further chaos, Emma’s phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at the ID and smiled.

“Katherine Pryde,” she said. “Speak of chaos incarnate.”

She answered. “Kitty, darling.”

The voice on the other end was bright and warm, carrying the familiarity of old friendship. “Madam President Frost. I can’t tell you how strange that sounds. Congratulations — and condolences, because now you’ll never sleep again.”

Emma leaned back, smiling. “You always were an optimist.”

“I’m a realist,” Kitty countered. “And realism says I should cash in on our friendship before bureaucracy hardens you entirely. Which brings me to my request.”

Emma narrowed her eyes. “You want a job.”

“I prefer the term opportunity,” Kitty said, mock-innocent. “Cybersecurity division, maybe. You need someone you trust. You don’t want Fury’s people crawling through your systems without oversight.”

“Tempting,” Emma mused. “And shameless.”

“Comes naturally.”

Celeste giggled from her stool, whispering, “Auntie Kitty’s at it again.”

Emma smirked and turned the phone toward her daughter. “Why don’t you tell her yourself?”

Celeste grinned and took the phone. “Auntie Kitty! Mom says hi but also says she’s too busy to enable nepotism tonight.”

Kitty laughed. “Celeste Frost, the diplomat in training. Tell your mother I’ll send my résumé anyway. She can ignore it later.”

“I’ll make sure she frames it,” Celeste teased before handing the phone back.

Emma took it with a sigh. “Goodnight, Kitty. I’ll call you tomorrow — possibly from a bunker if my staff mutinies.”

“Love you too, Madam President,” Kitty said with a grin audible through the line.

When the call ended, Emma shook her head affectionately. “She’s incorrigible.”

Anna-Marie smirked. “And probably right about Fury.”

Emma gave a small nod. “We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

After finishing her plate, she excused herself, bidding goodnight to Anna-Marie and the girls. Laura followed silently as she made her way upstairs toward the residence, a steady presence a few steps behind.

The private wing was quieter still — the hum of the White House felt different here. Softer. Human. The portraits seemed to watch her pass, history whispering beneath the marble and paint.

Outside Sophie’s room, a small crack of light shone beneath the door. Emma smiled faintly and knocked once before pushing it open.

Sophie’s room was an explosion of childhood wonder. Wonder Woman posters, stacks of stuffed animals, a glittering night-light shaped like a star projector. Her small bed was unmade, as always, a swirl of pink sheets and comic books.

Sophie sat on the rug, cross-legged, surrounded by crayons and a half-eaten cookie.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Emma asked gently.

Sophie looked up, guilty but smiling. “I was waiting for you.”

Emma’s expression softened instantly. “You have me now.”

She sat down beside her daughter, smoothing Sophie’s hair. “What did you eat for dinner?”

“Dino nuggets,” Sophie said proudly. “And spinach. And carrots. And applesauce. And grilled potatoes.”

Emma raised a brow. “A feast worthy of a hero.”

“The cook’s nice,” Sophie said, yawning a little. “But I missed you.”

Emma’s chest ached in that quiet, painful way only motherhood could cause. “I missed you too, darling.”

“Then don’t work so much,” Sophie said softly.

Emma took her daughter’s tiny hand. “My job is one of the most important in the world,” she said gently. “But no job — not even the presidency — is more important than you and your sisters.”

Sophie blinked sleepily. “Then why can’t you stay with us all the time?”

Emma smiled faintly. “Because I work for everyone now. For all the people who need someone to make things better. But I promise, every moment I’m free, I’ll spend with you. That’s a promise I intend to keep.”

Sophie seemed to think about that. “Can Auntie Kitty come live with us? Then you won’t have to worry.”

Emma chuckled softly. “That’s actually a wonderful idea. How about I ask her to come here permanently — as our nanny? You’d like that?”

Sophie’s eyes lit up. “Really?!”

“Really.”

Sophie paused, hesitant. “But… if she’s here, will I see you less?”

Emma’s throat tightened. She brushed a lock of hair from Sophie’s face. “No, my love. You’ll see me as much as possible. Auntie Kitty will just make sure you’re happy when I can’t be here.”

Sophie nodded slowly, accepting that, though her small face still carried the shadow of worry. Then she suddenly hopped up, grabbed a worn picture book from her nightstand, and plopped it into her mother’s lap.

“The Velveteen Rabbit,” she said proudly. “You promised.”

Emma smiled softly, opening the book. The pages smelled faintly of glue and childhood. She began to read, voice low and warm.

“There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be…”

But by the second page, Sophie’s head had already fallen against Emma’s arm. Her breathing slowed, even and deep.

Emma paused, glancing down at her daughter — the small rise and fall of her chest, the soft curls brushing her sleeve. The weight of the day seemed to slip from her shoulders. For a few moments, she wasn’t the President. She was just a mother, sitting in the quiet glow of a night-light, holding the world that mattered most to her.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to Sophie’s hair. “Goodnight, my brave girl.”

Carefully, she slid from the bed, tucking the blanket up to Sophie’s chin.

At the door, Emma looked back once — at the posters, the scattered crayons, the peaceful face half-buried in a stuffed rabbit — and allowed herself a rare, unguarded smile.

The weight of the Oval Office would still be there in the morning. The debates, the diplomacy, the endless corridors of power — all of it could wait a little longer.

For tonight, she was just Emma Frost — a mother in white, walking softly through a house that had suddenly begun to feel like home.

The White House never truly slept. Even at midnight, its corridors whispered — a mixture of polished silence and the faint hum of distant machinery. Emma’s heels made muted clicks along the marble floors as she walked, her reflection trailing like a ghost in the glass of the framed portraits she passed. Every face — Washington, Roosevelt, Kennedy — stared down at her with the weight of legacy. It was humbling. And exhausting.

Her phone buzzed in her palm, and she smiled faintly at the name on the screen.

“Kitty Pryde,” she said aloud, before pressing accept. “I hope I’m not calling at an ungodly hour.”

Kitty’s voice came through bright and teasing. “You’re the President of the United States, Emma. You can call me whenever you like. I think that’s literally how power works.”

Emma allowed a small laugh as she turned down a corridor toward the Residence wing. “Don’t tempt me to test that theory. I have enough people already terrified of me before morning coffee.”

“Rightly so,” Kitty said. “So? What’s the occasion? You sounded… purposeful.”

Emma smiled. “Purposeful is a generous euphemism for exhausted but plotting.” She paused, considering her words carefully. “I wanted to offer you something — officially, not just as a favor between friends.”

“Go on,” Kitty said, the shift in tone immediate — professional now, but warm.

“I want you here,” Emma said plainly. “On staff. Twenty-four hours a week, as Cybersecurity Advisor. You’d be overseeing information safety across the domestic network and liaising with Lorna’s EPA tech team on environmental data integrity.”

Kitty let out a low whistle. “You’re not aiming small.”

“I never do,” Emma said smoothly, then softened. “The other hours — I was hoping you could help the girls. Homework, games, just… be part of the family again. Consider it ‘official nanny duties,’ but compensated appropriately.”

“So,” Kitty teased, “the babysitting I already do, only now paid by the taxpayers?”

Emma’s lips quirked. “Precisely. With added bureaucratic dignity.”

“I’ll need to think about it,” Kitty said after a moment. “That’s a lot of hats to wear.”

“Think fast,” Emma replied lightly. “I’d rather have you than a stranger with clearance and no heart.”

There was a pause on the line — the kind of silence shared between old friends who understood each other too well.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” Kitty finally said. “And Emma?”

“Yes?”

“Try to sleep before then.”

Emma smiled softly. “Goodnight, Kitty.”

She hung up and slipped the phone into her pocket. The lights in the hall dimmed automatically as she walked, sensors trailing her presence. The air smelled faintly of polish and lilies — always lilies; Sophie had chosen the scent for the Residence.

She was rounding the corner toward the east hallway when a sharp voice echoed ahead.

“No, that’s not acceptable, I’ve already spoken to your manager—”

The voice was familiar — precise, low, and on the verge of exasperation.

Emma turned the corner just as Jean Grey came barreling down the corridor, phone pressed to her ear, carry-on suitcase trailing behind her with a squeaky wheel. Jean’s hair was a halo of auburn curls, hastily tied back, strands escaping to frame her flushed face. Her green blouse was slightly wrinkled, her blazer unbuttoned. She was, in short, the picture of chaotic grace.

Jean wasn’t watching where she was going.

Emma stepped left at the same moment Jean swerved right — collision inevitable.

“Ah!” Jean gasped as their shoulders collided, her phone nearly slipping from her hand. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry—”

Emma steadied her with one hand, the other catching the handle of the suitcase before it tipped over. “No harm done, Ms. Grey.”

Jean looked up, wide-eyed, and recognition dawned instantly. “Madam President.”

Emma allowed a faint smirk. “Emma will suffice when you nearly run me over.”

Jean’s cheeks flushed crimson. “I— I’m so sorry. I didn’t see—”

“I gathered as much,” Emma said dryly. Her gaze flicked toward the still-active phone in Jean’s hand. “Lively call?”

Jean groaned, rubbing her temple. “You have no idea. Every hotel within a ten-mile radius is either booked solid or charging by the organ. Apparently, inauguration week is not a great time to find accommodation in D.C.”

Emma folded her arms, amusement curling her lips. “I’m told it’s quite the tourist draw.”

Jean sighed, lowering her phone. “I was hoping to find something temporary until I can get an apartment. But at this rate, I’ll be sleeping in the press room.”

Emma tilted her head. “Surely there’s somewhere you can go. Friends? Colleagues?”

Jean hesitated. “My only option right now is the townhouse Scott still owns. Our—” She stopped herself, frowning. “My old home. But I really don’t want to go back there. Too many ghosts. And awkwardness.”

Emma’s expression softened slightly, the faintest empathy flickering in her eyes. “Understandable.”

Jean looked tired — not just physically, but soul-deep. The strain of travel, relocation, and whatever personal history haunted her showed in the slight tremor of her hand as she pushed hair from her face.

Emma thought for a moment, then shrugged lightly. “Well, there’s always the Lincoln Bedroom.”

Jean blinked. “The… what?”

“The Lincoln Bedroom,” Emma repeated. “It’s the President’s official guest suite. A bit dramatic, plenty of history, quite comfortable. It’s empty tonight.”

Jean gawked for a moment, as if trying to determine if she was being teased. “You’re offering me a bed in the White House?”

Emma smiled faintly. “I’m offering a communications aide somewhere to sleep. I’d hate for tomorrow’s headlines to read President’s New Staffer Found Sleeping in Rose Garden Tent.”

Jean couldn’t help but laugh — a soft, startled sound that made Emma’s smile deepen. “You’re serious.”

“I’m always serious,” Emma said smoothly. “Come, I’ll show you.”

Jean hesitated, looking between her suitcase and the direction of the guest wing. “Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude—”

“You’re not intruding,” Emma interrupted gently. “It’s government property, technically. I merely occupy it.”

“Temporarily,” Jean teased, recovering her composure.

Emma arched a brow. “Planning to unseat me already, Ms. Grey?”

“Not at all,” Jean said quickly, smiling despite herself. “Just… observing.”

Emma gestured for her to follow, and the two women began walking down the corridor together — Jean rolling her suitcase beside her, the sound echoing faintly against marble.

“Do you live here full-time?” Jean asked after a moment.

“For now,” Emma said. “The Residence is upstairs. My daughters are settling in.”

“Must be strange,” Jean murmured, glancing around at the pristine hallways. “All this history. And pressure. And all those eyes on you.”

“It’s tolerable,” Emma said with practiced ease. “The scrutiny, I mean. Comes with the crown.”

Jean smiled faintly. “And here I thought it came with the desk.”

Emma chuckled — a low, genuine sound. “You’re perceptive.”

They stopped outside a grand white door trimmed with ornate molding. Emma opened it and gestured for Jean to step inside.

The Lincoln Bedroom was just as the history books described — all mahogany furniture, dark velvet drapes, and soft golden light. A portrait of the sixteenth president hung over the bed, his gaze steady and solemn.

Jean stepped inside slowly, looking around in awe. “It’s… beautiful.”

“And haunted,” Emma said lightly. “If you hear whispering about the Union, just ignore it.”

Jean laughed, setting her bag down beside the bed. “I’ll try not to wake the ghost of Abraham Lincoln.”

“Good. He’s a light sleeper.”

Jean smiled at her — really smiled — and Emma found herself momentarily distracted by the way her freckles caught the lamplight. There was something disarmingly human about her, something unpolished that felt like the first crack of warmth through the marble chill of the White House.

“Thank you,” Jean said softly. “For this. I’ll get out of your hair tomorrow, promise.”

“Take your time,” Emma said, straightening her cuffs. “You’re part of the administration now. We can’t have you collapsing from exhaustion before your first briefing.”

Jean nodded, her expression a mixture of gratitude and disbelief. “Still — thank you. It means a lot.”

“Goodnight, Ms. Grey,” Emma said, stepping back toward the hall.

“Goodnight, Madam President.”

Emma inclined her head slightly — a gesture that was half courtesy, half habit — and turned, letting the door close softly behind her.

She stood there for a moment in the dim hallway, alone again, the echo of their conversation lingering in the air. Then she began the slow walk back to her own suite.

By the time she reached the presidential quarters, the exhaustion of the day had settled deep into her bones. She removed her jacket, unpinned her hair, and set her jewelry on the dresser. The mirror reflected a woman who, for all her power, looked like she’d aged a year since morning.

The bed — her bed — was enormous, pristine, and empty. She slipped beneath the covers, staring up at the ceiling painted in soft creams and gold.

Her mind, however, refused to rest. It wandered — to Sophie’s sleeping face, to Phoebe’s political fervor, to Celeste’s restless curiosity. To the endless meetings, the expectations, the sheer weight of the office that had already begun pressing against her shoulders.

She thought of Erik’s jab from days ago — the presidency is lonely, so you’d better cling to your spouse.
Cruel, but not wrong.

Only there was no spouse to cling to. No one waiting beside her in the dark.

She exhaled softly, turning on her side. Beyond the door, the faint hum of the White House continued — history breathing through marble and steel. Somewhere, down the hall, Jean Grey was likely unpacking her things beneath Lincoln’s portrait, unaware that the President of the United States was lying awake, wondering — not about policy, or diplomacy, or approval ratings — but about the strange comfort she had felt in the company of that tired redhead with freckles and wit enough to make her laugh.

Emma closed her eyes.

Tomorrow would come soon enough.

But for now, in the stillness of the night, she allowed herself the smallest, most fragile indulgence — a single moment of quiet humanity in a world that demanded nothing but perfection.

Chapter Text

The morning light over the West Wing was soft and pale, filtered through frost-glazed windows that made the White House feel half like a cathedral and half like a mausoleum. Emma Frost—President Frost, as everyone now called her in careful tones—stood by the window of the Roosevelt Room, a hand wrapped around a mug that had gone cold long ago. Her reflection in the glass was a little too composed, a little too polished.

Behind her, the room hummed with early energy—Jubilee balancing her laptop on the table while fiddling with a ring light for the eventual press clips, Bobby Drake talking too fast for anyone’s coffee-deprived brain to keep up with, and Jean Grey seated neatly at the far end, flipping through her notes with quiet, deliberate focus.

Celeste, in jeans and a cropped blazer far too fashionable for a seventeen-year-old to be wearing in the West Wing, was perched on the edge of the table beside Jubilee, scrolling through trending tags on her tablet.

Emma turned, setting her mug aside, and spoke with that even, low voice that quieted any room she entered.

“Thank you all for coming in so early. I know I pushed this from last night, and I appreciate your flexibility.”

Bobby grinned easily. “Madam President, I’ll move heaven and hell for the chance to drink coffee in your presence. Although I’m fairly sure hell would have better espresso machines.”

Emma gave him a mild look. “Let’s hope I never have to find out.”

Jean smiled faintly at that, and Emma noticed it—how the corner of her mouth curved, how her freckles caught the light.

“Right,” Emma continued, refocusing. “Sebastian Shaw has been mouthing off again, I presume.”

Bobby tapped a few keys, and the screen behind him lit up with a headline: ‘Governor Shaw Slams President Frost’s Agenda: “Women Should Remember the Home Is Where They Lead Best.”’

Jubilee groaned audibly. “God, he’s like a fossil someone dug up from the 1950s.”

Celeste’s eyes flicked toward Emma. “He’s being amplified across conservative channels. Hashtags about family values, ‘returning tradition,’ the usual noise. But he’s getting traction with moderate independents. They’re buying the ‘stability’ rhetoric.”

Emma inhaled slowly through her nose, gaze steady on the screen. “And the religious angle?”

Bobby clicked to another slide—a photo of Emma at her inauguration beside Erik Lehnsherr. “They’re framing you as too cold, too modern, too detached from ‘faith and family.’”

Jubilee rolled her eyes. “Translation: you’re not a white man with a trophy wife who quotes scripture.”

Emma’s lips twitched. “That much, I was aware of.”

Jean spoke softly but clearly. “You were raised Catholic, weren’t you?”

Emma turned to her, surprised by the shift in tone. “I was,” she said after a moment. “Catholic school. Mass every Sunday until college. I stopped attending regularly when I moved to New York.”

Jean nodded thoughtfully. “If I can be honest—going back to church, even symbolically, could be smart. It humanizes you to people who are still deciding whether you fit into their image of leadership. It’s less about faith and more about optics.”

Celeste frowned. “Mom’s not going to fake religion for voters.”

Emma smiled slightly at her daughter’s tone, both protective and proud. “No, I won’t fake it. But attending mass occasionally isn’t false. It’s part of who I was, and perhaps still am. There’s no harm in revisiting it.”

Bobby grinned. “Photo ops with stained glass and candlelight—it’s gold. Think JFK meets Vogue.”

Emma gave him a pointed look. “I’m sure that’s exactly how the Vatican would like to be described.”

The room laughed, tension breaking for a moment.

Jean leaned forward, her voice quiet again but firm. “That’ll help, but there’s another storm brewing. Not one from the right, but from the left.”

Emma turned slightly toward her. “Go on.”

Jean tapped her folder, hesitating for half a beat before speaking. “As a queer woman myself, I’ve seen a lot of discourse online—concern that now that you’re in power, you might… soften. Moderate. Be less progressive than you promised on the campaign trail.”

Emma blinked once, taken aback by both the admission and the phrasing. “I see.”

Jean’s expression was careful but honest. “The community would love reassurance that you’re still fighting for them.”

There was a moment of silence. Emma’s gaze rested on Jean, searching. She hadn’t known. She was struck by the casual courage in the way Jean said it—unapologetic, simple truth delivered like a fact of nature.

Finally, Emma asked, quietly but without hesitation, “Would it help if I were to speak publicly about my own identity?”

The room went still. Jubilee’s fingers froze over her keyboard. Bobby’s brows lifted slightly.

Emma’s tone was calm, clinical almost. “My pansexuality has only ever been… rumored. Never confirmed. If visibility helps the cause—”

Celeste groaned softly. “Mom.”

Emma turned to her daughter with a raised brow. “Yes?”

Celeste sighed, exasperated but thoughtful. “It would help some people, sure. But it would also make you a lightning rod. Every headline would turn into ‘President Frost Makes It About Herself.’ And people would accuse you of attention-seeking, or deflection, or—”

“—using sexuality for sympathy,” Emma finished for her, tone measured.

Celeste nodded. “Exactly. It’s bullshit, but that’s how they’d spin it. Unless you were already in a relationship, or it came up naturally, it’d do more harm than good.”

Emma’s lips pressed together for a moment. She wasn’t offended; she was impressed by how pragmatic her daughter sounded. “You’re becoming too politically astute for your own good.”

Celeste smirked. “I’m your daughter. It’s genetic.”

The laughter that followed was soft, but real. Even Jean smiled again, the corners of her eyes warming as she watched the exchange.

Emma turned her gaze back to her staff. “Alright. Then no unnecessary declarations. We stay on course. We work. We deliver on every promise we made—that will speak louder than labels.”

Jean nodded approvingly. “That’s exactly the tone you should take.”

Jubilee tapped something on her tablet. “I can schedule a set of community Q&As, have you interact directly with voters—especially the young ones. It’ll trend positively.”

Celeste perked up at that. “Actually, Jubilee, maybe I could help with that. Young voters, Gen Z engagement—I could consult.”

Emma raised an elegant eyebrow. “Consult, or meddle?”

Celeste feigned innocence. “Advise. Collaborate. Educate.”

Emma exhaled slowly, closing her folder. “You are almost as incorrigible as your sister.”

Celeste grinned, victorious. “That’s a yes, then.”

“On my desk by the end of the week,” Emma said firmly. “I expect measurable results, not just trending hashtags.”

Celeste saluted playfully. “Yes, ma’am.”

Emma turned to Jean. “Ms. Grey, I trust you’ll take lead on that project. You and Ms. Lee—Jubilee—will handle messaging, digital presentation, and voter interaction strategy. Coordinate with my daughter, since she seems intent on revolutionizing communications before she’s finished high school.”

Jean blinked, a flicker of surprise and pleasure passing over her features. “Of course, Madam President. I’d be honored.”

Bobby leaned back, grinning. “Look at that—our communications aide gets promoted before finishing her first week. Must be the freckles.”

Jean shot him a warning look. “Or the competence.”

Emma’s smirk was small but unmistakable. “Competence tends to be a rarer asset in Washington than freckles, Mr. Drake. Keep that in mind.”

Bobby raised his hands in mock surrender. “Duly noted.”

Jubilee’s phone pinged, and she quickly silenced it, muttering something about trending keywords. The meeting shifted again into logistics—the cadence of governance replacing the emotional weight of confession.

Emma listened, but part of her mind drifted. Jean’s words had stayed with her. The courage, the matter-of-factness—it stirred something. Not attraction, not yet, but awareness. Interest. A reminder of what authenticity looked like in a building full of masks.

“…and if we time it right,” Jean was saying now, tapping her notes, “we can pivot from Shaw’s comments into something aspirational. Show that you’re not reactive, but proactive. Reframe the narrative from ‘out of touch’ to ‘in command.’”

Emma nodded slowly. “Good. I like that. Make me look presidential, not defensive.”

“You already do,” Jean said softly before catching herself, blinking as if realizing she’d spoken aloud.

Emma’s gaze lingered a heartbeat too long before she looked back down at her papers. “Then make it official.”

Jubilee grinned at Jean across the table. “Welcome to the big leagues, boss.”

Jean rolled her eyes, cheeks faintly flushed, but there was pride in her smile.

Emma stood, smoothing her suit jacket. The room followed suit instinctively. “Thank you, all of you. This is a strong start. Let’s get ahead of Shaw, let’s address concerns before they spiral, and let’s remind the country why they elected progress over nostalgia.”

Celeste grinned at her mother. “You mean because you looked cooler in the debates.”

Emma gave her a sidelong glance. “That too.”

The laughter that followed was warm, easy—a rhythm that felt natural now. For a brief moment, the White House didn’t feel like a monument of marble and scrutiny. It felt alive.

As the team began to pack their materials, Emma lingered for a second longer by the head of the table, her eyes sweeping the group—her daughter, bright and irreverent; Jubilee, fast-fingered and brilliant; Bobby, effortlessly charming; and Jean Grey, the quiet center of it all, steady and unflinching.

When Jean met her gaze, Emma gave her the smallest nod of approval—professional, yes, but laced with something else. Recognition, perhaps. Trust.

And then, as if nothing lingered unspoken in the air between them, Emma picked up her folder and said simply, “Alright. Let’s get to work.”

The Situation Room was warm and airless, thick with too many bodies and too many egos. Emma Frost sat at the head of the table, hands folded neatly atop a mountain of briefing folders. The lights hummed above them, sterile and cold. Her reflection gleamed faintly in the polished mahogany, framed by the presidential seal embossed in gold at the center.

Across from her sat Tony Stark, Treasury Secretary and self-proclaimed financial savior of the free world, legs stretched far too comfortably under the table. He wore a pinstripe suit that screamed money talks, his tie loosened and his sarcasm sharpened to its usual lethal edge. Beside him was Carol Danvers, Secretary of State, posture rigid and commanding, hair pulled back so tight it could slice through marble.

Scott Summers, Speaker of the House, wore his usual expression—half patience, half polished frustration. His glasses caught the light each time he turned his head, reflecting the screens around the room. And Lorna Dane, head of the EPA and the youngest person in the cabinet, sat poised with a stylus in hand, scrolling through an environmental draft with quiet intensity.

And there, at Carol’s side—Phoebe.

Emma hid a smile. Her daughter had wormed her way into the meeting like she belonged there, a tablet balanced on her lap, her outfit immaculate in crisp white, her platinum hair braided tight. A pair of glasses perched perfectly on her nose, the image of efficiency.

Carol had long since stopped protesting her presence.

“Alright,” Emma began, voice cool and even. “We’re here to finalize key initiatives for the first one hundred days. I expect realistic strategies, not aspirational wish lists.”

Tony chuckled. “You wound me, Frost. Aspirations are my best feature.”

Emma didn’t look up from her notes. “No, Stark, arrogance is your best feature. Aspirations come third.”

Lorna smirked. Scott tried not to. Carol didn’t bother.

Tony raised a hand dramatically. “Touché. Alright, Madam President, let’s start with the big one—universal healthcare expansion. You want coverage that includes reproductive products, trans affirming care, and… if I’m reading this correctly, ‘menstrual dignity initiatives’?”

Phoebe straightened, tone sharp and articulate. “Tampons, pads, menstrual cups—these should all be covered under health plans. They’re necessities, not luxuries. The Pink Tax has to go.”

Emma gave her daughter a quiet, approving glance. “Continue.”

Phoebe swiped her screen, showing projections. “It’s not just optics—it’s economic. When women and menstruating individuals have access to these resources, productivity rises, absenteeism drops, and health outcomes improve. It’s both moral and pragmatic.”

Tony raised his brows. “The girl’s got bite.”

Carol nodded slightly, impressed. “And research.”

Scott leaned back in his chair. “If we bundle it with the healthcare expansion bill, we’ll have to push through bipartisan negotiation. The opposition will cry socialism, and the moderates will waver.”

Emma leaned forward, chin resting on her knuckles. “Then we appeal to the public directly. Universal healthcare polls at sixty-eight percent approval when framed as access to medical dignity. I want this language drafted in by the weekend. Carol, coordinate international talking points to show parity with Europe. Lorna, prep environmental framing—‘Health, Earth, Humanity’—something clean.”

Lorna nodded, scribbling.

Tony cleared his throat, smirking faintly. “Speaking of Europe, if you expand coverage and fund statehood for D.C. and Puerto Rico, you’re going to need more money. And I hate to say this, but the math says tax hikes.”

“On whom?” Emma asked smoothly.

Tony leaned back. “Me, apparently.”

Phoebe grinned. “Well, finally some justice.”

Carol coughed to hide her laughter. “You’d survive, Stark.”

Tony sighed theatrically. “Oh, I’ll survive. I just won’t enjoy it.”

Scott interjected, voice careful. “Tax reform has to be paired with messaging that it’s about fairness, not punishment. The GOP will spin it otherwise.”

Emma looked at him coolly. “The GOP spins gravity as a liberal conspiracy, Mr. Summers. I’m not particularly concerned with their narrative.”

Jean wasn’t there, but Emma could almost imagine her smirking at that line.

Lorna spoke next, tone thoughtful. “On statehood—Puerto Rico and D.C.—the logistics are ready, but it’s a media nightmare waiting to happen. It’ll be painted as power consolidation.”

“Let them paint,” Emma said simply. “Every democracy expands or dies. Representation is not a privilege, it’s a right. If I need to spend political capital to remind the country of that, I will.”

Phoebe looked proud. Tony, however, seemed lost in thought. He tapped his pen against his folder, then said, “I can fund the economic modeling, but I’ll need your permission to leverage Stark Industries’ analytics team for projections. You’ll get real-time updates on budget flows.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed. “In exchange for what?”

Tony’s smile widened. “In exchange for being right.”

“Unlikely,” she murmured. “But authorized.”

The meeting stretched on for hours—numbers, logistics, wordsmithing bills into something the public could digest. Emma’s attention never wavered publicly, but internally she could feel the exhaustion seeping into her bones. Running a nation was like playing chess on fifty boards simultaneously, every move watched, every breath analyzed.

At one point, Carol leaned toward her, voice quiet. “You look tired, Frost. You should get some air before your next meeting.”

“I’ll consider it,” Emma murmured, though her eyes didn’t leave the documents.

By the time the meeting finally ended, the others began packing up—the shuffle of papers, the clicking of pens, Tony joking about how he’d sell “Freedom Bonds” to fund healthcare. Phoebe lingered to talk to Carol about speech points, animated and bright, her braid bouncing as she nodded enthusiastically. Emma watched for a brief moment, pride softening her features, before quietly slipping away.

She moved through the marble halls like a ghost.

The White House gardens were mostly empty this time of day—late afternoon light slanting across manicured hedges, the air crisp with early winter chill. There was one corner, hidden behind thick ivy and an old marble arch, where no press cameras dared go.

Laura was there, standing sentinel, her posture relaxed but alert. When Emma approached, Laura’s eyes flicked toward her in silent acknowledgment.

“Do you have one?” Emma asked softly.

Laura didn’t need to ask what she meant. She reached into her jacket and produced a slim silver case. “You know, if the press ever catches you…”

“They won’t.” Emma’s lips quirked. “They never have.”

Laura handed her a cigarette, and Emma lit it with a quiet flick of her lighter. The first drag burned, sharp and grounding. Smoke curled up into the fading light, thin as memory.

“Leader of the free world, addicted,” came a familiar voice from the other side of the hedge. “I can already see the headlines.”

Emma turned, half-smiling despite herself. Jean Grey stepped into view, coffee in hand, her red hair a mess of curls escaping an otherwise disciplined bun. She looked too human for this place, too real.

“I won’t tell,” Jean said, walking closer. “If you give me one.”

Emma tilted the case toward her in silent offer. Jean took one, their fingers brushing briefly—warm skin, a momentary spark neither acknowledged.

They stood side by side in silence for a moment, the smoke drifting up between them like a fragile treaty.

Jean exhaled slowly. “We should quit, you know.”

Emma gave a small, ironic laugh. “I’ve told myself that since I was twenty-one.”

“Maybe we do it together,” Jean said lightly. “Mutual accountability.”

Emma arched a brow. “You make it sound like a diplomatic pact.”

Jean smirked. “Everything’s diplomacy with you.”

Emma took another slow drag. “My daughters would be thrilled. Sophie hates the smell. Celeste lectures me on lung capacity and addiction cycles. Phoebe warns me it’ll ruin my image.”

Jean grinned, turning slightly toward her. “Honestly, you could be caught in an orgy and still have the same approval rating.”

Emma paused, then gave a low, throaty laugh. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Jean’s eyes sparkled. “You’d probably make it look presidential.”

Emma let the cigarette hang loosely between her fingers, staring into the distance. “It’s been years since I’ve had the time for such… indulgence.”

There was a note of wistfulness there she hadn’t meant to let slip. She quickly masked it behind another drag of smoke.

Jean caught the shift in her tone but didn’t press. Instead, she looked out over the garden, expression softening. “D.C.’s beautiful, in its own way. Cold. But beautiful.”

“You’re settling in?” Emma asked, glancing sidelong.

Jean exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “Trying to. I finally found a hotel that doesn’t have lobby renovations. I’ll look for an apartment once I have weekends free.”

“Which you won’t,” Emma murmured.

Jean smiled faintly. “Probably not.”

There was another pause. The sound of distant fountains filled the air, and the smell of smoke mingled with winter roses.

Then Jean said quietly, “I didn’t know you were queer, Madam President.”

Emma’s lips curved. “Well, if you believe the rumors, I’m not the first.”

Jean tilted her head. “Still… if I’d known, I think I’d have voted for you in the primaries.”

Emma’s laugh was low, rich, genuine. “Is that so? And here I thought I had your loyalty from day one.”

Jean smirked. “I voted for Parker before he dropped out to be your running mate. Guess I like to back winners eventually.”

Emma flicked ash from the cigarette, looking at her. “Duly noted.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The sun dipped lower, painting the White House windows gold. Jean finished her cigarette, crushed it beneath her heel, and stretched her shoulders with a soft sigh.

Emma watched her quietly, noticing how exhaustion softened the lines of her face, how professionalism coexisted with warmth. There was something magnetic about her presence, something Emma hadn’t felt in a long time.

She scolded herself silently for thinking it.

Jean broke the silence. “Maybe we’ll actually quit this time.”

Emma smiled faintly, crushing her own cigarette beside Jean’s. “Maybe we will.”

Jean held out her coffee. “Trade. Nicotine for caffeine.”

Emma accepted, took a small sip, and grimaced. “You drink battery acid.”

Jean laughed, and for a fleeting moment, Emma forgot the weight of her title, the constant scrutiny, the endless balancing act of governance and grief.

Here, in this quiet corner of the garden, with the smell of coffee and smoke lingering in the cold air, she was just Emma.

And Jean was just… Jean.

“Come on,” Jean said softly, nudging her shoulder. “If we stay here too long, someone will think we’re plotting a coup.”

Emma’s smile lingered as she turned back toward the White House. “They’d only be half wrong.”

The two women walked side by side toward the lights of the West Wing, their breath visible in the chill air, the faint scent of smoke following them like a shared secret.

The Situation Room always smelled faintly of burnt coffee and the tension of over-prepared people. The walls hummed with quiet power—monitors flickering with maps, projections, red zones and blue zones. To anyone else, it might look like chaos, but to Emma Frost, it was symphony. Calculated chaos. Controlled, for now.

She sat at the head of the long, cold table, white suit immaculate against the dimness. A cup of coffee—Jean’s, she realized too late—sat cooling near her hand, and the taste of it lingered like an afterthought she hadn’t asked for.

Around her, the most powerful minds in foreign affairs waited.

Wanda Maximoff, Secretary of Foreign Policy, with her dark red blazer, a soft accent that curled like smoke, and eyes that never revealed too much. Natasha Romanoff, National Security Advisor, poised and predatory, every movement deliberate. Carol Danvers, Secretary of State, with her usual crisp authority, posture perfect as if posture alone could ward off exhaustion. Anna-Marie, her Chief of Staff, leaned against the wall near the digital board, tapping her stylus against her tablet rhythmically, half-listening, half-running the world from behind the curtain.

“Alright,” Emma began, glancing at her notes. “Let’s start with the Middle East brief.”

Carol took over seamlessly. “The ceasefire between Israel and the coalition forces is holding, but fragile. Iran’s reform government is asking for formal talks on nuclear trade. They want the sanctions lifted.”

Emma’s eyes flicked to Wanda. “What do we gain by entertaining it?”

“Time,” Wanda replied softly. Her voice carried that unique blend of calm and subtle danger. “And influence. Russia’s already circling the negotiation, offering technological aid. If we step back, we leave the door open for them.”

“Which means,” Natasha added smoothly, “if we go in, we’d better mean it. Russia won’t take lightly to being cut out.”

Emma tilted her head, watching the two women exchange glances. She thought of what Celeste had said yesterday in the kitchen—they’re either fucking or ready to fuck. At the time, she had been appalled. Now, watching the microexpressions, the too-brief flickers of familiarity, she wondered if her daughter was, as usual, irritatingly perceptive.

She smothered the thought and leaned back in her chair. “We’ll open a communication channel. Carol, draft a statement that acknowledges the reform effort but makes no promises. Wanda, I want you in those talks. If Russia wants to throw their weight around, let them. I’d rather we shape the narrative before they do.”

Wanda nodded, a faint smile ghosting her lips. “Of course, Madam President.”

Natasha’s tone was even, though something flickered across her expression. “I’ll have a security outline ready by tonight. If we’re engaging, we’ll need cyber protocols reinforced—particularly if Moscow’s listening.”

Emma nodded. “Have Fury liaise with Kitty Pryde. I want the digital security team airtight.”

Anna-Marie scribbled the note. “I’ll make sure she’s looped in.”

Emma’s gaze drifted to the digital map now displaying Europe. “Next—Cuba.”

Carol sighed, crossing her arms. “Trade talks are stalled again. Their leadership wants sanctions lifted before they offer democratic reforms. The problem is optics—if we move too quickly, we look weak; if we don’t, we risk pushing them toward Beijing.”

Emma’s lips quirked faintly. “Weakness is a perception I can control. I’ll handle Cuba personally—quiet diplomacy first, before it becomes theater.”

Anna-Marie arched a brow. “You sure you want that on your personal plate, ma’am? You’re already booked through February.”

“I’m aware,” Emma said, tone like steel wrapped in silk. “But some deals need a face, not a delegation.”

The map flickered again—Africa this time.

“Wakanda,” Wanda said softly, as though the word itself required reverence. “Queen Ororo and King T’Challa have extended a formal invitation. A private summit. They want to discuss renewable energy partnerships and cultural exchange programs. The opportunity is extraordinary.”

Emma’s eyes softened. “Then I’ll go myself. I’ve met T’Challa before, and Ororo’s insight is unmatched. That meeting will set the tone for our entire Africa policy.”

Natasha leaned forward. “If you’re traveling abroad, we need to finalize your itinerary. I’d suggest keeping the circle tight—no more than three aides.”

Carol flicked through her own folder. “We can combine it with your European trip. The full route as I see it: Belfast with Prime Minister Braddock, Dublin with Ambassador Cassidy, Brussels with Raven Darkholme-Adler, Berlin with Chancellor Wagner, Moscow with the Rasputins, then Wakanda to close it out.”

Emma smiled faintly. “Efficient and exhausting. Just how I like it.”

Wanda’s expression was neutral, though Emma caught the faintest amusement in her eyes.

“Parker,” Emma said, referring to her Vice President. “Send him to Asia—Japan and China. Trade, defense, environmental collaboration. He’ll enjoy that kind of work.”

Anna-Marie nodded, making the note. “He’s good with delegation optics.”

Emma glanced at the other women. “As for Europe, I’ll need a strong diplomatic team. Suggestions?”

Natasha was the first to speak. “Given the itinerary, a multilingual security team with Eastern European ties would be ideal.”

Wanda added, “And a foreign policy representative familiar with EU sentiment. I can accompany you.”

Emma looked between them—Wanda, composed and mysterious; Natasha, efficient and ever-watchful—and felt again that odd awareness between them, subtle but undeniable.

Carol cleared her throat. “You’ll also need someone from press. Bobby can’t go—he’ll need to stay here, manage the homefront.”

Anna-Marie nodded. “Agreed. Bishop too. We’ll need Defense in-country.”

There was a pause. Carol leaned forward, glancing at Emma. “What about Miss Grey?”

Emma blinked, surprised. “Jean?”

“She’s already familiar with foreign press,” Carol explained. “Background in international journalism. Quick learner. She could manage the traveling briefings, coordinate with Jubilee remotely.”

Wanda added softly, “She’s also good under pressure. And she listens.”

Emma considered it, tapping her fingers lightly on the cold tabletop. The thought of Jean on the trip tugged at something unexpected—something she quickly pushed aside.

“I’ll let Bobby decide,” she said finally. “He knows his staff best.”

The conversation shifted to logistics—dates, flight paths, trade summaries, coded briefings. Emma found herself losing the thread for a moment, the edges of fatigue settling in. She reached absently for her coffee cup, took a sip, and instantly regretted it.

Cold. Bitter. Familiar.

Jean’s.

The faintly burnt taste clung to her tongue, acrid and strange, and for a split second, the image of the garden returned—Jean’s laugh, the low hum of their voices over smoke and secrets. Emma caught herself before the thought lingered too long and set the cup down.

“Madam President?” Carol’s voice drew her back. “Are you alright?”

Emma blinked, clearing her throat lightly. “Perfectly fine. Just realizing that diplomacy tastes worse than it smells.”

A few polite chuckles rippled around the table.

“Before we adjourn,” Anna-Marie said, glancing up from her notes, “you should decide whether you’ll bring the girls.”

Emma paused.

Wanda’s tone was gentle. “They’d be welcome in Europe, certainly. But security will be complicated.”

Natasha nodded. “Multiple locations. Different threat levels. It’s not impossible, but it’ll require doubling detail.”

Emma leaned back, her expression softening despite herself. “I’ll think about it. They’ve already seen more of the world’s cynicism than most adults. Maybe a little diplomacy will balance it out.”

Carol smiled faintly. “Phoebe would probably rewrite your entire itinerary if you let her.”

“Undoubtedly,” Emma murmured.

With that, the meeting began to dissolve into side conversations—Carol consulting with Wanda, Natasha reviewing files with Anna-Marie. Emma stood, stretching slightly, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve.

“Thank you, ladies,” she said, gathering her notes. “We’ll reconvene after Bishop’s defense briefing. Wanda, Natasha—coordinate the security draft with Fury. Carol, update the European delegation list. Anna-Marie, confirm my travel advisories.”

“Yes, ma’am,” came the replies in near unison.

Emma left the Situation Room, Laura shadowing her a few steps behind as always. The corridors of the West Wing were quieter than usual—some staff had gone home, others buried themselves in overnight work. The hum of printers, the occasional ring of a distant phone.

She was halfway to her next meeting with Bishop when the familiar tug of exhaustion hit. She detoured toward the nearest restroom, needing five minutes of stillness.

The mirror greeted her with her own reflection—impeccable, controlled, a porcelain surface over the fatigue beneath. She leaned briefly against the marble counter, exhaling, letting the weight of leadership settle against her shoulders like a too-heavy shawl.

Then she froze.

A sound—soft, quick—came from the adjoining corridor. The faint click of a door. Voices.

She turned slightly, gaze catching in the mirror’s reflection. Through the crack of the partially closed door, she saw them—two silhouettes framed by the dim light of the hallway.

Wanda. Natasha.

Their voices were low, hurried, words lost between shared breaths. And then—one step closer. A hand against a cheek. A whisper. And a kiss.

It wasn’t cautious. It wasn’t rehearsed. It was hungry, restrained only by fear of discovery. Natasha’s hand cupped Wanda’s jaw; Wanda’s fingers curled into Natasha’s lapel. For a fleeting moment, they looked like anyone—two people caught between duty and desire.

Emma’s throat tightened. She should look away, but something in her—a part of her that understood—kept her rooted.

The two women broke apart, breathless. Wanda’s eyes widened first, catching the reflection in the mirror.

“Madam President,” she said quietly, her accent thickening with nerves.

Natasha turned instantly, straightening, her professional mask snapping back into place. “President Frost.”

Emma stepped from the restroom doorway, expression unreadable but voice calm. “Ladies.”

An awkward silence fell, sharp as glass.

“We were—” Wanda began, but stopped.

Natasha’s composure was iron. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Emma arched a single brow. “It looked very much like what it was.”

Both women froze.

Emma let the pause hang just long enough to make them squirm, then said lightly, “You’ve been discreet. I assume this isn’t… new?”

Natasha hesitated. Then, softly, “We met during the campaign. Things… developed.”

“Before or after the inauguration?” Emma asked, more out of obligation than reprimand.

“Before,” Wanda admitted. “We didn’t want to involve the administration until we were sure it was—real.”

Emma exhaled slowly, folding her arms. “Then I’ll expect a note to HR and Anna-Marie. Transparency protects us all. And the last thing I need is another scandal headline about affairs in the White House.”

They both nodded quickly.

But Emma’s tone softened, just slightly. “That said…” She let her gaze flick between them, her voice dropping into something almost wry. “You look good together. Don’t let the wolves tear that apart.”

A beat of stunned silence followed. Then Wanda gave a small, genuine smile. “Thank you, Madam President.”

Emma inclined her head, the ghost of amusement tugging at her lips. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a Defense Secretary waiting and a country to run. Carry on—just… not in the Situation Room.”

As she walked away, her heels echoing softly on the marble, Emma felt an unexpected heaviness in her chest.

Maybe it was envy—not of love, exactly, but of its simplicity when it was new, when it existed in moments stolen between walls and duty.

Her mind flickered briefly to Jean, to the garden, the cigarette smoke curling between them, and she quickly pushed the thought aside.

There was no room for sentiment in the presidency.

Still, as she reached for the next door, she found herself smiling—tired, small, but real.

Perhaps there were worse things to witness in these halls than two people finding warmth in a cold world.

Chapter Text

Emma was nervous, her atmosphere did not help. The morning air in the White House had a particular kind of chill that no heater could erase—a sterile, expectant quiet that settled before a political storm. It was early, not quite seven, and yet the West Wing already hummed like a hive, every hallway pulsing with preparation for the State of the Union.

Emma Frost stood before the mirror in the small private anteroom off the Oval Office, staring at her reflection as Celeste adjusted the fall of her white suit jacket. It wasn’t vanity that made her pause—it was calculation. Every detail, from the cut of the collar to the hue of the lipstick, mattered. The country didn’t just listen to a president; it judged one.

Celeste Frost, her daughter and self-appointed image advisor, smirked faintly. “You look like you’re about to make history, Mother. Again.”

Emma arched a brow. “That’s the job description, darling.”

Phoebe appeared behind her sister, tablet in hand, expression all business. “If we can get through this morning without Tony or Carol throwing something, it’ll be a miracle.”

“Have a little faith,” Emma murmured, turning from the mirror. “If Tony throws something, it’ll probably be money.”

Phoebe didn’t look up. “He’s already done the fiscal breakdown. I’ve gone through his and Carol’s files—there are discrepancies.”

“Of course there are,” Celeste said, stepping back, assessing Emma’s reflection one last time. “Carol’s optimistic, Tony’s a cynic. They balance each other out.”

Phoebe snorted softly. “Not when one overestimates the tax yield by two percent and the other forgets to account for cross-border revenue shifts. But if they follow my proposal—freezing student debt, restructuring the Supreme Court to include term limits, expanding healthcare coverage through strategic demilitarization of the police and higher tax tiers on upper incomes—we could actually end the fiscal year with a surplus. Enough to reinvest in infrastructure.”

Celeste rolled her eyes. “You’ve been seventeen for what, five minutes, and you’re already rewriting the federal budget.”

“I’m seventeen,” Phoebe replied sharply, “not stupid.”

Emma smiled faintly, half in pride, half in disbelief at the precocity of her daughters. She reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair from Phoebe’s face. “Brilliance aside, leave some room for my speechwriters. They’ll need something to do.”

“I am giving them something to do,” Phoebe countered. “Fixing their mistakes.”

Before Emma could respond, a brisk knock sounded at the door.

Laura, her Secret Service detail, poked her head in. “They’re ready for you in the communications suite, Madam President.”

Emma exhaled softly, collecting herself. “Time to face the firing squad, then.”

Celeste smirked. “Try not to strangle anyone.”

“I’ll make no promises.”

⸻

The communications suite was already alive with motion when Emma entered. Screens lined the far wall—newsfeeds, live polling trackers, and a scrolling social media dashboard that Jubilee was watching like a hawk. The table was cluttered with papers, coffee cups, and the inevitable chaos that came with writing speeches meant to sway millions.

Bobby Drake, her press secretary, looked up first. “Madam President, morning! We were just talking about you.”

“Good things, I hope,” Emma replied, moving toward the head of the table.

“Depends on your definition of good,” Jubilee said with a grin, spinning a pen between her fingers. Her bright yellow blazer clashed gloriously with the gray walls. “The networks are running nonstop speculation on what you’ll announce tonight. Everyone’s betting on universal healthcare or Supreme Court reform. CNN’s got a countdown clock. It’s dramatic.”

Emma gave a small smile, settling into her seat. “Then we’ll give them something worth counting down to.”

Jean Grey sat across from her, looking effortlessly composed in a deep green dress that caught the light every time she moved. Her red hair was pinned back loosely, a few strands falling against her cheek. Emma tried not to stare, and failed for a second longer than she should have.

“Morning,” Jean said with a smile that was too kind for the political battlefield they lived in. “We’ve got the speech outline here—Bobby’s version, Jubilee’s notes, and Celeste’s mood board for the camera angles.”

Celeste gave a dismissive wave from where she perched on the table’s edge. “It’s not a mood board, it’s an aesthetic framework. Optics matter.”

“Same difference,” Bobby muttered, rubbing his temples.

“Not when the camera adds ten pounds and drains ten IQ points,” Celeste replied. “We’re controlling the color palette for maximum authority and empathy. Blue lights, silver podium highlights, your suit will pop against the backdrop.”

Emma raised a brow. “I trust you to make me look presidential, not like a hologram.”

Celeste smirked. “There’s not much difference these days.”

Across the room, Carol Danvers and Tony Stark were engaged in their usual low-level argument, which had been ongoing since dawn.

“I’m telling you, if you phrase it as ‘wealth realignment’ instead of ‘tax increases,’ you’ll soften the blow,” Tony said, tapping the air for emphasis.

Carol shook her head, exasperated. “And then we’ll look disingenuous. The base wants honesty, Tony, not euphemisms.”

“Honesty doesn’t poll well,” Tony shot back.

Emma cut in smoothly. “What polls well, Mr. Stark, is results. Let’s keep the euphemisms for when we’re selling weapons, not saving lives.”

He grinned at her, unbothered. “See, that’s the tone you need tonight. Authoritative, a little dangerous.”

Carol rolled her eyes. “Dangerous gets us sanctions, not applause.”

“Sanctions are just applause in another currency,” Tony quipped.

Jean hid a smile behind her coffee cup, and Emma caught the small, secret curve of her lips. It was… distracting.

She turned to Phoebe, who had taken a seat beside Jubilee, tablet glowing with dense spreadsheets. “Show me your numbers again,” Emma said, partly to redirect her focus.

Phoebe pulled up a projection chart that expanded onto the main screen. “Here’s the proposed reallocation. If we freeze student loan interest for two fiscal years and redirect the demilitarization funds—those currently budgeted for excessive police spending—into healthcare and infrastructure, we can fully fund phase one of universal healthcare. The top income brackets’ tax increase would stabilize the shift. By year three, GDP growth neutralizes the cost.”

Tony whistled low. “Kid’s not wrong. I ran something similar last quarter but didn’t factor in the police cuts.”

Carol frowned slightly, scanning the chart. “You’re assuming perfect compliance from all states, though. That’s ambitious.”

Phoebe shrugged, eyes sharp. “Ambitious is why we’re here.”

Celeste, leaning back in her chair, added dryly, “And why none of us sleep.”

Emma’s gaze swept over the group, pride and exhaustion threading together. “Phoebe, integrate your plan into Tony’s existing model. Carol, check her numbers for state-level logistics. Bobby, you’ll emphasize the ‘investing in America’s future’ angle in the press briefing. Jubilee, prepare social rollouts timed to each section of the speech.”

“Already on it,” Jubilee said, fingers flying across her tablet. “We’ve got influencer accounts lined up for the hashtag #UnionOfProgress. It’ll trend in under five minutes.”

Jean added softly, “We should also humanize the data. Talk about families, access, the people these policies affect.”

Emma nodded, glancing at her notes. “Good. Compassion and control. We’ll make it feel personal.”

The discussion carried on for another hour—tightening phrasing, refining tone, cutting lines that sounded too rehearsed. Celeste kept adjusting the lighting scheme on her laptop; Phoebe argued with Tony over decimal points; Carol fielded messages from embassies regarding the upcoming trip.

At one point, Carol looked up from her phone, face lighting with relief. “By the way, the Russian delegation’s been convinced to come to neutral ground in Wakanda. So, no need for a Moscow trip after all.”

Emma blinked, surprised but pleased. “Well done. That saves us several sleepless nights and an argument with security.”

“It was Wanda’s doing,” Carol said. “Apparently, Ororo reached out personally to T’Challa to host. Neutral and symbolic.”

Emma allowed herself a small, genuine smile. “Wanda does know how to make diplomacy look effortless.”

Celeste smirked. “Or maybe she just wants to visit Wakanda again. The fashion week there puts Paris to shame.”

The mention of travel made Emma’s expression flicker. “Celeste, Phoebe—you’ve decided to stay here, yes?”

Both girls exchanged glances. Celeste nodded first. “You’ll have too much on your plate. And Sophie can’t miss school.”

Phoebe added, “We’ll handle everything here. You focus on Europe.”

Emma inhaled slowly, then nodded. “Good.” But the word carried a weight that felt hollow.

Her mind drifted back to the night she’d told Sophie she’d be leaving for the trip. Her eight-year-old had sat cross-legged on her bed, holding her plush rabbit like a small anchor.

“Will it be long?” Sophie had asked, eyes wide.

“Only a few weeks,” Emma had said softly. “And I’ll call every day.”

“But not here,” Sophie had said, and her voice had wobbled. “Not home.”

Emma had felt the ache deep in her chest then—the same one she felt now. “I work for everyone’s home, sweetheart. But this one will always be the most important.”

She’d promised to bring back something from every country—stories, trinkets, photographs. Sophie had nodded solemnly, the way only children do when they want to be brave.

The memory tugged at her, and she found herself staring at the papers before her without really seeing them.

Jean’s voice broke the spell. “You okay?”

Emma blinked, realizing she must have gone quiet. Jean’s eyes were gentle, questioning, and that green dress really was not helping her concentration.

“I’m fine,” Emma said, a touch too quickly. “Just thinking.”

Jean tilted her head. “About Sophie?”

Emma smiled faintly. “Among other things.”

Jean’s gaze softened. “You’re doing the right thing, you know. She’ll understand when she’s older.”

Emma let out a quiet laugh. “I keep telling myself that.”

The room continued to buzz—Tony dictating notes to an aide, Jubilee adjusting a digital mockup of the speech set, Bobby drafting press lines—but Emma’s thoughts drifted, unfocused for once.

The need for a cigarette clawed at her suddenly, sharp and insistent. Her fingers twitched against the table’s edge. She hadn’t smoked since that night in the garden with Jean—weeks ago now—but the craving came back in waves, cruel and familiar.

Jean caught the gesture. Her lips quirked knowingly. “Still quitting?”

“Trying,” Emma murmured.

“We said we’d quit together,” Jean reminded her lightly, eyes twinkling.

Emma gave a wry smile. “Yes, but you have far more willpower than I do.”

“Not true,” Jean said softly. “I just drink my cravings in the form of triple-shot coffee.”

“Ah, so that’s why it tastes like battery acid,” Emma said.

Jean laughed quietly, and the sound did something strange to Emma’s chest. Something inconvenient.

Before she could reply, Bobby cleared his throat loudly, breaking the moment. “If you two are done bonding over caffeine and nicotine, we’ve got a nation to inspire.”

Emma straightened, mask of professionalism sliding back into place. “Of course. Where were we?”

Tony grinned. “Universal healthcare. Police demilitarization. Tax the rich. Revolution, but make it polite.”

“Polite revolutions tend to last longer,” Emma said smoothly. “Let’s make sure ours does.”

They went over the final version of the address—every phrase, every pause, every projected reaction. Celeste fussed over lighting once more, Phoebe made last-minute data adjustments, and the others offered notes that Emma absorbed and streamlined.

By the time the meeting wrapped, sunlight had begun to filter through the blinds, casting long slats of gold across the table. The capital outside was already stirring—motorcades, barricades, security sweeps.

Emma rose, smoothing the front of her suit. “Good work, all of you. Get some rest before tonight, if you can. I want every angle airtight.”

As the team dispersed—Jubilee chatting with Bobby, Tony and Carol still in debate, Jean lingering by the door—Emma allowed herself one long, steady breath.

Jean paused, glancing back at her. “You’ll do great tonight.”

Emma met her gaze, that calm fire in Jean’s eyes. “I intend to.”

When Jean left, the room felt a little quieter.

Laura appeared at the doorway, ever-efficient. “Everything alright, Madam President?”

Emma smiled faintly. “Yes, Laura. Just the calm before the speech.”

She looked out the window toward the distant skyline, where the Capitol dome gleamed in the sunlight. The words she would speak tonight would shape the next decade—maybe longer.

The Oval Office had never felt larger than it did that evening.
A cathedral of silence and expectation. The gold curtains hung still; the desk lamp threw a warm, fragile light over the thick stack of speech drafts spread across the mahogany. The words glared up at her like defiant soldiers—so carefully arranged, so lifeless.

Emma Frost paced the carpet with her notes in one hand, the other tapping a pen against her lips. The State of the Union was hours away. The final rehearsal had gone smoothly enough—or so everyone insisted—but it didn’t feel right.

She’d always trusted her instincts, and her instincts now whispered: It’s missing something.

She stopped by the window, looking out at the evening glow that softened the edges of the White House lawn. The sun was melting into orange over the Potomac, and the glass reflected her silhouette: poised, polished, and exhausted.

She cleared her throat and began reading aloud again, voice even, deliberate, the cadence of a performer.

“My fellow Americans, tonight we gather not as partisans, but as partners in progress—bound by the shared belief that our best days are still before us.”

Her tone was practiced, crisp. It was everything a president should sound like—controlled, confident, unyielding. And yet… hollow.

She frowned and flipped a page.

“Together, we can heal the divisions that have defined us. We can build a country where fairness is not a privilege, but a promise.”

Emma stopped. “No,” she muttered under her breath. “Too soft.” She picked up her pen, scribbled in the margin: Needs strength. Resolve, not sentiment.

She started again, walking slowly toward the desk.

“We are a nation of resilience, of reinvention, of renewal…”

Her voice trailed off.

Something was wrong. The rhythm, perhaps. The weight of it. She rubbed her temple and sighed. Maybe it was the fatigue. Maybe she just missed her daughters’ chatter breaking the quiet. The absence of it made the office feel sterile.

She was halfway through marking another section when a soft knock came from the door.

Laura, probably—or Anna-Marie, with another policy update.

“Come in,” she said without looking up.

The door opened with a gentle click, but it wasn’t Laura’s calm voice that followed.

“Madam President?”

Emma’s head lifted. Jean Grey stood in the doorway, the lamplight catching the copper in her hair. She wasn’t in her usual professional armor tonight; instead, she wore a soft blouse and a dark skirt, jacket folded in her arms, a folder tucked beneath them. Her expression was hesitant but warm.

“Jean,” Emma said, softening slightly. “You’re still here.”

Jean smiled faintly, stepping in. “I wanted to see if I could help. I know it’s late.”

Emma gestured toward the table, voice light but weary. “If you have caffeine or a miracle in that folder, you’re welcome anytime.”

Jean chuckled, setting the folder down. “No miracles. Just… notes.”

“Notes?” Emma repeated, one brow lifting.

“I read through the final version of the speech,” Jean said carefully. “I didn’t want to step on the writers’ toes, but…” She hesitated, choosing her words. “It feels a little—well—polished. Maybe too polished. Like something you’d never actually say.”

Emma regarded her with a mixture of amusement and intrigue. “Do go on. I do enjoy when people tell me what I wouldn’t say.”

Jean met her eyes evenly, undeterred. “You’re brilliant at the podium, Emma. But the draft—they’ve sanded off your edges. The voice that carried the campaign—the warmth, the conviction, the fire—it’s not here.”

Emma tilted her head. “So what you’re saying is, I sound like a mannequin.”

Jean smiled, almost shyly. “A very elegant one. But yes.”

Emma set her pen down, leaning back against the desk. “Show me, then. You’ve piqued my curiosity.”

Jean hesitated for half a beat, then opened her folder and handed over a marked-up copy. Neat, careful handwriting in green ink filled the margins—suggestions, small rephrasings, additions that softened sharp rhetoric without dulling it.

Emma skimmed the first page, eyebrows lifting as she read. The notes were precise, intuitive. Jean understood not just the words, but the music of them.

“You rewrote the opening,” Emma said after a moment, glancing up.

“I tried,” Jean admitted. “Just to remind people who you are. What you sound like when you believe what you’re saying.”

Emma scanned the new version. The first line had changed completely.

“My fellow Americans, tonight I stand before you not only as your president—but as a mother, a teacher, a woman who has seen what hope can build and what fear can break.”

She felt the words settle in her chest. It wasn’t perfect—no speech ever was—but it felt like her.

She looked up slowly, watching Jean across the desk. “You did this in an evening?”

Jean shrugged, a faint blush on her cheeks. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“I see,” Emma murmured. “Insomnia can be productive, apparently.”

Jean smiled, a hint of nervousness in it. “You can tear it apart if you want. I just thought—well, you deserve words that sound like you, not like the idea of you.”

Emma’s gaze softened. “That’s… a rare distinction.” She set the pages down, tapping them lightly against the desk. “Alright, Ms. Grey. Let’s hear how it reads aloud.”

Jean blinked, surprised. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Emma said. “You wrote it. Let’s hear your version.”

Jean hesitated, then took a breath, lifting the sheet. Her voice was clear and steady, but carried something Emma’s had lacked—warmth threaded with sincerity.

“My fellow Americans, tonight I stand before you not only as your president—but as a mother, a teacher, a woman who has seen what hope can build and what fear can break. Our story has never been one of ease—it has always been one of courage.”

Her delivery was unpolished but earnest. Emma found herself smiling faintly, caught in the quiet intimacy of the moment—the sound of Jean’s voice filling the room, the way her freckles deepened in the lamplight, the calm conviction in her tone.

When Jean finished, she lowered the paper and looked at Emma nervously. “Was that too sentimental?”

Emma shook her head slowly. “No. It was… human.”

Jean exhaled in relief. “Good. Because the draft they gave you—it reads like it was written by a robot trying to imitate compassion.”

Emma chuckled under her breath. “That’s a very accurate description of one of my senior speechwriters, actually.”

The laughter eased the tension in the air, and Emma found herself pacing again, notes in hand. “Alright. Let’s try this with your edits. Sit—watch, tell me what doesn’t sound right.”

Jean obeyed, taking a seat on the edge of the couch, legs crossed, pen in hand.

Emma began to read.

“My fellow Americans, tonight I stand before you not only as your president—but as a mother, a teacher, a woman who has seen what hope can build and what fear can break…”

Her tone was sharper, steadier. She moved with purpose, gestures precise but not rehearsed. Jean’s eyes followed her every step, occasionally making notes or murmuring a quiet “Good” or “Slower.”

When Emma finished the second paragraph, she stopped, sighing softly. “God, I need a drink.”

Jean’s lips quirked. “If you nail this tonight, I’ll make sure there’s an excellent whiskey waiting for you after.”

Emma arched an eyebrow. “Bribery? Ms. Grey, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Jean leaned back, smirking. “Incentive, Madam President. Motivation comes in many forms.”

Emma found herself laughing quietly. “Touché.”

She started again, this time with more energy—letting the words breathe, watching Jean’s subtle cues, the nods and raised brows that guided her pace. The speech began to come alive between them—less a document, more a conversation.

By the third draft, Emma felt something she hadn’t in weeks: a spark of excitement.

She set the paper down and looked directly at Jean. “You’re good at this.”

Jean flushed slightly. “It’s just instinct. I’ve written enough op-eds to know when something feels wrong.”

“It’s more than instinct,” Emma said softly. “It’s empathy. You hear what people want to believe.”

Jean looked down, smiling faintly. “That’s what journalism was supposed to teach me.”

They stood there for a moment, the quiet stretching between them. Outside, the light had dimmed completely, and the city beyond the windows glittered like a constellation.

Emma turned back to the desk, fingertips grazing the edge of Jean’s edits. “You’ve done good work, Jean. Not just here, but in general. I’ve noticed.”

Jean looked up, startled. “Thank you, Madam President.”

“Emma,” she corrected gently. “You’ve earned that much.”

Jean hesitated, then nodded. “Emma.” The name sounded strange and intimate on her lips.

“I should be thanking you,” Jean said after a moment. “For the opportunity. For trusting me enough to even be here. Most people would’ve looked at my résumé and seen a risk.”

Emma tilted her head. “A risk?”

Jean smiled ruefully. “Reporter who exposed a scandal, married a congressman, got divorced in the middle of a campaign cycle—it’s not exactly the career path of a perfect communications aide.”

“Perfect is overrated,” Emma said simply. “I prefer capable.”

Jean’s eyes softened. “Then I hope I keep proving I’m that.”

“You already have,” Emma said. “And you’ll have the chance to prove it again soon. You’re on the list for the European tour. Wakanda, too.”

Jean blinked, clearly surprised. “I—really?”

Emma nodded, amused by her shock. “Yes. You’ll be invaluable there. We’ll need someone who can craft the message as we go. Diplomacy is as much about words as it is handshakes.”

Jean looked genuinely moved. “Thank you. I can’t wait to see it all.”

Emma smiled, the corner of her mouth curling upward. “You earned it.”

Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, something unspoken passed between them. Not political. Not professional. Something softer.

Emma looked away first, her pulse betraying her. “Well,” she said briskly, “if I’m to impress the nation, I should probably stop pacing and start rehearsing for real.”

Jean rose from the couch, smoothing her skirt. “Do you want me to stay? I can help run timing cues.”

Emma hesitated—only for a second. “Yes. Stay.”

Jean moved to the side of the room, pen poised, watching. Emma took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and began once more.

The words flowed differently now. They had rhythm, life. Every sentence carried weight, every pause meaning. Jean’s presence grounded her, sharpened her focus.

“We are not defined by our differences, but by what we dare to do together. The future is not something that happens to us—it’s something we build, hand in hand.”

When she reached the end, Emma looked up. Jean was smiling, eyes bright. “That,” Jean said softly, “is the voice that won an election.”

Emma exhaled, feeling something settle inside her. The tension that had coiled in her chest all week finally began to loosen.

“Then maybe we’ll win something even better tonight,” she murmured.

Jean tilted her head. “And what’s that?”

“Faith,” Emma said. “In what we can still be.”

The clock on the wall ticked quietly between them, the sound oddly soothing.

Jean gathered her papers, lingering a moment longer than necessary. “I’ll make sure that whiskey’s waiting for you.”

Emma smiled faintly. “Make it a good one.”

As Jean moved toward the door, Emma found herself speaking again before she could stop the words. “Jean.”

Jean turned, eyebrows raised.

“Thank you,” Emma said softly. “For the warmth.”

Jean’s smile was gentle, knowing. “Anytime, Emma.”

When she left, the office felt both emptier and somehow lighter. Emma turned back to the desk, her reflection faint in the darkened window.

For the first time in weeks, she felt ready to face the nation.

And perhaps, though she’d never admit it aloud, it had less to do with the speech—
and more to do with the woman who had helped her find her voice again.

Chapter 4.3 — The State of the Union
(Emma’s POV — ~2,700 words)

The chamber was a living organism — restless, breathing, tense.
A thousand murmurs filled the vaulted ceiling of the House of Representatives, the buzz of expectation carrying like static through the air. The lights were hot. The flags were brighter than usual. Every camera trained on her was another heartbeat in the dark.

Emma Frost, President of the United States, stood behind the curtain just beyond the chamber’s double doors. Her hands were still. Her expression was diamond calm. Inside, though, her pulse drummed in time with the footsteps echoing beyond.

Anna-Marie had been the last to see her before the walk down that aisle. “You’ve got this, boss,” she’d said. Then Jean—smiling that quiet, unspoken encouragement—had squeezed her hand and slipped a folded note into her pocket. Just in case you forget who you are, it read.

She hadn’t forgotten. Not tonight.

The Sergeant at Arms’ voice broke through the hum.
“Madam Speaker, the President of the United States!”

The chamber rose in applause—half earnest, half performative. Emma took one slow breath, lifted her chin, and stepped into history again.

The walk felt longer than she remembered. Applause thundered, punctuated by camera flashes and murmured greetings from senators and representatives who would be tearing apart her words in the press by morning. She nodded to each, offering her practiced smile — graceful, deliberate, measured.

And then she reached the dais.

Behind her, on the platform, sat the two men who symbolized the delicate balance of her administration:
Scott Summers, Speaker of the House — Democrat, long-time ally and former husband — his expression carved in stone; and Peter Parker, her Vice President, leaning slightly forward, hands clasped, a spark of genuine excitement in his eyes.

Scott met her gaze for a fraction of a second. No smile. No hostility, either — just that familiar, unreadable restraint.

Peter, though, offered her a small nod, the kind that said, You’ve got this.

The applause began to die down.

Emma stood at the podium, the seal of the United States gleaming before her, the weight of fifty states—soon, perhaps, fifty-two—pressing on her shoulders.

She unfolded her notes. Jean’s handwriting gleamed in the margins, neat and precise. She could almost hear Jean’s voice, calm and encouraging: Say it like you mean it. Like you’re speaking to someone you love.

Emma looked up. She saw the faces of her daughters in the gallery — Celeste and Phoebe seated together, whispering in excitement, Sophie perched between them, waving shyly when she caught her mother’s eye.

Emma’s lips softened into the smallest smile.

Then she began.

⸻

“My fellow Americans,” she said, her voice cutting through the chamber’s silence.
“Tonight, I stand before you not only as your President, but as a mother, a teacher, and a woman who has seen what hope can build — and what fear can break.”

The words carried — not just through microphones, but through presence. The cameras zoomed closer. The chamber stilled.

“Our story as a nation has never been one of ease. It has always been one of courage — the courage to question, to rebuild, to stand again when others say it cannot be done.”

She felt the rhythm now, the pulse of it. It wasn’t the script her senior writers had handed her. It was hers — sharpened and softened by Jean’s touch.

“We have stood at the edge of despair before, and every time, we have found a way forward. Not through wealth or power, but through unity — through the stubborn belief that together, we are stronger than the forces that try to divide us.”

A smattering of applause rose from the Democratic side. The Republicans remained still, arms crossed. Emma’s gaze flicked briefly toward the Texas delegation — Governor Sebastian Shaw’s allies — cold eyes and tight jaws.

She didn’t falter.

“In the past year, we’ve faced doubt — in our institutions, in our justice, in our future. But let me tell you this: the American people are not broken. They are not tired. They are not done.”

That earned her a swell of applause. She let it run its course, then continued.

“We will expand healthcare coverage — universal, equitable, and humane. We will ensure that a young woman never again has to choose between rent and menstrual care. That a trans teenager can walk into a doctor’s office without fear of judgment or denial. That families can afford medicine without a second mortgage.”

A ripple of murmurs. Some cheers. Some sharp exhalations of disapproval. She could feel the temperature shift in the room.

Tony Stark sat in the gallery beside Carol Danvers, both watching intently. Tony gave a single, approving nod — she was threading his numbers into something moral.

“And yes,” she pressed on, “we will pay for it. Not by punishing the working class, but by asking those who have the most — including people like myself — to give just a little more. We will redirect funds from over-militarized policing toward education, healthcare, and community safety.”

That line earned applause from the left and a few audible scoffs from the right. Emma didn’t blink.

“Fairness is not a handout,” she said. “It’s a promise. One we have failed to keep for far too long.”

The speech continued—policy layered with vision. She spoke of the climate initiatives Lorna Dane had proposed, of Puerto Rico and D.C. on the path to statehood, of the forthcoming trip to Europe and Wakanda. Each announcement built on the next, threading into a message of transformation — difficult, defiant, hopeful.

When she reached the midpoint, Emma took a deliberate pause, looking directly into the cameras.

“Some will call this agenda radical. They will say it cannot be done. To them, I say: radical was the belief that all men were created equal. Radical was the dream that women could vote, that Black Americans could lead, that love could be free. Every inch of progress in our nation’s story began as an act of defiance.”

Applause rose—strong, sustained. Even a few hesitant claps from the other side.

Scott, seated behind her, gave the smallest nod of acknowledgment. Peter beamed.

Emma went on.

“This year, we will also introduce term limits for the Supreme Court—so that justice serves the people, not the decades.”

That drew a storm of reactions—gasps, applause, outrage. A senator from Ohio stood up and barked something under his breath.

Emma didn’t flinch. She had expected that one to sting.

She let the noise fade. Her voice was steady, calm, resolute.

“We cannot claim to be a democracy if we refuse to evolve. The institutions of our forebears were built for a smaller nation, in a simpler time. Theirs was a world of candlelight and ink. Ours burns in digital fire. It is our duty—not our privilege—to adapt.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge.

Emma let her eyes travel across the chamber — old rivals, loyal allies, the restless press box. Then upward, to the balcony where her daughters sat. Celeste, proud and poised. Phoebe, already typing something on her tablet, probably preparing the press release before the final applause. Sophie, chin resting on her hands, smiling down at her mother like she was invincible.

Her throat tightened for a heartbeat. Then she spoke again.

“To my daughters—and to every child watching tonight—know this: your country believes in you. The world you inherit will not be perfect. But it will be yours to shape. Do it boldly. Do it kindly. Do it better than we did.”

The chamber erupted in applause. Real applause this time—standing, sustained.

Emma let herself breathe. Just once.

When it finally quieted, she closed her binder softly. “Thank you,” she said, her voice gentler now. “God bless you. And may God bless the United States of America.”

She stepped back from the podium as the applause swelled once more, rising like a tide.

Scott rose beside her, face composed, and extended a hand. She took it, the moment both political and strangely personal—two people who had built a life, torn it apart, and now shared a nation’s weight instead of a home.

Peter leaned in slightly, murmuring, “You crushed it, boss.”

Emma smiled. “Let’s hope the country agrees.”

As the music began and the crowd surged around her, she made her way down the aisle—handshakes, congratulations, flashes. Somewhere near the back, Carol and Tony caught her eye, both nodding approvingly.

And at the edge of the press box, Jean stood, hands clasped, eyes bright with pride.

⸻

Backstage was chaos—staffers, security, press handlers, all buzzing with adrenaline. Emma was still half-dazed when Jubilee practically bounced into her path, phone in hand.

“Madam President! Twitter’s melting! You’re trending in twelve countries and even Sebastian Shaw’s press team is scrambling!”

Bobby followed close behind, grinning like a proud teacher. “You nailed it. That was the best address I’ve ever seen. Hell, you even made the moderates cheer for term limits!”

Emma smirked faintly, tugging the microphone from her lapel. “Let’s hope they’re still cheering in the morning.”

“Are you kidding?” Jubilee said. “You looked like you could singlehandedly rebuild the country and then host a gala.”

Bobby nodded, lowering his voice. “You had them, Emma. Even the ones who didn’t clap. They were listening.”

Emma exhaled slowly. “Then I suppose Jean’s notes were the right choice.”

Jubilee grinned knowingly. “Oh, totally. You two are like the dream team of emotional devastation.”

Emma shot her a look. “Careful, Ms. Lee.”

“Just saying,” Jubilee teased. “That warmth thing works.”

Bobby chuckled. “Warmth and fire. A perfect mix.”

Emma smiled faintly, shaking her head. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She glanced toward the far hall, where Jean was standing just outside the bustle, a quiet smile curving her lips. Their eyes met. Jean mouthed: Told you.

Emma allowed herself a rare, genuine grin. Then she reached into her jacket pocket. The note Jean had given her before the speech was still there, folded neatly. She unfolded it just enough to read the last line again.

You don’t need to sound presidential. You just need to sound like yourself.

 

That night, the West Wing had gone quiet. The applause, the camera flashes, the laughter, the handshakes—all had faded into memory and the faint hum of the air conditioning that marked the late hour. Emma Frost walked through the marble corridor alone, heels echoing against the polished floor, her reflection catching in each darkened window. The White House was vast and solemn at night, the kind of stillness that magnified every thought she had tried to set aside.

Her office was dim when she entered, the only light coming from the desk lamp by the window. Someone had left a crystal tumbler on her desk. Beneath it, a folded note.

Emma smiled as she approached.

The handwriting was elegant, confident, and immediately familiar.

Great job, Madam President.

No signature. No need.

Emma felt her lips tug upward despite herself. She poured a small laugh into the silence, shaking her head. “Of course,” she murmured. “Of course, it was her.”

She leaned against the edge of her desk for a moment, letting the weight of the night sink in. The adrenaline was fading, leaving exhaustion and a dull ache behind her eyes. What she wanted now wasn’t policy or posturing—it was quiet, and maybe a drink that didn’t come with judgment.

“Laura?” she called softly.

Within seconds, her Secret Service agent appeared at the door—ever watchful, unflappable in her dark suit. “Ma’am?”

“Fetch Ms. Grey for me, please,” Emma said, lifting the empty glass slightly. “And another glass while you’re at it. Oh—and the whiskey, the good one, in the locked cabinet.”

Laura blinked, clearly uncertain whether this was a test or a genuine request. “Understood, Madam President.”

She left without argument, though Emma could feel the faint disapproval radiating from her posture.

By the time Jean Grey arrived, the decanter gleamed like amber fire between two waiting glasses. Jean paused in the doorway, hesitant but smiling. She was still in her emerald dress from earlier, though her heels dangled from one hand. The other brushed a strand of auburn hair from her face.

“You wanted to see me, Madam President?”

Emma gestured toward the chair opposite her desk. “Drop the title, Ms. Grey. It’s after hours.”

Jean’s smile widened a touch as she stepped inside. “Then call me Jean.”

Emma tilted her head, watching her settle into the chair. “Jean, then.” She reached for the decanter and poured two fingers into each glass. “Whiskey?”

Jean’s eyes flickered with amusement. “You read my mind.”

“Careful,” Emma warned lightly, “that phrase has unfortunate associations when used around me.”

Jean laughed softly, taking the glass. “Noted.”

They clinked. “To surviving the State of the Union,” Emma said.

“And to making it sound like a love letter to democracy,” Jean added.

The first sip burned perfectly. Emma let it roll over her tongue, the warmth sliding down her throat like a reward earned. “You know,” she said, setting the glass down, “you may have saved that speech.”

Jean raised a brow. “I only… nudged it. You had the message all along, just buried under too many adjectives.”

Emma chuckled. “Adjectives are how politicians survive. Without them, we’d have to be honest.”

Jean leaned back, smiling into her glass. “You already are, in your way. That’s what makes people listen.”

They drank in companionable silence for a few moments. Outside, the city glimmered, Washington’s skyline stretching beneath a full moon.

Laura lingered by the door until Emma caught her eye. “That’ll be all, Laura. Go home.”

“Ma’am, protocol states that—”

“I’m the protocol,” Emma said gently. “Go. You deserve the night off.”

Laura’s mouth twitched in visible protest, but one look from Emma ended it. She gave a stiff nod and slipped out, closing the door behind her.

Emma exhaled. “She’s going to have a coronary one of these days if I keep doing that.”

Jean grinned. “She’s only trying to keep you alive. I can’t blame her. There’s a whole country depending on you.”

“And yet,” Emma said, refilling both glasses, “here I am depending on whiskey.”

“That’s democracy for you,” Jean teased. “Checks, balances, and coping mechanisms.”

Emma laughed then—a low, genuine sound. It had been a while since she’d laughed that way, not as a politician but as herself.

They sipped again, conversation loosening with the liquor.

Jean leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “You know, I think I have some gossip.”

“Oh?” Emma arched a perfectly shaped brow. “Do tell. The night is young, and the whiskey is excellent.”

Jean grinned. “I think Wanda and Natasha are… involved.”

Emma didn’t even blink. “I know.”

Jean’s eyes widened. “You know?”

“They requested a shared hotel room for the upcoming trip,” Emma said smoothly, lifting her glass. “And they have been practically glowing since the inauguration. As long as they keep their departments separate and disclose to HR, I couldn’t care less.”

Jean stared for a moment, then broke into laughter. “I should have known. Of course, you already knew.”

“I make it a point to know everything about everyone in my administration,” Emma said dryly. “It’s the only way to survive them.”

Jean took another sip, cheeks faintly flushed now. “Well, if that’s true… who else could be together?”

Emma narrowed her eyes playfully. “You’re half-drunk and dangerously curious. This could get you in trouble.”

“I’m already in trouble,” Jean said with mock solemnity, gesturing toward her empty glass. “I’m drinking with the President.”

Emma laughed, topping her up anyway. “Fine. Your move, Ms. Grey.”

Jean tapped a finger to her chin. “Let’s see. Carol and Fury?”

Emma nearly choked on her drink. “Good lord, no. Though I think Fury would rather wrestle a shark than date anyone from the Cabinet.”

“Stark and Fury, then?”

“Stark is married to his ego. And his company.”

Jean smirked. “Fair. What about Jubilee and Laura?”

Emma’s brows shot up. “My bodyguard and my social media expert?”

“Stranger things have happened in this building.”

Emma chuckled. “No. Laura barely tolerates human interaction outside of protecting me.”

Jean hummed thoughtfully. “Hank and Anna-Marie?”

“Anna-Marie is very happily married to a Louisiana lobbyist named Remy,” Emma replied, smiling. “And they are nauseatingly adorable.”

Jean’s grin widened. “Laura and Celeste?”

Emma almost spat out her drink. “My daughter is seventeen, Jean. So hell no.”

Jean giggled, leaning her head into her hand. “Just checking.”

Emma gave her a mock glare. “Don’t make me have your background check amended for ‘poor taste in jokes.’”

Jean raised her glass in surrender. “Alright, alright. What about Laura and Lorna?”

Emma paused. “Those names together would be horrible. Laurna?”

Jean burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s dreadful. Sounds like a pharmaceutical brand.”

“Exactly.” Emma smirked. “If they ever do end up together, I’ll insist one of them legally change their name.”

The two of them laughed until the sound softened into comfortable silence again. The bottle had dwindled by half. Emma felt warmth spreading through her—whiskey and laughter both.

When she glanced up, Jean was watching her. The lamplight caught in Jean’s hair, in the freckles that dotted her skin, in the way her eyes seemed to soften whenever Emma spoke.

Emma suddenly felt the air grow warmer. Or maybe that was just the whiskey.

Jean looked away first, clearing her throat. “This has been… really nice, you know. Thank you for including me. For trusting me with the speech. For this.”

Emma smiled, slow and deliberate. “You earned it, Jean. You reminded me what I was fighting for.”

Jean’s gaze lifted, meeting hers again. “You make it easy to believe in.”

The words lingered between them, tender and dangerously close to something unspoken.

Emma glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight. She straightened slightly, forcing composure back into her posture. “As much as I’ve enjoyed this little rebellion against professionalism,” she said, “I should get some rest before tomorrow.”

Jean nodded, setting her glass down. “Of course.”

Emma hesitated, then added, “Take the day off tomorrow. And start packing for rain.”

Jean blinked. “Rain?”

“The European trip,” Emma said, leaning back in her chair. “You’re joining us on Air Force One. I’d rather not have my best communications aide crammed in coach with tabloids.”

Jean’s lips parted in surprise, then curved into a smile. “That’s… generous of you.”

Emma shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Purely pragmatic. You’ve earned the place.”

Jean stood, smoothing her dress. “Thank you, Madam Presi—Emma.”

Emma looked up at her from her seat, a faint smile still tugging at her mouth. “Good night, Jean.”

“Good night, Emma.”

Jean hesitated for a heartbeat, then turned and walked to the door. Emma watched her go—the movement of her hair, the way she balanced the grace of exhaustion with quiet confidence. When the door finally closed, Emma exhaled softly.

The whiskey glass was half-full in her hand, and the note still lay beneath the other. She lifted it once more, running her thumb over the words.

Great job, Madam President.

She smiled to herself, set the glass down, and turned off the lamp.

The city outside was sleeping. The White House, for a moment, felt almost like a home.