The White House doesn't burn with flames. It burns with whispers.
They're louder than bullets.
And right now, they're all saying the same thing: my father is finished.
I stand on the mezzanine of the East Wing, where the air always smells like cold marble and men in $10,000 suits. Below me, aides move like a swarm. Phones pressed to ears, folders clutched like weapons, eyes twitching toward every door.
This isn't just the aftermath of chaos. This is the birth of a political war.
And I'm standing in the center of it, wearing bruises like armor and secrets like perfume.
Killian hasn't spoken since we returned. He's been watching the windows like they breathe. He thinks someone is coming.
I think someone already has.
"Have you heard?" Eva whispers from behind a pillar, her laptop tucked under one arm. "Your uncle just filed Article 25 proceedings."
I blink. "What?"
She nods. "Declaring your father mentally unfit for office. The Cabinet's voting. Tonight."
