"What book? Are you a writer?" The young tour guide looked at Bella with enthusiastic eyes. This girl was so beautiful.
Unlike Natasha's beauty—a blend of wild and sultry—Bella's appearance was more refined. Her extensive reading also gave her an exceptionally calm temperament.
If their income levels were similar, the young guide felt he could work up the courage to try pursuing her! At least that's what he thought.
Thank God, someone finally asked this question. After waiting over ten minutes, Bella had been dying to show off!
Feigning embarrassment, she pointed to The Da Vinci Code in one tourist's hands. "That's the book I wrote."
Everyone's eyes focused on the book in the tourist's hand.
Several tourists never read at all. Since graduating from school, they probably hadn't touched a book in twenty or thirty years. They'd never heard of The Da Vinci Code! They probably didn't even know who Da Vinci was.
But the other tourists—those who looked like students, and the two who appeared to be middle-class spouses—seemed to have read or at least heard of the book.
They didn't bow down in worship, but their gazes held a trace of respect. To write a bestseller at this age and earn millions—calling her a genius wasn't an exaggeration.
Charlie and Samantha were also proud. See that? My daughter!
The young guide quickly scanned the tourist list. His heart sank. He was self-aware enough to realize the income gap was far too large. There was no chance!
"That's truly an impressive achievement. I hope the White House will occupy an important place in your book... Please follow me, everyone!" The young guide quickly collected himself, focusing his attention back on his work.
He occasionally threw out questions, like how many years ago the White House was built, or how many rooms it contained.
These questions weren't difficult. Never mind Bella, a history major honor student—even Natasha knew the answers.
But showing off should be done in moderation. Neither of them planned to flaunt such superficial knowledge in front of a bunch of random people. The young guide's questions were all answered by a ten-year-old girl in a green jacket and white pants.
A sharp-eyed young man with a military bearing stood beside the little girl.
Bella looked at him carefully twice. He didn't seem like a tourist. Could he be...
She quickly dismissed the random thoughts. Though American presidents often seemed to get kidnapped, assassinated, or impersonated by aliens, villains, and all sorts of bizarre characters in this world, there were still plenty of people protecting the president. There was no need for her, a mere writer, to worry about it.
At that moment, a group descended from the second-floor staircase—men and women, all in sharp suits with outstanding bearing. Leading them was a Black man.
This was the current most unfortunate person—the sitting U.S. President, James Sawyer, a Black president Bella had never heard of in her previous life.
The entire group carried an arrogant air, that elite mentality of the world can't turn without us. Even from thirty meters away, Bella could feel it radiating from them.
Their family of four showed no excitement or thrill at seeing the American president. Completely normal, like seeing any random person.
The little girl in the green jacket, however, was thrilled. She took photos and excitedly asked questions. Seemingly to demonstrate his approachability, President James Sawyer kindly bent down to chat with her for a few moments.
The tour group soon separated from the president's entourage. The leaders went off to handle their important matters while Bella and the other idle folks continued their sightseeing.
They took a thirty-minute break, with several people using the restrooms. The remaining tourists followed the established route to an exhibition hall displaying some of the White House's paintings and collections. Among these were personal collections from various presidents that remained at the White House after they left office, while other pieces came from donations by wealthy benefactors.
The hall contained full-length portraits of Washington and his wife by Gilbert Stuart, portraits of past presidents and First Ladies representing different artistic periods and the painters' individual characteristics.
The White House held over sixty thousand paintings and art pieces, including works by masters like Van Gogh and Cézanne. It was essentially a museum, though tourists could only see a tiny fraction of the collection. Want to see everything? Run for president or become the White House's art collection director!
"At that time, Founding Father Washington stood at the window and said to everyone..." The young guide eloquently described the historical stories in the paintings.
Many tourists, including Charlie, listened with rapt attention.
The more Bella listened, the more irritated she became. Thinking about the huge personal income tax she had to pay, she grumbled internally. Sure, the founding fathers talked about freedom and democracy, but at the end of the day, she still had to pay through the nose in taxes. History books could romanticize it all they wanted—she knew what really mattered was the bottom line on her tax return.
"Watch it—your expression!" Natasha elbowed her in the side.
"Oh! Ahem." Bella quickly coughed twice, suppressing her thoughts of burning down the White House, and resumed her scholarly demeanor...
"This painting was President Jefferson's favorite piece..." The young guide Donnie was still talking when suddenly the ground beneath his feet shook violently. He was about to step forward when the sudden tremor made him stumble. Fortunately, Charlie beside him caught him.
An earthquake? Before he could figure out what was happening, Bella, Natasha, and that military-looking man all turned toward the window simultaneously.
Only then did the sound of the explosion reach their ears.
A tremendous "BOOM!" followed immediately by wailing sirens from all directions. The explosion site wasn't far. Bella estimated it came from the direction of the Capitol building.
Due to the angle, they could only see thick smoke rising into the sky from the window. Whether it was a bomb, missile, or plane crash was impossible to determine.
Alarms blared throughout the White House as waves of agents in black suits and white shirts rushed from their rooms. They moved with drilled precision, forming layered defensive positions. Two cold-eyed agents received orders and firmly guarded the exhibition hall door, preventing Bella's group from leaving.