The slight squeak of the suspension sent a wave of nausea through you. Your stomach churned as you looked down at your hands, desperate to focus on anything but the bobbing world outside the windows.
Your hands were stained with blood.
Tears welled in your eyes as you gripped Kamala's suit tightly, trying to stay as close to her as possible while they wheeled her away. But you'd been separated.
At some point, her sister had to drag you away.
Your memory was fragmented.
You remember looking up at her, then throwing yourself forward, covering your ears against the deafening noise.
People screamed. Chaos erupted around you.
You climbed the steps and saw her lying there, dying.
They pulled you away, but you fought against them, screaming at the top of your lungs, rushing back to her side. Your hands gripped her suit, as if somehow you could pull the pain away from her.
Before you even realized it, the area was cleared. It was just you, the agents, and Kamala's unconscious body, all packed together as sirens wailed in the distance. You heard someone speak.
"Jessica?" A familiar voice cut through the silence in the car. You looked up, wide-eyed, bracing yourself for whatever was coming next.
You had no answers.
"Jessica, I- I'm glad Kamala met you... Please, don't blame yourself. No one could have stopped this. No one knew." Maya, Kamala's sister, spoke softly, offering you a faint smile. Her nieces clung to her side, their faces hidden.
Your breath hitched as you struggled to respond.
"Th-thank you," you whispered, your mind spinning with thoughts, trying to make sense of it all.
"No one knew." You both understood that now.
You feel like an intruder, sitting in this limo, being driven to who knows where, while Kamala is rushed to the hospital. You should be with her—it was your job, wasn't it? But what was your job? If she dies, what will happen to you? They'll blame you.
"Miss Rose, we'd like you to come inside the hospital. We aren't aware of any specific threats against you or President Harris's family, but it's safer if you're inside," a man's voice cuts through your thoughts. You blink, realizing the limo is empty, just you in your blood stained white shirt, your eyes red, hands still smeared with blood.
"W-where are we?" you ask, glancing around at the man beside you. You see the hospital entrance, paparazzi lined up along the path, cameras clicking and flashbulbs going off every second.
"Sea View," he says, reaching out a steady hand.
You take it, and as he helps you out of the limo, you take a deep breath, grounding yourself as your feet hit the pavement. The paparazzi's attention snaps to you, your breath catching, skin turning cold.
"Miss Rose! Are you aware of Miss Harris's condition?"
"Was this a staged attack, as Trump is claiming?"
"Miss Rose, do you have any information about the event?"
"Miss Rose, is it true there were threats before the inauguration, and you and Miss Harris knew but went ahead anyway?"
That last question knocks the wind out of you. As you walk past them, one reporter's face is stern, but their eyes gleam, waiting for an answer, a camera following your every move. You try to resist the urge to look back.
"Keep moving, Miss Rose," the agent says, placing a gentle hand on your back as they guide you inside.
The questions keep coming, relentless, but you keep your head down, moving forward. The cool outdoor air gives way to the warm interior of the hospital. Agents are scattered throughout the check-in area, their heads constantly turning, hands to their ears as they listen to updates through their earpieces.
You sit in one of the chairs by the wall-length glass windows. Kamala's family is seated on one side of the room, while Tim and you sit silently on the other
You try to ignore the people banging on the glass, and pressing their cameras against it. Their muffled screams and constant questions being heard even through the sliding doors as they opened and closed with more agents came rushing in.
It seemed like the whole military was coming.
You cross your legs and lean back in your chair, breathing slow and rhythmic. The tear had already dried on your face.
You all sit there in silence for three maybe five minutes, before the screams intensify, your head shoots up to the window and so does everyone else. You all try to see through the people standing in front of the window, but you can barely make out what they're focused on now.
You feel yourself rising to your feet, moving without thinking, your head begins to turn away when you see the distinct color of her suit for a mere second passing by the people outside. Agents are rushing to the door, you feel a hand wrap around your arm, holding you in place.
Your legs feel like jelly beneath you.
"Jessica, you don't need to see her like that" You hear the warm accent of Tim wash over you as he tries to lead you away, but before you can even turn your hips, you see her face.
Her eyes are shut, face pale, and arms held to her sides by the restraints of the gurney. Your heart stops, your legs give out, and you almost hit the ground.
He catches you.
You look away from her, time slowed just enough to catch the disheveled appearance of everyone involved, their location around her. Their focus.
"WE ARE LOSING HER?!" You hear one of the paramedics shout to an approaching doctor.
Their faces are glistened over with sweat, their sleeves rolled up as far as possible, their shirts slightly discolored pink, and their expressions an overwhelming mix of fear, and urgency.
They stop for a moment as doctors and nurses move swiftly to replace the paramedics.
You hadn't registered it until now, but there was one sitting atop Kamala. Their hands pushing into her chest relentlessly, her blazer and shift wide open, pads attached to her chest that had long since been disconnected, her hair a mess across her face and head.
The medic quickly moved away as a nurse took over and the other began to push her along further into the hospital.
Your blood was cold, and your eyes were wide, your breath came in short gasps and your mouth hung slightly open attempting to muster up something to say. But you can't, you can only cry.
"Jessica?" You hear as you quickly find your footing, you'd forgotten you had yourself pressed against Time for support
"Y-yes" You respond still not looking at him, You wanted to scream, but you couldn't
"Jessica, we need you to sit down, the paparazzi already have enough photos of you like this, they don't need more!" He said leading you back to your seat, you would turn any other direction than the one you had been facing, so as you went step by step the click of your heels echoed off the high walls electing the attention of the small group of people standing where Kamala had just been
You sit down and sink back into your seat, your mouth was dry, and your eyes felt like sandpaper as you blinked, hoping it would wake you up.
'She lost a lot of blood, we had to use the AED on the way here, she had a heartbeat, thankfully, but it's weak....'
'How many bullets'
'Two, a responder in the incident retrieved these from the scream'
You can hear the rustling of a small plastic back, you turn slightly to glance and then look away once you see them. Horror shoots through your body.
Long and golden, is all you can make out, the heads of them flattened by impact.
'Lethal if she had been struck anywhere else...'
You know what they mean.
'Where exactly was she struck'
'Upper right chest, lung collapsed, and the other wasn't exactly noticed until we were almost here. The second bullet must have struck her as she was falling, it struck her just below her left lung.'
There was a silence for a moment, you let your hand fall forwards as you tried to stifle your cries. You don't know if Tim, her sister, or her nieces can hear this too, but you hope not.
'How are her odds?'
That question hits you like a match struck against flint. Your head snaps up, pupils shrinking, and a chill runs through your veins. Your fingertips tingle with numbness. If this were fight or flight, you'd be rocketing into the sky, ready to explode.
"Jessica!" Maya's voice calls from across the room. She's gesturing for you to calm down. You glance around, noticing her nieces asleep, a surprising but slight comfort. To your left, Tim sits slouched in his chair, head bowed, eyes shut, his hands clasped in a silent prayer.
Not good—if they can't stop the bleeding...
"Oh God," you mutter, burying your face in your hands. It wasn't what you wanted to do, but with the paparazzi still snapping pictures outside, it felt like the only option.
"Kamala's strong... She'll pull through. She won't leave the people she cares about."
You begin to rock back and forth as your breathing quickens. The room spins, a cacophony of sounds adding to the ringing in your ears. Your fingers tug at your hair, and you stifle small whimpers as the tears start to flow.
You're a grown woman, breaking down in front of a hundred people whose job it is to capture your most vulnerable, humiliating moments. But at that moment, you couldn't care less. Nothing mattered except Kamala.
Especially when you knew you could have stopped it. All you had to do was send those notes to the security team.
NINE DAYS EARLIER
"Kamala, we can't just ignore this. We need to send these to the security team! Who knows what could happen?" you say, waving the ten pages in your hand.
"Jessica, I know they're scary, but I won't let them postpone this historic moment," Kamala replies. "I don't want the history books to say, 'The first female president had to postpone her inauguration to January 21st because of a threat against her life.' I want it to say, 'The first female president was sworn in on January 20th.' See the difference?" Her stubbornness shows.
You couldn't understand why she wouldn't put her safety first, even if she wanted a traditional inauguration.
"Kamala, these aren't just empty threats! These are literal plans. They've outlined exactly how they'll do it! Did you not see the one showing the angle they need to shoot at to kill you?" you exclaim, pacing in front of her desk.
"Yes, Jessica, I saw the plans. And trust me, they do nothing to calm my nerves. But I won't let them stop me. Sure, they're detailed, but they'll never work. Do you know why?" Kamala pauses, looking up from her book.
"Why?" you ask, meeting her gaze, you're pacing halting, arms crossed with frustration.
"Because the security team has every location covered. And besides, I have you. You wouldn't let me get shot, would you?" She flips her book over and slowly stands from her chair, moving toward you.
Your breath catches at the subtle change in her eyes.
"No, I wouldn't, but it's not up to me, Kamala! You need to listen. These plans might be fake, and maybe I'm being overly cautious, but what if they're real? You could be in serious danger! Don't you think your life is more important than some stupid inauguration?" The words rush out as you resume pacing, glancing from the ceiling to the floor until you realize what you've said.
Silence fills the room. Did you go too far? You wonder if you've made her angry, or if she's unsure how to respond.
You turn around slowly, facing the bookcase. Kamala is no longer at her desk. She's standing just inches away, slightly off to the side. You freeze.
"Stupid?" she whispers, her voice low and deliberate. "Or are you just too scared to take a risk?"
"I didn't mean that," you stammer, stepping back, but her hand grips your arm, holding you in place.
"No, you meant it, and I'm not mad. I actually appreciate it. You're speaking your mind, and you need to start doing that more often. It's incredibly hot, and good practice for when we're in the White House." Her voice softens as she pulls you closer, eliminating the space between you.
"So, will you send the papers to the security team?" you ask, hoping to sway her.
"No, Jessica. I won't, no matter what you say. I've been threatened before—assault, kidnapping, even death. These people are deranged, but they never follow through. I know you're worried about me, and I'm grateful for that. But you're also worried Trump might stir something up, right?" Her hands gently circle your waist, her tone confident. You try to steady yourself as the tension rises.
"No! What does Trump have to do with this?" You feel her body press closer, her warmth enveloping you, the scent of her perfume making your heart race.
"Maybe he'll stir things up on X again, claiming the attack was staged. Or if something actually happens, he'll downplay it. Is that what you're trying to avoid?" Kamala's voice was a soft hum as she gently brushed your hair aside and kissed your neck.
Your breath hitched, and you arched slightly, but you pulled back—not out of rejection, but out of urgency.
"Kamala, please, take this seriously. I don't want to see you hurt." You pleaded, holding the crumpled papers out again, hoping she'd reconsider.
"Jessica! Don't give those papers to anyone. I don't care what happens. If someone wants to get me, they will. But I'm not postponing the inauguration. No matter what, I'm being sworn in on January 20th. Not the 21st, not the 22nd. The 20th!" Her voice was firm as she snatched the papers from your hand, locked them in a drawer, and turned away.
You stood frozen, anger and worry swirling inside you, but unable to act. Tears welled in your eyes as her determination crushed any hope of changing her mind.
She sighed softly, turning back toward you, her expression now gentle. She walked closer, her hands resting on your arms with a comforting touch.
"Jessica, I'm sorry if I upset you. But this is the most important day of my life. I'm breaking traditions and defying expectations. I can't let this moment slip away, even if it means risking everything." Her faint smile tried to soothe you.
"I love you, Jessica. I know I'm asking for more than you want to give, but just this once, don't do what you think would save me." Her eyes met yours, her voice soft and pleading.
Your heart raced.
She was asking you to compromise everything. To go against your instincts, your duty, your profession. These last two months had been a blur, your relationship with her shifting in ways you never anticipated. Everyone knew now—you had something real with her. But now she was asking you to abandon the very thing that held your careers together.
You'd done everything by the book. Given your speech, stood by her side, knowing it was what would protect both of you.
But you loved her.
"Be my partner, Jessica, not my employee," her words echoed in your mind, your heart pounding in your chest.
"O-okay," you whispered, your voice barely audible.
Kamala pulled you into a tight embrace, her body warm against yours. You melted into her, clinging to her shirt as her familiar scent filled your senses, silencing the chaos in your mind.
You wanted to cry, but you couldn't. Heat flared through you, but your thoughts raced, torn between love and duty.
What was she doing to you?
"Kamala, please..." you breathed, unsure what you were asking for, unsure of anything anymore.
"Jessica, I just need this from you. Just this once... I require you to be on my side," she whispered, her voice trembling with a rare vulnerability.
Your instincts screamed at you to take the key and retrieve those papers, but you didn't. You stood frozen, her lips finding the tender spot on your neck. Her intoxicating scent wrapped around you like a spell.
"I'll never ask you to do anything you don't want again... trust me," she murmured, her kisses trailing lower, her hands exploring your body with more urgency than before.
Before you could react, her hands tore at the buttons of your shirt, the fabric ripping apart with a sharp sound. You gasped, your heart pounding as her hands claimed your body.
Her grip tightened around you, her lips teasing yours as she whispered, "What do you want me to do to make this up to you?" Her tongue brushed against yours, stealing your breath as you struggled to respond.
You wanted her, needed her, but the thought of those papers flashed in the back of your mind.
"You..." you moaned breathlessly, your words lost in the haze of desire. You opened your eyes to find her staring back, her gaze filled with raw hunger.
Her hands roamed your body, her thigh pressing between your legs, intensifying the heat growing inside you. "Say it again, properly. What's my title?" Her command was clear, leaving no room for hesitation. Her fingers gripped your hair, tugging your head back with enough force to make you arch into her.
You gasped as her thigh pushed harder against you, your hands gripping her sleeves as her body moved against yours. Her lips found your neck again, trailing downward as she began exploring your exposed skin.
"Say it, or I'll make you say it," she whispered, her breath hot against your chest as she continued her slow, deliberate path.
"I want you, Madam President!" you cried out, the words escaping your lips as a wave of pleasure surged through you. Her grinding intensified, and your legs wrapped tightly around her in response.
"Good girl, that's how you talk to me," she purred, her voice sultry and low.
Her words alone were enough to send you over the edge, but you gasped for air, struggling to keep up with the sensations overwhelming your body. Your arms weakened, your back arching further as she released her hold on your hair. You collapsed against her, resting your forehead on her shoulder, trembling as you tried to regain control.
Your mind was spinning, a mix of pleasure and confusion clouding your thoughts. You never saw yourself as someone who enjoyed this kind of power dynamic, but with her, everything felt different.
"Just imagine us after the inauguration... I'll show you something even more special," she whispered into your ear, sending shivers down your spine as you clung to her.
Before you realized it, your body had already surrendered, your legs shaking as a warm, slick sensation spread between them. You released a high-pitched moan, barely able to catch your breath.
Kamala held you close, her hand caressing your back as you came down from the intense high. But something felt off. The papers—the thought of them kept creeping into your mind. And the tears you had held back finally spilled over.
"Let's get ready for dinner," she said, holding you as you both left the office. As you walked through the door, you glanced back at the desk, where the key lay untouched.
A sinking feeling settled in your stomach. You couldn't shake the dread of what might happen next.
JANUARY 20th, 2025
You're still sitting there in the hospital waiting room, the sterile smell mingling with the cries of families grieving their loved ones. Every sob, every gasp of shock only tightens the knot in your chest. You can't shake the feeling that all of this is your fault.
You were supposed to protect her. You had the papers, the key, the chance to stop this—and you didn't.
Hours have passed since the shooting, and you've replayed the scene over and over in your mind, wondering why you didn't just go back for the papers, why you let her convince you to leave it alone. You were weak. With her. Without her. Always caught between what you knew you should do and what she asked of you.
She had told you to leave it, to trust her, and you did—against your better judgment. Your job was to keep her safe, and you had failed her in the worst way imaginable. Now, the woman you had loved for so long lay in a hospital bed, fighting for her life.
The news channels had aired the footage over and over. Kamala Harris, shot during the inauguration ceremony, crumpling to the ground as chaos erupted around her. You'd tried to scrub the image from your mind, but it kept replaying—her body falling, the screams, the blood.
You glanced at the clock. 11:49 p.m. The ceremony had started that morning, but time had lost all meaning since then. You couldn't even bring yourself to think about what would happen next. Maya had gone home earlier, taking her exhausted daughters with her, but not before sharing a long, silent hug with you. You wondered how she would explain it to them.
Tim sat next to you, as silent as you were, both of you chain-smoking outside earlier but unable to find words now. What could you say? There was nothing to say. You both knew this was a mess neither of you could fix, and the guilt weighed heavier than the air in the room. He hadn't blamed you outright, but the look in his eyes had said enough. He knew you had the chance to stop this.
You hated yourself for it.
You'd stayed still staring down into your hands, sometimes scratching at them but stopping once the sound began to alert Tim.
"Jessica, I know this must be hard for you, but you should get some sleep, I mean you've been up with Harris all night working out the plans for today. You deserve a break" He says as he lean in close to you
Your eyes fall softly shut as you try to reckon with those words.
"No, no, this is my fault..." You say, putting your hand out almost to defend yourself, but you grasp at the air and lift your bloodshot eyes to meet his
His expression is beyond concern as you stare at him, tears flowing freely along your face
"No, Jessica, this was something none of us knew was going to happen... This isn't your fault, this isn't anyone's fault!" He said, trying to give a hardy laugh in hopes to lift your spirit
You're reminded of Kamala.
"Yes we did! I knew and should have stopped this!" You exclaim to the room around you as you jump from your seat to walk out of the sliding doors
Most of the mob had left, but some still lingered, loitering or camping out in their cars. The flash of cameras, the whispers, the prying eyes—none of it mattered anymore. All you wanted was for this nightmare to end. The cold night air hit you like a tidal wave, and as your heels wobbled on the uneven pavement, you took a deep breath and stood there, shivering slightly.
You heard Tim's footsteps approaching quickly behind you.
"Jessica, come back inside, please," he pleaded, glancing around nervously as reporters continued to record and snap photos.
But you didn't care.
"No! I'm not going to sit in there and pretend like this couldn't have been avoided!" you hissed, your voice low but sharp with anger as you turned to face him. You were careful, though, not to let the full truth spill.
"Jessica, please, you have to understand—"
"NO! I UNDERSTAND PERFECTLY WELL THAT THIS WAS AVOIDABLE, IF—" you began, but your words caught in your throat when you saw a doctor scanning the room for someone.
Your face went blank, and without another word, your heels clicked again as you strode purposefully back into the hospital.
"Miss Rose, correct?" the doctor asked as you approached hastily. They eyed your disheveled appearance, your blood-stained clothes, but their voice was steady.
"Yes?" you replied, breathless. Tim was huffing behind you, struggling to keep up.
"Miss Rose, we have good news. Miss Harris is stable. She's on pain medication and is awake, though very out of it right now. The bullets went through cleanly, and the damage was fixable. For now, she'll need to stay here, or we can arrange for her transfer to another facility." The doctor smiled, resting a reassuring hand on your shoulder.
The words "we have good news" sent a wave of excitement through you, but not relief. It wasn't until they said "the damage was fixable" that your body finally relaxed. Your jaw unclenched, your breathing slowed, and you felt your heart return to a more normal rhythm. Behind you, Tim let out a long sigh of relief.
"Thank you. C-can we see her?" you asked, your heart pounding again, now with anticipation.
The doctor hesitated slightly. "Considering her condition, it's best if only one person sees her right now, to avoid overwhelming her."
You turned to Tim, silently asking if he wanted to go in. His look told you all you needed to know.
"I'd like to see her," you said quietly, and the doctor nodded, leading you toward the room.
Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Each step felt heavier, bringing you closer to Kamala. Relief washed over you, but it was tinged with a deep, suffocating guilt. You had done what she asked, and now she was lying in a hospital bed because of it. If you hadn't listened, maybe things would've been different. Possibly she wouldn't have been shot. But now, this was your reality.
As you walked deeper into the hospital, passing more and more empty rooms, you noticed how secluded they had placed her. It was as if they were hiding her away from the world. Finally, you reached a set of doors guarded by two agents, their postures rigid, their expressions tense.
"Are you sure you're okay seeing her like this?" one of them asked, their hand resting on the door handle, ready to open it.
The question hit you harder than expected. You hadn't thought about what state she might be in.
"Y-yes," you replied, your voice faltering for a moment but regaining firmness. The agent nodded and opened the door, stepping aside as you entered alone.
They didn't follow.
Inside, the room was quiet except for the steady beep of monitors. There she was—Kamala, lying in the hospital bed, her face pale but peaceful, her eyes closed as if resting.
Your heart twisted. You had never seen her like this, so vulnerable, so still. You wanted to run to her, hold her, tell her how sorry you were. But your feet felt glued to the floor, your guilt keeping you rooted to the spot.
You weren't sure if you could handle seeing her like this.
But still you persisted forwards, your hand reaching out to touch hard as you stood to the side of her, staring down with weary eyes, as her own fluttered open.
You smile slightly seeing the familiar brown hue shine in the light, she tries to smile, but the mask obstructs her efforts momentarily.
"Jess..." She manages out as you shake your head and move closer to her
"Yeah! It's me, you're okay now I promise" You say, wanting nothing more than to dig into her for being here like this
She lowers her eyes lids and her smile dulls as she notices the slight shake in your voice as your eyes roam from her downwards to her exposed chest, barely hidden beneath the blanket.
"Are you thinking about those papers" She said after a deep breath in, her nostrils flaring as you squeeze her hand tighter
"Yes... I shouldn't have listened! I-I" You began before she struggled to bring her other hand around to you, you move to support her arm
"No. You didn't do anything wrong, you did what you were told, I was too jaded by trying to make history to think about our safety. God knows what else might have happened" She said as she tugged slightly at your arms beckoning you in for a hug
You lean down, being careful not to squeeze her too tightly or press yourself into her. She's warm, and you can hear her labored breathing. It tugs at your heart as you pull away, your heart refusing to allow yourself a moment of rest.
"What happens now?" you ask, wondering if there was something else that would be done, she thinks for a moment before she responds.
"They do an investigation, the news reports on everything they can until they can't say anything else, we take the— Whitehorse once I'm cleared, then we run this country..." She says, her voice slipping slightly as she fends off a cough
You don't smile at her, you just stare.
"Jessica, I told you to do the wrong thing, I knew the risk and I have to deal with the consequences. Be happy no one else got hurt, and I'm still here?" She said almost as a suggestion as you kept looking down at her face
She was trying to put a smile on her face for you.
"Kamala please don't do anything stupid again" You said as you sat down on the edge of the bed, still holding her hand as you tilted your head and smiled, she followed suit cocking her head to match yours with a smile
You laugh as she joins in.
"Jessica, I have to ask you something"
"Anything..." You respond without hesitation, the way she looked laid up in their bed did so much to your heart, how could you refuse her
"Be my girlfriend?" She said as a matter of fact but still a question
You freeze for a moment, you can tell she can feel your hands growing clammy, and you could have sworn she could see the redness beneath your color
Her smile grew wider as you parted your lips to answer, but nothing came but a low scream.
"Jessica? Earth to Jessica?" She said laughing heartily but stopping once pain shot through her side silencing her taunt
"Yes?!" You respond throwing yourself into her, but you stop just before you collide with her, You remember where you are and look up at her, her eyes lively
"Just wait until I can get out of this bed" She growls as she pushes herself upwards slightly to kiss you
As your lips meet hers, you don't care that her mouth is dry, or you can taste your own tears on her lips. You were just scared that you could kiss her.
You laugh as you pull away, unsure what to do with yourself, you want to run around the room like a middle schooler who has had their first kiss.
"Jessica, go to my home, get those papers and send them over to Jackie, I think she can figure out how to spin a story from them. Get some rest, don't talk to the press, and please don't blame yourself" She says, pulling your hand to close the distance.
You nod as you slowly leave her in the room, as you exit the room you shut the door softly and begin through the hospital hallways.
Finally, You reach the waiting room and give Tim a silent nod as he stands up to go back there himself. You can see a bright smile on his face, he can tell everything is well by how much your demeanor has shifted.
As you walk through the doors of the hospital, you still notice the same people standing outside, but this time they're lined back up along the path of the entrance, cameras at the ready. The very moment that your foot touches the pavement, their attention snaps to you and their barrage of questions become nearly deafening as you can feel your phone vibrate in your pocket.
You stop mid-stride and reach into your jacket, pulling your phone from it.
You look down, eyes squinting to read the blaring illuminated words on the screen. Your heart drops when you see the multiple notifications rolling in from X (My hammer tool want to be correct in all)
You click one of the notifications in a desperate bid to figure out what was happening, you couldn't make out what any of them were saying before they disappeared, replaced by a new one.
The page loads with a sicking slowness, fear building in your chest as you saw Trumps profile picture appear.
Then the rest loads, your eyes quickly scan the text, catching on the words DEAD.
Your blood begins to boil, and your mind draws a blank. You don't even realize that you're just standing in the middle of a walkaway into a hospital while people are taking pictures of you and shouting questions at you.
Honestly, you don't care.
A black SUV pulled up in front of you, looked up from your phone and watch it's an agent hops out and opens the back door for you, you hop inside and sit down putting your seatbelt on. you don't know where they've been told to take you, but you don't honestly care, as long as it's somewhere where you can ask someone how the hell this happened.
" Miss Rose, we've been instructed to take you back to Miss Harris's home. Is that correct?" the x is one of them turns around in their seat to stare at you
you shake your head and then turn back around without a second word you look out the window watching you drive past the exterior of the hospital
something was brewing inside of you. It wasn't fear or anxiety, it was frustration.
you were already fed up with the situation as a whole, Kamala had it if I sent and now you were here. you already won and there was no going back now, but it seemed like every single chance that you had to really enjoy the moment it was taken away from you, but at least it wasn't.
this time it was how you were going to flip all of this on his head without exposing yourself.
That was the biggest thing in your mind Kamala said that it wasn't your fault Tim said it wasn't your fault, hell even her sister Maya said it wasn't your fault.
Anger twisted in your chest as you be in scrolling through the replies of the post.
As you scroll through the replies to Trump's post, the anger surges through your veins. Every comment you read adds to the fire already burning inside you. There are the expected cheers from his supporters, gloating about Kamala's so-called "faked assassination," claiming it was all a political ploy. They threw insults at her, saying she was "done for," and that "even death couldn't save her reputation."
But there are some who have some common sense.
The posts doubting Kamala's sincerity are the worst. It's the people taking Trump's words seriously, running with the absurd notion that the whole ordeal was a setup—that Kamala somehow orchestrated this nightmare just to gain sympathy.
You feel on the verge of exploding, your grip on the phone so tight that your knuckles are white. It's not just the public reaction; it's the thought of Kamala lying in that hospital bed, possibly reading these accusations, while she should be resting and recovering.
As the SUV turns a corner and approaches her home, you wonder how you'll explain this mess to her. How will you tell her that the world is spinning a story of betrayal, lies, and political theater, while she's barely had a moment to breathe? You know her well enough to realize she'll find out eventually—everyone always does.
Unable to take it any longer, you turn off your phone and stare out the window, watching the city lights blur past. Frustration mingles with guilt. You hadn't been able to protect her from this—neither the shooting nor the media frenzy, nor the online hatred that followed.
What would Kamala do now? What would you do?
The car pulls up to Kamala's home. As you wrap your fingers around her keys, you wait for the agent to open the door. Stepping out of the car, you lead the way to the front door and unlock it. The agents wait outside, keeping the door slightly open.
The eerie silence of the empty house unsettles you. You remember the code to her office and walk past the kitchen, heat rising in your core as you recall that night, though the feeling quickly dissipates as you focus on the task at hand.
Reaching the slightly ajar office door, you push it open, finding the room empty. You enter and retrieve the key from her desk, your unease growing as you bend down to grab the papers.
As you gather the thin stack, you feel a sudden, sharp urge to leave immediately. Ignoring it, you lay the papers out on the desk, arranging them, so your camera can capture every detail. You hover your phone over the documents and take several pictures. Turning on the desk lamp, you snap a few more shots before selecting the photos in your camera roll and sending them to the campaign group chat.
Footsteps echo down the hallway.
"Happy Jackie, look at these. Send them out, post them, and see if this connects to Trump!" you text urgently, your heart pounding as the footsteps draw nearer. Just as you finish and begin putting the papers back in the desk, a shadow falls ominously on the floor.
"Miss Rose, are you in here?" a voice calls from behind the door, low and menacing. They know you're inside.
You freeze, terror gripping you as the sound of metal clinking against fabric reaches your ears.
"Miss Rose, I won't ask again. Are you in there?" the voice demands, blunt and cold. Your mouth goes dry as you spot the shadow of a gun on the floor.
"Y-yes..." you stammer, your phone dropping to the desk among the papers. Your hand shoots up as the door opens, and a figure with a gun steps in.
Tears blur your vision as you back away slowly, your breathing rapid. The gun's position is unclear, but you know it's pointed at you.
"Scream, and I'll blow your face off," the intruder threatens, pressing you against the fireplace. The door remains open, and you realize they must have been inside before you and the Secret Service arrived.
Your mind races with three choices: let this person do what they want, make a run for it, or scream for help. Each option weighs heavily on you, but only one seems to ensure you won't get shot if you comply.
Could you make it to the door?
Call for the agents?
Or would that be your last move?
The shadow looms larger as they step further inside, their footsteps slow and deliberate, each one intensifying the pressure in your chest. You couldn't back up any further, but your mind and legs refuse to choose.
The papers you had just photographed, meant to expose something massive, now sit on the desk under your phone. You'd sent the pictures, you just hoped someone would do what you asked
It was all within arm's reach, but the threat of the gun holds you captive.
"Turn around. Slowly," the intruder orders, the sharpness in their tone cutting through the heavy silence. Your legs feel like jelly, but you manage to comply, turning inch by inch, your hands raised in the air.
Behind you, the doorway is still open. You can hear the faint murmur of the agents talking outside, unaware of the danger you're in. The weight of the gun presses against you as they get closer.
For a split second, you wonder if they'll pull the trigger right here, right now. It was up to if they were here for you or Kamala.
You turn your head slightly, sensing their attention was drawn elsewhere, they eye the papers on the desk.
"Get them to leave, and I take papers and you live"
Your pulse quickens. You know what's at stake here. Kamala trusted you to get them. You were starting to see a pattern of listening to her ending you up where you don't want to be.
But now, with your life hanging by a thread, handing them over feels like your only option.
You take a shaky breath, your hands moving slowly toward the papers.
"Okay, okay. Just... don't shoot," you whisper, feeling the heat of the moment tightening around your throat.
Suddenly, before you can react, a loud shout pierces the tension.
"FREEZE!"
Two Secret Service agents burst into the room, guns drawn, and time seems to slow as the intruder whips around to face them.
Gunshots ring out, and the room becomes a blur of movement, shouting, and flashes of light.