Chapter Thirty-Four: The Presidency
David's rise to power was often described as inevitable.
That was the word the media used. Inevitable. As if destiny itself had cleared the road for him, as if history had leaned forward and whispered his name long before ballots were cast.
But power never arrived by accident.
And Lucia knew that better than anyone.
Years before the title President was added to his name, David had already been living like a ruler. The house Lucia grew up in was not loud with laughter or warmth—it was quiet, controlled, and watched. Men came and went at odd hours. Conversations stopped when she entered a room. Phones were switched off. Doors were locked.
David had always said it was politics.
"Politics is dirty," he used to say, straightening his tie in the mirror. "You don't ask how the road was built if you want to drive on it."
Margret had never liked that sentence.
The official story of David's presidency was clean and inspiring.
A self-made man.A patriot.A reformer who promised stability and growth.
The newspapers praised his discipline. His calm voice. His firm handshake.
What they didn't print were the deals made behind closed doors.
The rivals who withdrew suddenly.The journalists who stopped asking questions.The witnesses who changed their stories—or disappeared from public life entirely.
Lucia remembered names.
Not clearly, not with evidence she could explain yet—but clearly enough to recognize patterns.
Men who once argued loudly with her father suddenly became supporters. Others were never mentioned again.
Power, Lucia learned early, was not about popularity.
It was about silence.
Margret had watched David's campaign unfold like a slow-burning fire.
At first, she believed what she was told—that this was ambition, not danger. That once he reached the top, things would calm down.
Instead, they grew worse.
David stopped pretending.
He slept less. He drank more. His temper shortened. His smile became something he wore, not something he felt.
And when he finally won, when crowds filled the streets chanting his name, Margret felt only dread.
She stood beside him at the celebration, her hand stiff in his, while cameras flashed.
"Smile," David whispered through clenched teeth. "You're the First Lady now."
Margret smiled.
Inside, something broke.
In the present, thousands of miles away, Margret sat on a narrow bed, watching a replay of David's speech on a cracked television.
He stood at a podium, flags behind him, voice steady and controlled.
"My fellow citizens," he said, "our nation will move forward—united, disciplined, and strong."
Lucia stood behind her, arms crossed.
"He sounds the same," Lucia said quietly. "Like nothing ever touches him."
Margret nodded. "That's how he survives."
Lucia stared at the screen. "People worship him."
"They don't know him," Margret replied. "They know the mask."
On-screen, applause thundered.
Lucia felt something cold settle in her chest. "If he's this powerful… how do we fight him?"
Margret turned the television off.
"We don't fight power head-on," she said. "We expose it."
Lucia looked at her sharply. "Is that why you kept the recordings?"
Margret hesitated.
Then she nodded.
David sat in his office that same night, alone, the city quiet beneath him.
He replayed Margret's name in his mind like a threat.
She had been there before the speeches. Before the cameras. Before the presidency.
She knew the cracks in the foundation.
That was why she frightened him.
Not because she was sick.Not because she was poor.
But because she had seen him become what he was.
And because Lucia—sweet, observant Lucia—had been there too.
David opened a drawer and removed a folder marked CONFIDENTIAL.
Inside were reports. Photos. Addresses.
One line stood out:
Confirmed: target located.
His lips curved slightly.
"History," he murmured, "will not remember you."
That night, Lucia couldn't sleep.
She sat beside her mother, listening to her breathing, uneven and shallow.
"Mum," she whispered, "if he becomes everything he wants to be… what happens to the truth?"
Margret reached for her hand. "The truth waits," she said. "It always does."
Lucia squeezed her fingers. "Even if you don't?"
Margret didn't answer immediately.
When she did, her voice was calm but final.
"Then the truth will belong to you."
Outside, sirens echoed faintly in the distance.
Inside, Lucia understood something clearly for the first time:
Her father was not just a powerful man.
He was a man who had climbed over lives to reach the top.
And presidents, she now knew, were not untouchable—
They were just protected.