Chapter SevenThe Question That Stayed-Gideon
2002 Words
Gideon Vance had spent most of his life learning how to control his face.
It was a useful skill.
In politics, a raised eyebrow could become tomorrow’s headline.
A pause could be interpreted as weakness.
A smile could be mistaken for agreement.
Anger could be used against you.
Fear could be used against you even faster.
So Gideon had learned early.
Control the expression.
Control the voice.
Control the room.
Never let people know what they had managed to make you feel.
At thirty-five, he could sit across from senators twice his age and make them reconsider an argument without raising his voice.
He could stand before millions of Americans and speak about war, inflation, housing, healthcare, or economic uncertainty with the same calm expression.
He could look at a camera and make an entire country believe that he knew exactly what came next.
The problem was that lately, there was one question he couldn’t control.
Who are you when nobody is watching?
Rin Tanaka had asked it once.
Gideon had been thinking about it ever since.
⸻
The Oval Office was still unfamiliar.
Not because Gideon had never been there.
He had.
Many times.
As a senator, he had attended meetings there. He had advised presidents. He had sat across from cabinet officials and foreign diplomats in rooms where every piece of furniture carried history.
But being the man behind the desk was different.
The room felt quieter now.
He stood behind the Resolute Desk that morning, reading a briefing prepared by his transition team.
Housing.
Economic growth.
Federal spending.
International trade.
Energy.
National security.
A stack of papers sat neatly arranged in front of him.
His chief of staff, Daniel Brooks, stood across the room with a tablet in his hand.
“The economic team wants your decision on the housing proposal by Friday.”
“Tell them Thursday.”
Daniel looked up.
“They asked for Friday.”
“I heard them.”
“They need more time.”
“They’ve had enough time.”
Daniel gave a small smile.
“You’re enjoying this.”
Gideon looked at him.
“No.”
Daniel’s smile disappeared.
Gideon returned his attention to the document.
“I simply don’t believe government should move at the speed of people who are afraid to make decisions.”
Daniel nodded.
“Understood.”
A knock came at the door.
Gideon’s communications director entered.
“Mr. President.”
Gideon looked up.
“Yes?”
“There’s something you should see.”
She handed him a tablet.
Gideon glanced at the screen.
A morning news segment was playing.
His own face appeared.
Then Rin’s.
The interview.
Gideon frowned slightly.
“What is this?”
“The interview from last week is getting more attention than expected.”
“Why?”
“The clip about race has been circulating.”
She swiped.
Another clip.
Then another.
Gideon watched himself answer questions he had already forgotten asking.
Then Rin appeared.
Calm.
Composed.
Soft-spoken.
Asking questions without trying to perform for the camera.
Gideon watched him for several seconds.
“How many views?”
“Several million across platforms.”
Gideon sighed.
“Of course.”
His communications director hesitated.
“There’s another thing.”
“What?”
“People like him.”
Gideon looked at her.
“That’s hardly a national emergency.”
She laughed softly.
“No. But it’s interesting.”
“What is?”
“The public response.”
She turned the tablet toward him.
Comments filled the screen.
People praised Rin’s interview style.
His intelligence.
His professionalism.
His appearance.
Some called him one of the best young journalists in Washington.
Others were more interested in how Gideon had looked at him during the interview.
Gideon’s eyes narrowed.
“People analyze everything.”
“That’s politics.”
“No.”
He handed the tablet back.
“That’s obsession.”
She smiled.
“Same difference.”
She left.
Gideon remained standing behind the desk.
For several moments, he didn’t move.
Then his eyes returned to the tablet in her hand before the door closed.
Rin.
He hadn’t expected to see him again so soon.
But Washington was small when you lived at the center of power.
And Rin Tanaka had made it very clear that he intended to remain there.
⸻
By noon, Gideon had attended four meetings.
By one, he had rejected two proposals.
By two, he had spoken with three senators.
By three, he was already exhausted.
Not physically.
Mentally.
The presidency wasn’t difficult because of the work.
Gideon had been trained for difficult work his entire life.
It was difficult because every decision carried weight.
Every sentence had consequences.
Every mistake belonged to more than him.
He had spent his entire life preparing for this.
Yet sometimes, sitting alone between meetings, he wondered whether preparation was ever enough.
His phone vibrated.
His mother.
Gideon stared at the screen.
He answered.
“Mother.”
“Are you busy?”
“Always.”
“You sound tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Gideon leaned back in his chair.
“What do you want?”
There was a brief silence.
“Your father and I are coming to Washington this evening.”
Gideon closed his eyes.
“Why?”
“Because you’re my son.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“We need to talk about Camille.”
His jaw tightened.
“I already made my decision.”
“You made a decision.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t discuss it with us.”
“I informed you.”
“You informed us after deciding.”
“Correct.”
His mother’s voice hardened.
“Gideon.”
He said nothing.
“You cannot simply end a two-year engagement as though it were a campaign appointment.”
“I can.”
“You are the president.”
“Exactly.”
“And because you are the president, you need stability.”
“I don’t need a wife I don’t love to create the appearance of stability.”
His mother went quiet.
Then she said softly,
“You sound like your grandfather.”
Gideon almost smiled.
“Is that supposed to be an insult?”
“No.”
“It sounded like one.”
“It isn’t.”
Another silence.
Then Evelyn said,
“Your father is worried.”
“My father is always worried.”
“This is different.”
Gideon looked toward the windows.
“What is he worried about?”
“That you’re becoming too independent.”
Gideon laughed once.
“I’ve been independent for years.”
“Not like this.”
He understood what she meant.
Not the presidency.
Not the engagement.
Not Camille.
Something else.
Gideon had spent most of his life following a path that had been carefully designed before he was old enough to understand it.
Harvard.
Graduate school.
Public policy.
Congress.
Senate.
Committee chair.
Presidency.
Marriage.
Children.
Legacy.
Every step had been planned.
Every door had already been opened.
And now, standing at the highest position he had ever been prepared to reach, Gideon had finally begun asking whether he actually wanted everything waiting on the other side.
His mother spoke again.
“Are you seeing someone?”
Gideon’s eyes narrowed.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mother.”
“I’m asking because you have changed.”
“I’ve become president.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Gideon didn’t answer.
His mother sighed.
“Your father and I will see you tonight.”
“Fine.”
“And Gideon?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t shut us out.”
He looked down at the papers on his desk.
“I won’t.”
He ended the call.
For a moment, he simply sat there.
Then his eyes fell on a folder beside his hand.
The media schedule.
Tomorrow’s press conference.
And beneath it—
NBC News.
Rin Tanaka.
Gideon stared at the name.
He didn’t know why his attention stopped there.
He simply knew it did.
⸻
The following morning, the White House briefing room was full.
Reporters crowded the seats.
Cameras were positioned.
Microphones waited.
Questions were already being shouted before Gideon reached the podium.
He stepped forward.
The room quieted.
“Good morning.”
The questions began.
Economic policy.
Congress.
International relations.
The transition.
Housing.
Employment.
He answered each one.
Calmly.
Directly.
Then someone asked about Camille.
Gideon paused.
“Are you still engaged to Camille Laurent?”
There it was.
The question he had been expecting.
He looked toward the reporter.
“My personal relationships are private.”
The reporter pushed.
“But you’ve been engaged for two years.”
“I understand.”
“So is the engagement still active?”
Gideon looked directly into the cameras.
“No.”
The room erupted.
Questions came from every direction.
“Mr. President—”
“Does this mean—”
“When did you—”
“Was Camille informed?”
Gideon lifted one hand.
The room slowly quieted.
“The engagement has ended. I have nothing further to say about a private matter.”
A reporter shouted,
“Why?”
Gideon’s expression didn’t change.
“Because marriage should not be a political obligation.”
Silence.
Then another question.
“Are you planning to marry?”
Gideon looked toward the cameras.
“At this moment, I’m planning to govern.”
He stepped away from the podium.
The room erupted again.
Daniel was waiting for him backstage.
“That was going to be everywhere.”
“I know.”
“Your mother is going to call.”
“I know.”
“Your father too.”
“I know.”
Daniel stared at him.
“Do you ever get tired of being right?”
Gideon looked at him.
“Frequently.”
Daniel laughed.
Gideon didn’t.
But the corner of his mouth moved slightly.
⸻
That evening, Gideon sat alone in his private residence.
The city lights stretched beyond the windows.
His jacket was draped over a chair.
His tie was gone.
The first button of his shirt was undone.
For once, there were no cameras.
No advisers.
No senators.
No family.
No expectations.
Just silence.
He poured himself water and stood by the window.
His phone vibrated.
A news notification appeared.
PRESIDENT VANCE ENDS ENGAGEMENT TO CAMILLE LAURENT
He ignored it.
Another notification.
Then another.
He turned the phone face down.
He didn’t care.
At least, he told himself he didn’t.
He walked toward the sofa.
Stopped.
Looked at the phone again.
Then picked it up.
One message had come through from Daniel.
NBC is requesting a follow-up interview.
Gideon stared at the message.
A second message appeared.
They specifically requested Tanaka.
He sat down.
For some reason, he wasn’t surprised.
He looked at Rin’s name on the screen.
The young journalist with the quiet voice.
The journalist who had somehow managed to ask a question no adviser, senator, professor, parent, or friend had ever asked him.
The journalist who had looked at him as though Gideon Vance wasn’t a dynasty.
Wasn’t a president.
Wasn’t a son.
Wasn’t an heir.
Just a man.
Gideon leaned back.
He should have declined.
It would be easier.
Cleaner.
Professional.
Instead, he typed one word.
Yes.
He sent it before he could reconsider.
A few seconds later, Daniel replied.
I’ll arrange it.
Gideon put the phone down.
Then he looked toward the dark window.
For the first time in weeks, he found himself wondering something completely unrelated to policy.
He wondered what Rin Tanaka would ask him next.
And, more importantly—
What Gideon would say.
Because somehow, he had a feeling Rin wouldn’t ask him about the presidency.
Not entirely.
He would ask about the man behind it.
The man Gideon himself was still trying to understand.
And for reasons Gideon couldn’t explain, he wasn’t sure he wanted to run from the question anymore.
Maybe he wanted to hear it again.
Maybe this time—
he might finally have an answer.
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