The morning light that filtered through the high, arched windows of the West Wing was soft and golden, a cruel contrast to the dark, tear-stained hours that had preceded it. Hazel woke with a start, her heart momentarily heavy as the memory of her solitary wedding night rushed back the cold sheets, the silence of the hallway, and the crushing realization that her husband preferred the company of a ghost to her own.
But as the bedside clock ticked toward seven, a different instinct took over. She was no longer just Hazel Smith, the pining assistant; she was a woman with a child who relied on her for his world to remain upright. She washed her face with ice-cold water to hide the puffiness of her eyes and pulled her hair into a neat, practical ponytail. She traded her silk slip for a pair o
