Eleanor James
They say a leader's strength is tested in silence—how steady she stands when no one's clapping, when the room is cold, and the walls whisper doubt. If that's true, then I've been standing through a goddamn blizzard.
Every morning, I press my hair back into place, swipe red across my lips, and smile at cameras that don't care whether my husband is dead or simply… gone.
Devon has locked himself away for weeks. I've tried to see him. I've tried to force his door open with my voice, with my tears. But nothing gets through anymore—not even me.
The country is buzzing. "Where is the President?"
"Is he sick?"
"Is he in rehab?"
"Is the First Lady covering up a scandal?"
I've had to lie more times than I care to count.
"He's taking time to recover from the recent security incident," I say, cool as crystal, even as I feel my world cracking at the edges.
"He's still briefed daily."
"He's resting under medical advice."
Bullshit, all of it. Because the truth is, I don't know where Devon is. Not the man I married. He hasn't looked me in the eyes in weeks.
And then there's Jimmie.
That name—it keeps echoing inside me. Uninvited. Persistent.
He hasn't returned to work since the kidnapping. Can I blame him? No. But something about his silence is… off. Not just fear. Not just trauma. There's more. Something tightens in my gut every time I think of the way Devon's moods shifted after Jimmie came to work. The hallway tension. The way Devon would avoid his gaze—like it burned.
I shouldn't be thinking this. I'm his wife.
But I'm also a woman who's spent nearly half her life reading Devon James like scripture.
And lately, all his pages have been blank.
I'm tired of not knowing.
So tonight, I waited until Franco left the residence.
And I took his access card.
The west wing of the building is dark, the President's private office sealed off to all but a few. But not to me. Never to me.
I push the door open, the low creak almost sounding like a protest. Inside—it's chaos.
Papers scattered. Books overturned. His old desk chair was shoved to the side like someone had flung it in rage. The curtains are half-pulled, allowing the moonlight to slant across the damage. It looks like a war zone.
I step inside, breath held.
He's been unravelling here. Alone. Quietly.
I don't know whether to scream or cry.
I drop to my knees beside the broken side table, trying to pick up the pieces. There, underneath a shattered glass of whiskey and torn notes… something catches my eye.
A torn sheet. Crumpled. Half-burnt.
But the name is still visible.
JIMMIE.
Scrawled. Repeated. Messy. Like someone wrote it over and over until the pen broke.
My heart pounds.
I slowly straighten, the paper still in my hand. My pulse roars in my ears.
I don't know what's worse—
That Devon is breaking…
Or that I'm starting to understand why.
—
Jimmie's
I wrote my resignation letter again today.
Typed it. Saved it. Stared at it. Closed it.
It's still sitting there—draft number four.
I tell myself I'm just being professional. I need closure. That walking away properly is the mature thing to do. But deep down, I know I'm stalling.
Because quitting means the end.
Not just the job. But... everything.
And I can't stop wondering if maybe I should've stayed—if only to demand answers.
Instead, I stayed in bed till almost noon, my phone turned face down, the curtains drawn. Sleep doesn't come easily anymore. When it does, it's never peaceful.
This morning, I woke gasping.
There was a dream.
A vivid, ugly one.
I was running—feet pounding hard against cold dirt. Trees whipped past in streaks of grey. The sky was twilight, everything dim and fogged. I didn't know where I was, but I knew I had to keep going. Something massive was behind me. I could hear it crashing through the underbrush, heavy and fast.
Then I heard it: a low, guttural growl.
I glanced back and saw it—the shape.
A wolf. No—a dog? No... it was bigger. Its body was monstrous, its fur slick and dark like midnight oil, its golden eyes glowing in the dusk like twin torches.
It was chasing me and hunting me.
I screamed.
It smiled.
Then I tripped—
And woke up.
Heart slamming. Shirt drenched. I could still feel those eyes.
I had to get out of the apartment.
I threw on jeans and a hoodie, walked until my legs ached. Aimless. Quiet. The air was biting, but I welcomed it. Better cold than the fire eating away inside me.
I turned into a small alley just off 6th Street, one I'd never noticed before. A flickering sign caught my attention.
"VINTAGE TALES – BOOKS & ODDITIES"
I hesitated.
Then walked in.
A bell chimed overhead. The place smelled like dust, old paper, and something herbal—maybe sage. The lighting was dim, golden, and comforting. Rows of mismatched shelves loomed around me like wooden sentinels.
Behind a cracked counter sat an elderly man, slumped in an ancient leather chair, reading a newspaper. He barely glanced up. Just muttered, "Feel free to browse."
I nodded and wandered.
The silence was thick. Peaceful.
I ran my fingers along the spines—mysteries, war history, sci-fi. None of it felt right.
I turned a corner and found myself in a crooked, narrow aisle.
A handwritten label above the shelf read: "Folklores, Myths & Things Best Left Alone."
Something about it made me shiver.
I reached out and picked a worn, black-spined book:
"The Blood and Bond of the Wild."
It felt heavier than it should have.
I cracked it open and started to flip through. Mostly gibberish—talk of shapeshifters, forest spirits, hunters who never died. Until I reached the chapter:
The Marked Mate.
I read the first line.
Then the second.
Then I stopped breathing.
"The Mate is recognised by scent, by soul. The wolf will feel the tether first—a heat under the skin, a hunger that cannot be soothed."
"To reject the bond is to deny nature. It causes pain… madness… death."
"The wolf will always know before the man."
I felt the book tremble in my hands.
My knees buckled, and I let it fall.
It hit the floor with a dull thud.
From across the store, the old man's voice floated gently, "You alright over there?"
I blinked, my heart racing. "Yeah. Sorry. Just… dropped it."
He didn't respond. Just went back to his paper.
I crouched down and stared at the open pages. My breath fogged the paper. My fingers trembled as I turned another.
"A true mate cannot be manufactured or faked. The bond is ancient. Deep. Carved into bone. Their touch will burn. Their absence will ache. Their pain will echo."
The words blurred as my eyes welled.
It was him.
Devon.
The golden eyes.
The way he lost control when I screamed.
The ache in my chest. The way his presence never really left me.
This wasn't just lust or obsession.
It was something… primal.
Something terrifying.
"No…" I whispered. "No, no, this isn't…"
I stood abruptly, shoving the book back onto the shelf like it had bitten me. My breath came fast and sharp. My head spun.
I stumbled out of the store, the bell overhead screaming in my ears as I pushed the door too hard. The cold outside felt like a slap.
And just as I pulled my phone out to distract myself, to do anything not to think, I saw it.
I blinked, fumbling it out with shaking fingers.
ELEANOR JAMES
1 New Message
My stomach dropped.
Why was she messaging me?
I hesitated, thumb hovering... then opened it.
"Jimmie, I hope you're recovering well."
"I understand needing time away. But time is a luxury we don't always have."
"I'll expect you back at the residence by Monday morning."
"If you choose not to return… well, that tells me all I need to know."
— E.J.
My vision blurred.
I stared at the screen, pulse roaring in my ears.
She didn't say it outright... but she knew something.
Not everything. Not yet.
But enough to draw a line.
And she just dared me to cross it.
And just like that, the ache in my chest wasn't just a myth anymore.
It was a warning.
A storm is rising. One I might not outrun.