Earlier: Bulma and Rutledge family continue to navigate their difficulties. Vegeta is suffering through stress-induced headaches but plans to enter counseling with his brother to address their childhood trauma. Meanwhile, powerful, wealthy forces aligned with Josh Marley are lining up against Bulma, recognizing that Vegeta could be her biggest weakness. A wily, ruthless adviser from D.C. shows up in town to lay the groundwork for the mother of all attacks.

Krillin departed from the pharmacy, carrying his final pickup of "every drug under the sun" to last through the month's end. He could have requested a delivery, but the sunlight and his readiness to work as vigorously as before improved his mood. Bronchitis that led to pneumonia had him sidelined for weeks, and the doctor later diagnosed him as pre-diabetic. His knowledge of humanist and religious philosophies on illness and death helped him cope. Bulma wanted him to remain at the mansion to recover, but he returned to the carriage house on the property, accepting few visitors.

Neither Bulma nor Ambrose consulted him on quotidian matters, though they informed him about other concerns when asked. Vegeta visited one day when Krillin felt particularly downhearted, bringing food and challenging him to a game of checkers. Discussions of security, news, campaigns and even Bulma weren't proposed by either. They barely spoke, with both believing that unpretentious, no-strings-attached companionship was the be a tonic for each other's spirits. They were correct.

Krillin's enjoyable stroll down the city's historic avenue decelerated, driven by curiosity. The area wasn't bustling as much, but bystanders couldn't keep their eyes off a man dressed in a bespoke gray suit, pink shirt and dandy shoes. No other legislators wore clothing like this – even the better-dressed ones - or used canes unless they had arthritis. Rutger Kamen, who rapidly tired of dressing down, looked like he stepped out of The Great Gatsby. This occasion was special. Choosing the city's single Beaux-Arts hotel to meet Aldrich – because Kamen preferred calling Ambrose by his first name – fit the shrewd adviser's highbrow tastes: an architectural teacup of French neoclassicism with splashes of Italian Baroque and Gothic.

Krillin found an unoccupied bench inside a circular park facing the hotel, opening a sandwich bag. No more than ten minutes had passed before Ambrose arrived at the building's ornate doors. Both men's postures couldn't have been more different. Ambrose's unsteady gait concerned Krillin the most. He thought about calling Bulma but decided to wait, but he couldn't shake his substantial uneasiness.

Copper chandeliers and marble floors followed distinctive trails inside the hotel, with one leading to a secluded cordoned-off meeting room permanently set aside for VIPs. Kamen deemed the elaborate British-themed afternoon tea and champagne he ordered "suitable" as he inspected the setup. He also had the room screened for sophisticated surveillance tools – paid for by Catherine - to ensure privacy. Ambrose stood beside him, dressed in a white suit and sneakers.

"The footwear is a nice touch, Aldrich," Rutger said, locking their phones in a safe. "I'll have to try that sometime."

"The style is too popular, Rutger. GQ magazine needs more dynamism from you. I'm just having fun."

Rutger handed him a hand-rolled cigar, cutting the tip. Ambrose nodded courteously before sitting, watching Kamen pop the small champagne bottle. Two glass flutes sat on opposite sides. Kamen's eyebrow rose, enticing Ambrose to have a drink, which was refused.

"The room has been swept for devices properly," he said, raising the glass to toast himself.

Ambrose reclined, biting into a watercress sandwich. "This isn't the White House war room, Rutger, and the spies aren't after us – well, maybe you - but I think we're fine. Now that we've determined which team you're coaching, why am I here? Hell, we could have gone fishing to discuss grave digging."

Kamen laughed. "Remember Fredo in The Godfather? Heartbreaking gunshot scene. I fish alone."

"Have you told little Joffrey Baratheon to cool his jets?"

"I have, but your Games of Thrones comparison is a tad histrionic."

"And The Godfather isn't, Rutger?

"Oh god!" Rutger smacked his knee, chewing happily. "This black-truffle sandwich is heavenly! Have one of these - and stop taking Josh's behavior so personally. His motivation gets the better of him at times, but he has the mettle, charisma, and power to be a historic leader, Aldrich. He needs the right people around him to cement that destiny."

"Are you still Catholic?" Feeling beyond incredulous, Ambrose put down his teacup. "Some poor priest's ears probably dissolved at your last confession. You have the audacity to count yourself among those right people? And lord knows you must be describing another Josh, because the one I know is an insufferable prick."

"No potential president is ever perfect," Rutger said, pouring more champagne. "My, aren't you judgmental these days. I remember when you at least gave me and my judgment the benefit of the doubt. I used to liken our relationship to that of young Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr."

Ambrose's legs crossed. "Professor X befriended a brilliant man - scarred by a ghastly childhood - who became a narcissistic psychopath. Magneto's capacity for redemption remained, at best, tenuous."

"X-Men analogies aside, Aldrich, you're angry because you've fallen on the job. That's not my fault. The best remedy is more fury – or, I suppose, righteous anger for you – and a better strategy. From what I know of Bulma's potential, I like what I see. You're too close, though, to be a more effective adviser."

Ambrose's eyes rolled. "I know you enjoy hearing your voice, but I have other duties today."

"You used to like my voice too, Aldrich."

Ambrose exhaled, disregarding the flirtatious provocation. "What the hell do you want, Rutger?"

"The U.S. Attorney in Kansas City has been investigating two of the governor's political appointees, Arielle Mason and Ryan Douglas, and three others, for conspiracy and involvement kickback schemes, among other dubious dealings. Grand jury subpoenas have been issued, and people have testified. I suspect the feds' case is airtight, and indictments could be unsealed anywhere from a few weeks to a couple months, so now is the time to prepare for blowback against Bulma."

Ambrose collected several sandwiches, lighting his cigar. "That's it? I'm supposed to quiver in my sneakers about whatever scheming those back-bencher appointees did? Our office has nothing to hide from the feds. Newspapers are probably sitting on more information than you have by now, Rutger. They're just avoiding being fined by the court until any indictments are unsealed, if that happens."

Ambrose was among those who secretly testified before the grand jury seven months earlier. Thus, he had a plan ready to protect Bulma's interests. Either Rutger knew about this, or his talkative anonymous source refused to name other participants – to avoid the risk of a lengthy jail sentence.

Rutger's eyes scrunched. "That was a gift – one of two - that I still owe you. I'm distressed that your excessive drinking has soaked your common sense with false confidence. I'll take the blame, given our difficult separation when we had far less gray hair. It's… been too long, though. I have missed you."

"Fine," Ambrose replied. "I'll pretend this conversation didn't happen, so you aren't arrested over making such a stupid disclosure about the grand jury. Thanks for nothing, you blackhearted bastard."

Rutger tapped the ashes from his cigar, swirling a snifter of cognac. His head bowed toward a folder in his shoulder case on the floor. Ambrose flipped through the pages, becoming angrier with himself and wounded for the friend he loved. His eyes flicked up at Rutger, who courteously didn't smile.

"Aldrich, the people I serve want and have far more influence than you realize. Because Bulma is highly popular, I get the final say – for now - on the zero-to-ten scale to weaken her position. Nonetheless, I wouldn't be unhappy if she defeated Josh – this horse race is just too enjoyable to contemplate - but her ultimate strength as a politician must come through sacrifice."

Ambrose laid the file aside, inhaling the smooth aroma of Rutger's cognac. His shaking left hand moved under the table. "This man is innocent, and he's a good man. If the feds thought Vegeta was involved, he would have been jailed years ago."

Rutger struck the table. "How in the hell did you miss this?! I taught you better! Whoever investigated on your behalf did a shitty job. Good man or not, that money Vegeta received has criminal topsoil all over it! Why do you think that couple asked his mother to wait two years before giving it to him?"

Ambrose had more tea, soothing his increasingly dry throat. "These could be forged for all I know."

"There are two sets," Rutger replied. "The original, which we have here, and a copy on this flash drive. Use a new, non-networked computer to review them with Bulma. You'll know the password when the question I came up with is asked. Any attempt to reproduce or tamper with the contents will instantly destroy the data and launch a virus to disable the computer. I am not joking. The documents can only be reviewed for forty-five-minute intervals, and then the process can be repeated the process after two hours. Of course, you're smart enough not to take notes or pictures. Josh doesn't have this information, and he never will unless I get what I want."

Rage helped Ambrose maintain self-control, but anxiety stabbed through his gut. He stood, observing the painting of a 19th century U.S. senator. "And what more do you want, exactly?"

Rutger filled another snifter with a small shot of cognac, placing it into Ambrose's right hand. "I'm sure you advised Bulma to stop seeing Vegeta. She hasn't listened. This, I believe, will break them up. Then she will fully recommit to her goals and preserve all that her good man has built, shielding his pride, reputation and business from demolition. Their hearts will heal, just…as ours did when you left me."

"You left me, Rutger." Ambrose sniffed the delicate brandy, closing his eyes as the sumptuous taste warmed his insides. "And what if I don't follow your lead?"

He believed Kamen was telling the truth and covered his tracks well. Rutger was the pro of pros. An FBI disclosure like that would be highly difficult to obtain otherwise.

Rutger took the glass, pouring more brandy for them. "Then I will launch this zero-day public-relations attack to the press, leaving you to pick up the pieces. As you know, the public still judges female politicians more harshly when their husbands are accused of dabbling in filth. So, you'll either have a fairer battle during this election season or a meaner and likely more defeatable one."

Ambrose propped his foot on the wall. "Anything else?"

Walking with purpose, Rutger held the sides of Ambrose's leather belt. "My final expectation is you relearn to drink properly. Don't shun something so enjoyable, Aldrich. Remember how we enjoyed ourselves? Alcohol isn't meant for drowning hurt. You must release the pain to control unhealthy habits. You can still be the brilliant adviser I know you are. Our philosophies clash, but I'll always care for you."

Kamen, maestro of manipulation, took the liberty of unzipping the other man's pants, intuitively recognizing his former lover and mentee's lonesomeness. His uncompromising hands worked on Ambrose underneath, massaging and stroking and enticing him into an extended, passionate kiss. Rutger pushed him onto a sofa, pouring champagne into their mouths, laughing as Ambrose tumbled further under his influence and into their past. It was just like old times: Kamen was the urbane Massachusetts senator's spokesman beguiling a younger, handsomer and kinder Capitol Hill staffer from Missouri.

Bulma's image appeared in Ambrose's mind, overpowering his desire. He sadly pushed Rutger off, messily wiping his mouth and snatching the flash drive.

Cigar smoke and Rutger's cobalt gaze followed Ambrose out of the door. "That is my last favor for you, Aldrich. May the best candidate win. Bulma will do what's right."

Bulma looked at her watch, wondering who distracted her chief of staff at the capitol this time. They planned to meet with an excited group of female senior citizens to discuss more funding for community centers. The ladies' warmth and kindness lessened Bulma's annoyance. When Ambrose finally rang her, she was en route to another event.

"I got sidetracked. Sorry."

"You got sidetracked!" Bulma banged on the phone's ear speaker. "Really, Ambrose? That's all I fucking get today? Those sweet ladies would have loved hearing a story or two from a good-looking reprobate like you."

"Damn it, Bulma! Stop attempting to deafen me! I need my ears for another twenty years. My schedule is packed too, you know. That event had to be sacrificed. Accept my apology."

Bulma opened her makeup mirror, "Humph. I guess."

"Meet me in safety room alpha at four p.m. We have to talk."

Bulma put her shoes back on, looking forward to Krillin driving her again. "Are aliens on their way to attack us or a regular security drill?"

"This is serious, Bulma."

Bulma took her phone off speaker. "Ambrose, what in the hell is going on? Can't I get some details now?"

"No. I'm bringing dinner down for us. Any requests?"

Bulma decided that a little splurge on comfort food wouldn't hurt. "Fried chicken and biscuits, please."

Ambrose stared blankly at his phone. "Your wish is my command. Bye, darlin."

"Bye, darlin." Bulma looked out the window. Ambrose's voice didn't sound right at all. The capitol's network of safety rooms were reserved for high-level emergencies, ensuring the well-being and privacy of governors and other staff for decision-making.

Ambrose had a new laptop delivered to his office that morning. He spent most of the day trying to shake off a drinking binge that began after seeing Rutger. He woke up face down on his sofa, at five a.m., surrounded by whiskey bottles on his coffee table. He had enough willpower not to drink before arranging to see Bulma that same day. The flash drive first went into a safe at home. Now he had to gulp buckets of water and wait for his boozy smell to fade. Eyedrops were vital – and maybe makeup - to cover the aftereffects.

A short security guard followed Ambrose to room, barely keeping up with the man's long strides and quickening pace. Bulma had a magazine open.

She smiled, spreading old newspaper on the table to soak up grease. "You're late."

"By fifteen minutes," Ambrose said, handing her a stack of paper plates and four cans of soda. "It takes longer to fry good chicken."

Bulma looked at the table's opposite end. "Betsy sent that laptop down with me. How did you get one prepped to use this quickly?"

Ambrose held her shoulder. "Let's eat first if you don't mind. I haven't had food in my stomach all day."

"I'm hungry too, my friend, but you said this is serious."

Ambrose inhaled. "Governor, you have decisions to make. I'm charged with drawing the map and listing the conditions. This will take time, and you should be in a protected space to react naturally, without encroachments. That's why we shouldn't do this on empty stomachs. Understand?"

Bulma held his hand. "Oh god. Someone really came after you. Am I right?"

Ambrose plugged in the computer. "Yes. Now eat. We've delayed tough conversations until after dinner before. Tell me what else you've done today."

Almost two hours later, Bulma opened a can of soda. Her first forty-five minutes of scanning documents were almost finished. Ambrose's legs straddled underneath the table. His tie draped over his neck and shoulder, appearing just as disheveled as its owner.

Though Vegeta was foremost on her mind, Bulma's sorrow-filled eyes focused on Ambrose. "How much did you drink yesterday?"

"Does it matter?"

Bulma paced back and forth. "How can you ask me a question like that? You should have called me - or even your counseling sponsor - before going on a binge."

"This isn't about me, governor."

"The hell it isn't," Bulma said angrily. "Whoever gave you these documents meant to severely hurt you and me. Now tell me who this slimy SOB is, Ambrose! It can't be Josh, because the news isn't everywhere yet."

"It's better for you not to know right now, Bulma. All that matters is I left you unprotected. The person who provided the information said I should have done a better job. The lesson was appropriate."

Bulma stormed to the table's other side, throwing newspapers everywhere. "Bullshit, Ambrose! Bullshit. That person mind fucked you, and I won't let you sit here feeling sorry for yourself."

"I apologize, governor."

"I don't want to hear I'm sorry, hon. Give me complete answers."

Ambrose focused on her engagement ring, hating himself. He believed from the start that Bulma and Vegeta's partnership would be ill-fated. Rutger's salvo only reconfirmed his views.

Noticing the target of his attention, Bulma protectively covered her left hand. "Vegeta would think I'm choosing my career over him."

"No, he wouldn't," Ambrose said. "Don't convince yourself of that, and I take no pleasure in being the Cassandra before we all reached this point. I love you as well."

"Do you still believe you're right?"

"What I believe matters less at this time than what you choose to do. You have the information and demands expected of us."

Bulma wiped her tear-filled eyes. "This is fucking blackmail. Vegeta hasn't done anything wrong. He hasn't done anything wrong! He's lost so much and worked hard to be where he is."

"Given Vegeta's mindset, he could blame himself whether you drop out or choose to beat back the vultures before your candidacy is announced. Regardless, if you're declaring war, I will bust my ass to take these bastards down. No more binge-drinking slip-ups."

Bulma questioned whether Ambrose could fulfill this pledge despite his sincerity. "Whoever delivered this message pushed your buttons, Ambrose, almost overturning all progress you've made, and that's frightens me. I want you to be well. That's just as importaant. I'll… struggle with the rest."

Ambrose's head sank in disgrace. "Please don't do this, governor. Please. It will be harder for me to stay on the sidelines. I want to make up for failing you."

"We can't anticipate everything," Bulma said, holding her ring in her palm. "That's just not now our jobs work, and you haven't failed me. We can only plan, and you tried to warn me - and I… failed. I failed to protect Vegeta because of what I wanted. I…I must see him. Call your counselor, hon. We'll talk later."

Bulma grabbed her purse, rushing out the door. Phone messages and texts chimed almost nonstop after the deputy escorted her upstairs. A driver arrived in five minutes to take her to Vegeta's home.

"Bulma! Are you OK? My friend Amy sent me some video. Sorry, I wasn't watching the news. I get do a wrap of top headlines on my phone, since there's so much stuff out there. Maybe we should pick up a meal at that greasy fried-chicken shack you and daddy like sometime this week. It would be fun!"

Bulma's smile held up passably. These conversations were going to be a bitch. Bulla loved having another mother figure to admire and learn from, a desire Bulma understood all too well. Rev. Brief's wife, Shirley, died a year after they adopted Bulma – a toddler at the time – from an orphanage. Shirley's sister Lillian, Buzz's mother, supported father and daughter as much as she could.

"Bulla, I…need to talk with your father alone for a while. I don't plan to stay late. It's dark enough as it is."

The teenager's bright, eager eyes made her feel worse. She hoped the girl wouldn't reject her completely. Considering Bulla's devotion to Vegeta, the possibility was slim.

Bulla's high-energy chatter ended abruptly after noticing Bulma's bare left hand. "Daddy's out in the shed. Said he had a few things to do after you called."

Bulma nodded. "Yes, I know. Is there anything you'd like to discuss before I see him?"

After Bulla's liveliness toned down, she finally sensed the extent of the woman's fatigue. Bulma touched her bare finger throughout their talk.

"Uh, no." Feeling the urge to hug, the teenager held Bulma tighter than usual. "I won't keep you from him. I hope daddy helps with whatever's on your mind."

Vegeta, who saw the tail end of the embrace, waited on the deck until Bulla departed. Bulma found a tissue, cleaning up her eyes before seeing him. She resolved not to become a weeping mess – however unrealistic – and vowed to keep the focus on Vegeta's responses.

The door frames whooshed as Vegeta entered. Bulma's after-dark arrival indicated that all wasn't well. He generally knew his fiancee's schedule, and they hadn't planned to see each other that day.

His arms straddled the kitchen island, where she sat across from him. "Decaf or tea?"

Bulma hung her purse on a hook under the counter. "Neither."

Vegeta picked up a kettle, lighting the gas burner. "I'll make tea anyway in case you change your mind. You don't appear to be staying. What's burdening you?"

"I'm trying to figure out where to start," Bulma replied. "Everything is tangled up in my head now."

She laid the ring box on the counter, rubbing the velvet with her forefinger. Vegeta refused to consider or accept this most blatant of warning signs. She couldn't do this. She wouldn't do this.

Though disturbed by her actions, Vegeta didn't withdraw. "Find your way back to the beginning," he replied, pouring tea for them both. "We have all night."

Bulma's hands clung to the warm cup. "No, we don't."

Vegeta's head bowed somewhat - his prelude to a debate. From the time they were kids, he began talks with her in that way when a nuclear argument loomed. With Bulla in the house and the possibility that his fiancee would make a hasty decision, he had to brace himself. They could blow up at each other, but Vegeta pledged to give equanimity a chance. Wanting to comfort her anxiety trumped everything else.

"It's OK to have doubts, Bulma. We've had lots upheaval – stress, political tricks, and people in our ears challenging our future together."

"Because of me," Bulma said, looking down. "I've been selfish about us – about you – all along."

"Oh no, no, no," Vegeta said, placing his cup on the counter. "You keep those eyes on mine, Bulma Jean, until I understand what the hell is really happening. You wake up fighting like a boxer, serving an entire state, and yet you're walking away from this? We've spent too many years apart. We…we… love each other."

"Vegeta, I have information about as credible as you can get that could ravage your reputation – your good name – and maybe even destroy your business. Everything you've worked so hard to create is under threat, and those responsible are firing up the crematorium. This is blackened-earth warfare."

Bulma wouldn't exaggerate, having been a prosecutor. Illegal activity had to be involved. Vegeta mined his memories, searching for the fracture in his life's carefully constructed protective barrier. His thick fingers clawed on the dish towel, reddening from the pressure.

"The money."

Bulma nodded. "Yes, but it wasn't your fault. You did nothing wrong."

"Who else's fault could it be, Bulma?! They were…were an old and lonely couple. I helped them with different things, talked with them. No family around. Cricket did exactly what they asked in order to support me. I finally had the right ambition for what I wanted, and child to raise. After reading the letter mama received, I set aside my pride aside and went all in."

"The FBI and other investigators monitored your contact with them for some time – among others – and couldn't directly unearth anything illegal."

"Because there was nothing to unearth!" Vegeta replied angrily, throwing the towel on the floor.

"I know, hon. I know… but the couple had family. They were tied to a fortune that still hasn't been fully quantified or seized by law enforcement - money in offshore accounts, investments, businesses – some legit or bearing the guise of legitimacy, and others blatantly illegal. Two men in their extended family were jailed – one in the U.S. and another in Europe. They sacrificed their freedom to keep that elderly couple comfortable. Other family are dead, dying or in hiding, probably still committing crimes."

Much of Vegeta's self-possession flattened as the magnitude of these disclosures tunneled through his brain, just as much as the risk of losing Bulma. He was cautious with that couple because he didn't want anyone around believing that he was trying to use them.

He pinched the bone over his nose, hoping a headache would bypass him. "So I could have received money-laundering proceeds."

Bulma naturally reached for his hand, offering support, which Vegeta didn't take. How ironic. He had the gall to lecture that young driver at the airport, remaining blind to his and Cricket's early mistakes.

"I believe those old folks cared for you, Vegeta, not trying to feed any ego-driven rich-criminal god complex. Those fed investigators just couldn't make anything stick. Otherwise, you would have been aggressively interrogated, and the money would have been seized by the government in heartbeat."

Vegeta sat with an almost meditative stillness, feeling the same exhaustion that plagued him during the most traumatic periods in his life. His eyes closed. "We'll never know how dirty the money was. Ever. How sure are you about this – and how did you find out?"

Bulma inhaled, rubbing her hands on her thighs. "I'm certain. Even if I ran for higher office, law-abiding fed investigators wouldn't reveal details because their scrutiny of that family likely hasn't ended. Someone with deep pockets and connections struck at Ambrose like a black mamba. Sober or not, not much unnerves him to this degree. Whoever wanted to get me, using you, intended to crack him too."

"So you believe that martyring yourself to protect me is the best way battle being blackmailed?"

"Vegeta –"

"No, Bulma! I have said in every way possible that I know what I'm signing up for. Yes, this is a stronger warning shot, but you're not brawling alone – and neither will Ambrose. Why in the hell do you think I'm getting counseling? It's not just for Tarble. It's for you - and my daughter! I have fought every single day of my life to be what I am, and I will never tolerate bullying. Never! That's not how Rutledges work. As upsetting as those other incidents were, Bulla, Tarble and I have discussed the future. We're not backing down."

Bulma could see the barbarians' flotilla sailing toward the shore. Vegeta did not. Her faraway gaze could have been that of a martyr, but not one seeking praise. "None of this would be happening if I hadn't been selfish."

Vegeta arms crossed, rejecting her assertion. "That doesn't make sense, Bulma. I don't want you to give up your career. What I've built for myself will remain solid. Neither of us are weaklings. The around people here know the kind of man I am and what I stand for, even those who dislike me."

Bulma stood, removing a stem from a vase of cut flowers. "No… marriage should start with either partner trying to fill an empty space. When you proposed, everything in me rejoiced – not only because l love you, but also because I finally had everything I wanted – power; financial security; career; and best of all, a hard-working, intelligent man who adores me, with a fantastic daughter. Look at me! Look at me, the former orphan who at long last proved herself worthy to the world! But... this isn't just about me."

Bulma's arms spread out as she spun around the room. Her voice rasped through bitter tears of shame. Ambrose was right. Hurting Vegeta now would be better than allowing the carnage to continue. Vegeta had to know this change of heart wasn't just about her career. She had to think of his needs as much as he did with hers. As governor, she saw the grief and hollowed-out spirits of those who lost everything they worked for – through no fault of their own - or couldn't work at all. She fought to help those people, and she couldn't allow others to terrorize the man she loved, not like this.

At that moment, she understood why he left all those years ago. He didn't want to be an impediment. Now she found herself in the same position.

Vegeta stormed over, pulling her arms down. "You don't get to run like I did. I was wrong, and this is wrong. We have one life – just one. Maybe I'm selfish too. I want us to fill those empty spaces with more happiness. If you leave now, we cannot be just be friends. You'll always have my love – always – but we we're both committing ourselves to purgatory if we try to be best buddies on Facebook. We're not like that."

"You… will come to resent me if we marry," Bulma said despairingly. "The signs are already there. You want this relationship so badly that you're blind to them. The headaches, your extreme contempt for Ambrose, the anger and hurt you felt when Bulla told Tarble about Cricket's past before you."

Vegeta let go of her, shaking his head. "Oh no, I'm not accepting any fault for resentment I don't feel. You don't get to dictate those terms, Bulma, and I don't believe Ambrose is a terrible person. Careless, yes, but not terrible. I made peace with that. I guess we can agree that this really is about you. You're searching for every reason under the sun to avoid taking responsibility for your own fear."

Bulma didn't swiftly disagree but questioned his assessment. "What do you mean?"

"You've denied happiness for yourself too over the years. You could have married Beau. You loved him – Tarble confirmed that – and it never bothered me because he's about as honest as they come. Having a child changed my life, revealing ten times more courage than I ever thought I'd have – gave more of a reason to live for beyond myself. I found my way back to my family, who loved me just for being me."

"You're making me out to be a denialist, Vegeta!"

"So I'm the one in denial?!"

"I didn't say that!" Bulma shouted. "Now you're the one putting words in my mouth!"

Vegeta walked to the front door, carrying the ring box. "You know what, Bulma Jean? Not another minute will I stand in the house I built, begging you to marry me! You laid on your knees with me, crying, telling me yes! I hoped to share this oasis with you between elections, mansion soirees, campaign stumping, barbecue dinners, and maybe even planting those white tea roses you love so much. Maybe we could have walked down Pennsylvania Avenue in D.C., in below-freezing weather, during your presidential inauguration someday. I've thought about all this. It's a lot to ask since not everyone gets the privilege, but before either of us dies, I also hoped we could say goodbye the right way, holding each other like my family did before mama passed."

Stunned, Bulla couldn't move. Her hands wrung as Vegeta and Bulma's engagement fell apart. She hadn't heard the beginning of their row, but a craving for cookies unfortunately brought her close to the end. As Vegeta spoke, the wall beside the stairwell felt colder. She'd never heard her father pour his heart out like this. She wanted to jump in, waving a red flag for them to stop. Their situation was too hazardous to continue, but she had nothing to proffer. Her father did not beg. Bulma had been given options.

Large teardrops rolled down Bulma's cheeks. "Please don't look at me like that. It's so distant. I'm…I'm not being capricious, Vegeta. I'm not trying to hurt you."

"And I'm not an idealist – or moonstruck." Vegeta held his palm over hers, returning the velvet box. "Keep the ring, governor. Just go."

Bulma's shoulders trembled as Vegeta's grip tensed. So much of his heart was leaving with her. For a moment he appeared disconsolate, brushing Bulma's cheek with his fingers. Her big, beautiful blue eyes pleaded for understanding. Vegeta kissed her forehead before opening the door. Aat least they were saying goodbye in person this time.

Bulma lurched toward the car, crying with her hands over her eyes. The driver leaped out, alarmed.

"Governor? Are you feeling all right? How can I help you? What happened?"

"You can get me back to the mansion," Bulma said, standing up straight. "I'll be all right. I'll be all right."

The agonizing maelstrom inside Vegeta's mind didn't show outwardly. He put on a jacket, heating more tea to sit outside on the deck. He put a framed picture of himself and Bulma into a drawer before leaving the kitchen. His daughter couldn't stand waiting anymore, grabbing her jacket to follow. She stood behind his chair as Vegeta blew on his tea, staring into the black of night.

"I'm sorry if we woke you up." His voice, though as resonant as usual, carried an immense weight.

"You didn't," Bulla said, rubbing his shoulders. "I wanted some cookies and heard the end. Daddy, I -"

Vegeta's palm rose, interrupting. "Not now, Antonia. I'll be all right. Just let me be alone for a while. I'll be all right."

"OK," she said, kissing his cheek. "I love you." Vegeta grunted, holding her chin as their foreheads touched. Despite his profound heartbreak, Bulla remained his light in the darkness.

A month later, Rutger Kamen, the man who kicked off this trail of destruction, disappeared. Most everyone in D.C., as well as those on Josh Marley's advisory team, believed the avowed trickster had fled the U.S. because of an illegal act. Ambrose later received a letter from Kamen, in the man's handwriting, with a warped apology for his lifetime of unscrupulous, inexpiable deeds:

"Conceit and vanity are my fatal flaws, Aldrich, and having brain cancer is the ideal payback for my sins. Perhaps we could have been lovers forever, but you're just too good of a person. Don't let that goodness kill you - or get you killed. You may never believe me, but I really did you and the governor a favor. Those files are now in the hands of someone I trust implicitly, who will implement my wishes should the terms I laid out to you aren't executed. Sincerely, Magneto."

A year later, Kamen's remains were found on the Virginia side of the Potomac River, near D.C. His skull bore what appeared to be a self-inflicted gunshot wound. His devoted widow had moved to Switzerland, fifty million dollars wealthier. She never failed to carry out any of her husband's orders and, if necessary, would still do so despite his death.