Sara had heard a lot of people say about the oval office that they pictured it bigger. But maybe that was just a performance, to maintain the mystical aura about you that suggests you're in on a secret, and surely the office of the American president was one of those places you want to act has a special trick to it, is more than you'd expect, else, you might look like its magic was lost on you.

Sara was alone in the oval ten, maybe fifteen minutes for that first time. There was nothing magical about it in the strictest sense. Standing here, brushing the furniture with her fingertips, she was not suddenly overwhelmed with the place's historic power, the presidential blue of the carpet, the careful carving of the desk, or the ghosts of the forty-five men who had been its temporary masters.

What Sara would not say if asked by the press was that the office smelled different from what she had thought. Really, she had expected a neater, less pronounced smell, like in a hospital, where doctors, like magicians (and politicians) perform wonderful deeds unfathomable to most of humankind, but it was immediately clear she'd been mistaken.

And just from that strong, distinct smell – old wood, alcohol and expensive suits, from what she could tell, but a lot of it was other, was indeed a little magic – Sara felt on the receiving end of a clear message she imagined all other presidents had gotten before her, provided they were capable of humility enough.

That this office was not just a place for you to work in and entertain people, that you didn't own it but it owned you, for as long as your term would last, and you had a duty to do right by it as you did to the people who had voted to put you there.

Sara laid her palms flat on the surface of the desk and waited, as if it were a human chest and she was trying to feel if it was dead.

How many women had been here before her, alone? What kind of women? First ladies? Mistresses? And had they ever been invited to stay, after the small crowd of men – advisors and secretaries – were ushered in, to share their minds on the issues they discussed? How many years had it been, since people so much as thought women had a mind of their own on the economy, whether it was the state's role to intervene in favor of the poor, or about war?

Not many years, Sara thought, still stroking the surface of the desk, to this office.

"We're going to see some change, you and I," she said. "I'm not sure you're going to like me."

There were knocks on the door. Sara greeted them with peals of laughter.

The higher office in the land, the office her father had coveted for most of his life, and for the next four years, people would treat it like it was hers –

It wasn't.

Not any more than it had belonged to the forty-five men before her.

Oh, it must have comforted their ego, allowed themselves to assert their superiority over the place's living soul when they grinned over a mike and said, "Not as big as I imagined."

"Come in," Sara said.

Kellerman appeared in the doorframe without further ado. He was ten minutes early, but Sara had expected it and had come even earlier, had wanted to see this place alone, without anyone's appreciation to fog her own.

He cast a rapid glance around the place – no awe, like her, but no student-like curiosity either – before he furrowed his brows at the way her hands were spread over the desk. "What are you doing?"

"Getting to know him."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. We were about done here."

As he waited for her invitation, she asked him to sit down – Paul could be so formal, and it didn't surprise her he would be at such a time.

"I wanted to see you before I left," he said. Reproach was never audible even if you carefully dissected his tone. Paul was usually good at taking things upon himself, and past the initial surprise, that's how she had expected him to react about her making him Secretary of State.

She remembered perfectly when they had first discussed this – in her office, and face to face, because Paul was terrific at phone conversations, and she wanted him to have no advantage.

"I don't see why you're unhappy about this," she lied. "It's a wonderful position. And, since I'm going to avoid going to war with anyone during my term, it's a crucial one. I don't know anyone who could be a better mediator between the world and I than you."

"But I could be useful to you here, Sara."

It was clear, in the rare and genuine burst of emotion in his voice, that he had never even thought of her leaving to Washington without him.

"What job did you want?" She said, cutting it to the chase. Maybe because it made her uncomfortable, to have Paul leaning over her desk and looking at her like this – because she had planned this news as a way to beat him at his own game, and had never begun to view it as a betrayal between friends. "Maybe we should have had talked about this earlier."

"Honestly?"

He straightened up, and the pressure in Sara's chest loosened a little. Though threatening wasn't exactly the word, there'd been something unsettling about his proximity, and his soft grip on control, when he was usually so cool.

He shrugged. "Senior Advisor to the president."

"What?" Sara chuckled, before pointing out. "Well, Secretary of State will be better for your career. People will remember you, and it would raise your wages by almost thirty thousand –"

"You think I'm in this for the money, Sara?"

She didn't try to rebound. It was suddenly clear to her that Paul was entitled to his anger. There'd be no point in pretending she hadn't gone behind his back, or hadn't expected that's how he would take it.

"I know we tried to stay away from Washington because our campaign was based on opposing the elites it represents, but there's no avoiding it anymore. When you move into the White House, you're going to find yourself at the center of a world filled with very big sharks. What does the label matter? If I were Senior Advisor, I could be with you at all times."

Silence poured between them, unbearable in its transparency. Sara knew this was the way to tell him – to let him work it out on his own.

"But you don't want this, do you?"

He crossed his arms over his chest.

"You're doing this because you want me away."

"It's not that, Paul."

It wasn't exactly. But she could see in the cold smile that settled on his lips that he wouldn't care for nuances.

"No, I understand, Sara. I was with you during the near-scandal with the video – it's natural you should want me half the world away most of the time throughout your term."

"Don't make it sound like I would keep you out of the decision-making process. You know I won't. But I need you for this. You know I have no military experience, and you're the only person I trust completely who does."

That she was lying never crossed Sara's mind, as she watched Paul's coldness soften (though in his eyes, cautious and sharp, he resisted the effect), even as she spoke the words trust completely. In this world, trust didn't mean the same thing as it did elsewhere – she trusted Paul as much as she could trust anyone here, trusted he would be willing to do just about anything to serve her better interests. But how much could you really trust a monster, even your monster, should they be unleashed?

"Is it because you think it'll give me less time on my hands to investigate?" He asked. "Or because, if I'm in Cuba or Egypt or Israel, you think it'll be more difficult for me to look for him here in Chicago?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The secret lover, Sara. Don't pretend that's not what it's about."

Should she? Paul had never been one to deal always in honesty, but he did look like he would appreciate it now; and certainly, she wasn't above plain talk.

"All right. First of all, since you brought this up, I can spare you the trouble before you venture further down that line. Don't bother. It's history now. After our conversation in your office, when Bagwell and Abruzzi were gone, I spoke to my secret lover and we decided it was best to go our separate ways at the moment."

Of course, she framed it in such a way that it was flattering enough for him to want to accept it. Distrust flared in his blue eyes, as he scrutinized her, went over the calm features of her face, smooth forehead, transparent gaze.

"Does that satisfy you?" She asked, flattered him still more.

There was no need for him to answer. She could see he hadn't made up his mind just yet.

Even as he faced her, now, in the oval office, a couple of hours before he would catch his flight to Belgium, it was clear to Sara he hadn't decided whether to believe her that this particular trouble of the secret lover was one he wouldn't have to look out for in the next four years.

He doesn't trust me, either.

He's afraid I'll run to my ruin, kick into my own sandcastle, meet the fate of all these great heroes whose tragic destiny is scrawled in the palms of their hands.

"Did you want to see me," Sara wondered, finding the couches of the oval office were more comfortable than she'd expected and wondering if it would have been more proper to sit behind the desk. "Or the office?" She finished.

"Do you need to ask?"

"I do."

She knew all too well Kellerman could be territorial enough that he would want to be the first in her team to be with her in the oval. That he liked to think of himself as her closest advisor didn't mean he wasn't right, or that she would mind humoring him sometimes – so long as it kept him away from the 'secret lover' tracks.

"Nothing embarrassing about it. If you want, I'll hand you a sheet of Sudoku puzzle and you can kill half an hour in here while I get my things in order – it's no trouble, Paul."

"Thank you," he answered with the complete lack of audible humor that defined their way of joking. "However tempting that is, I think I'll take business, instead."

"Have it your own way."

They went over the main lines of the meeting again. Paul liked that, going over things not two or three times but enough that nearly every contingency had been thought of.

The mode to adopt, as they had already discussed some weeks ago, was smart power. This first NATO meeting in Europe wasn't to seal an agreement with each nation committing itself to better preserve the environment.

"I'm done with this pointless handshaking and patting one another in the back as we all lead our own planet to destruction," Sara had said. "The main problem is we've been treating ecology as a political issue and it's not. It's not a matter of signing our names on a paper so we'll make our countries look good. It's about changing our way of life."

"So?"

"So, instead of negotiations, I want solutions. Conversation. And I want scientists around, the best America has to offer – I want to hear what they have to say about how we should fix these issues, not national leaders."

That was the plan, and Sara trusted Kellerman would know how to carry it out smoothly to term.

"So, who's next in line?" Kellerman asked at some point, without raising his eyes from his notebook – always, when Sara had a job for him, he took handwritten notes in a same notebook (whether it was yet uncompleted or whether Paul had half a dozen of those, ready to spare, she couldn't say). It amused her to imagine with what level of classified-secrecy Paul treated the notebook – if he hid it under his pillow at night, or slept with it right under his arm.

"You mean, my next appointment?"

Paul shrugged. "It's only 8 a.m.," he checked his watch, was one of those old-fashioned people who, although they were hooked on their phones most of the time, reading the news or talking to people for business, still glanced at their watches rather than their phones to tell the time. "I take it you have a long list of visitors scheduled after I'm gone."

"Well," Sara said, "you're going to be glad you missed the next one."

Paul's eyebrows furrowed. "Your CIA director?"

"I don't know why you don't like her."

"She's ruthless," Paul said, in the same earnest tone he had used to dissuade her from keeping her in the first place. "And a Republican."

"So were you, before you started working for me."

"But I'm not a leftover from the most ludicrous government in history."

"When such a big change is coming in government," Sara said, "it's good to have some degree of continuity – yes, even with a government of the type I'm leaving behind. And she was one of the few," very few, "smart people to work for the last president. She confessed she stopped him from starting a nuclear war with North Korea – twice."

Paul shrugged, unimpressed. "CIA directors are people who make uncomfortable choices – not every day, but often enough. Just their line of work. But you can tell it doesn't make her bat an eye anymore. I can't understand why you'd like her."

"I never said I liked her."

"But you –"

"I said I couldn't see why you wouldn't. And I can't. You're not poles apart, as far as I can tell. Or are you just afraid you won't be the coldest person in the room?"

Kellerman gave her a don't tease look.

"Well," she said, after he'd snapped his notebook shut and risen to his feet. "Have a safe trip."

"And have fun moving in. Seriously," he said, as if she might have missed how serious he sounded. For the first time since he'd stepped inside the office, Kellerman gave a long look around, taking in the overwhelming cream colors, the power-inspiring eagle painted on the blue rug. "This is yours. You've worked hard to get here. You're allowed to enjoy it."

A chuckle broke past Sara's lips, after Paul had left the office.

It didn't surprise her he would think that being president was a victory anyone would enjoy, or that she would actually need his permission for the purpose.

Sara breathed in sharply and leant back against the desk, facing the door, as the aura of the office – power and emptiness – filled her soul to the brim.

Her victory was the occasion to change the world as much as it could bear changing in four years' time. To deal with people like Bagwell and Abruzzi on a daily basis, because she didn't fool herself that she wasn't going to meet a tremendous opposition –

The world was as it was because the small handful of people at the top were willing to do anything in their power to keep it that way.

It was time they see what she had in store for them.

Someone knocked on the door, and one of the people who had worked on Sara's campaign and had since become a loyal assistance announced, "Gretchen Morgan's here to see you, Madam President."

Sara traced her fingers across the surface of the desk as she made her way behind it, to the presidential chair.

"Send her in," she said.

End Notes: Sorry I was a little long in updating. I am working on this story every day but I have a lot on my plate these days, and I'm also trying to save some time to read wonderful memoirs about the last two governments. What a world we're getting ;) I'd love to know your thoughts and ideas. Some suggestions have really helped me move the plot forward. Thanks again to all the guests for their nice reviews which I unfortunately can't reply to with PMs.