Four broad-shouldered men in dark tailored suits, coiled earpieces, and tactical lapel pins stepped out in synchronized precision
“Imaginary boyfriends don’t count, Maya,” Aunt Beatrice cackled, swirling her third glass of cheap Pinot Grigio across the mahogany table of the private dining room. “It’s been three years. Just admit you hired a seat filler so your cousins wouldn’t pity you.”
My knuckles turned white against the linen napkin. The entire Reynolds family dinner paused, waiting for my humiliation. Uncle Greg smirked into his steak, while my cousin Chloe adjusted her diamond engagement ring, eager to relish in my solitary misery. I had promised I was bringing someone special tonight—someone I met during my consulting contract in D.C. six months ago. But as the clock ticked past eight, the empty chair beside me felt like an open grave.
“He got held up at work,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Oh, right. His critical government consulting,” Chloe snickered, leaning into her fiancé’s shoulder. “What does he do again? File papers for the Department of Transportation?”
Before the laughter could fully erupt, the restaurant’s French doors rattled. Heavy rubber tires screeched against the wet asphalt of the valet lane outside. Two massive, armored black Suburbans mounted the curb, parking aggressively at an angle that blocked the entire street.
The dining room fell dead silent.
Four broad-shouldered men in dark tailored suits, coiled earpieces, and tactical lapel pins stepped out in synchronized precision. Two flanked the restaurant entrance, hands resting casually near their jackets, while the other two pushed the double doors wide open. Every fork in the dining room clattered to the floor. The restaurant manager was sweating profusely, stammering incoherently as one of the agents flashed a gold shield.
Then came James.
He walked in briskly, brushing rain from the shoulders of his charcoal coat, looking undeniably striking and painfully real. He didn’t look at the staring patrons or the frozen waitstaff. His eyes locked straight onto me.
“Sorry we’re late, sweetheart,” James said smoothly, striding directly to my table and wrapping his warm hand firmly around mine. He leaned down, kissing my cheek with absolute ease. “The President held me up on the tarmac at Andrews. We had an unscheduled briefing.”
Aunt Beatrice dropped her wine glass. Red liquid soaked into the white tablecloth like fresh blood.
The sharp shatter of the crystal wine glass echoed against the mahogany walls like a gunshot, breaking the frozen stupor that had gripped the private dining room.
Aunt Beatrice stammered, her mouth opening and closing like a fish stranded on a dock, while her hand hovered uselessly over the spreading pool of red wine. Uncle Greg slowly pushed his plate away, his arrogant smirk replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated panic. As for my cousin Chloe, she stared at James with her jaw nearly unhinged, her eyes darting between him and the Secret Service agents stationed rigidly by the double doors.
James didn’t even glance at them. He pulled out the empty chair beside me, smoothly seated himself, and signaled a trembling waiter who was practically vibrating against the wall.
“Bring us a bottle of your finest Cabernet, and whatever the chef recommends for dinner,” James instructed calmly, his voice carrying the effortless authority of a man accustomed to having entire rooms alter their reality to accommodate him.
The waiter bolted as if chased by ghosts.
I turned my head slightly, leaning in toward James. My heart was hammering against my ribs, half from adrenaline, half from the sheer absurdity of the moment. “You actually came,” I whispered. “And what was that about the President?”
James offered a small, crooked smile that softened the hard, chiseled lines of his face. He reached under the table, finding my hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “POTUS wanted an emergency sign-off on the cyber-infrastructure bill before tomorrow’s Senate floor vote. I told him my girlfriend was hosting a rather critical family dinner in Manhattan and that he was on a strict thirty-minute clock.”
I blinked. “You… you told the President of the United States to hurry up because of dinner?”
“I’m an indispensable asset, Maya,” he chuckled softly. “He grumbled, signed the papers, and handed me a sealed envelope. Said to give it to your family with his personal regards.”
Before I could process that, James reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope embossed with the presidential seal in heavy gold leaf, and laid it casually right next to Aunt Beatrice’s wine-stained napkin.
The table sucked in a collective breath.
Uncle Greg finally found his voice, clearing his throat nervously. “Excuse me, young man… I mean, sir. Who exactly are you? You can’t just barge into a private family gathering with armed federal guards—”
One of the Secret Service agents near the entrance took a single, deliberate step forward. The mere shift in his posture made Uncle Greg snap his mouth shut instantly.
James slowly turned his head, his gray eyes locking onto my uncle with a terrifying, cool intensity. “My name is James Sterling. And as for who I am to Maya… I’m the man who happens to direct National Security Cyber Operations under the executive branch. As for barging in? Consider it an executive privilege.”
Aunt Beatrice finally recovered enough motor function to squeak out a defense, her face flushing a furious, mottled crimson. “This… this is completely absurd! Anyone can print a fake envelope with a gold seal! You probably hired actors! This is a sick joke!”
James didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t lose his temper. He simply picked up the presidential envelope, slid his finger under the flap, and pulled out a heavy cardstock letter bearing the official letterhead of the White House.
He unfolded it and read aloud in a smooth, resonant baritone:
“Dear Mrs. Beatrice Reynolds, and esteemed members of the family,
It has come to my attention via Director James Sterling that his partner, Maya, has frequently been subjected to unwarranted skepticism regarding the validity of her relationship. Please be advised that Director Sterling’s time is currently valued at several million dollars per annum in service to the United States, and his devotion to Maya is the only thing keeping him from moving her permanently to a secure compound in D.C.
Furthermore, if anyone at this table ever questions her achievements or her partner again, I will personally dispatch the Department of Transportation to audit every single commercial venture Uncle Greg owns, down to the last parking meter.
Warm regards, The President.”
Silence descended upon the table so absolute you could hear the ice cubes melting in the water pitcher across the room.
Chloe looked like she was about to faint. Uncle Greg slumped back in his chair, his skin turning the color of skim milk as he remembered his struggling real estate and parking lot business ventures. Aunt Beatrice stared at the presidential seal as if it were a venomous snake about to strike.
I sat frozen, a slow, triumphant smile creeping across my lips. I looked at James, who gave me a subtle, wicked wink beneath the table.
“Well,” James said cheerfully, picking up his water glass and raising it toward my shell-shocked relatives. “To family dinners. May they always be this entertaining.”
