"The First Lady…" Jonathan said, his voice low, the words landing like a thunderclap. A deafening silence followed, the room's musky scent and cigar smoke closing in, the soft hum of the city outside the windows swallowed by the weight of his revelation.
He stared at me, his grin awkward, his eyes flickering with unease, his cigar paused mid-air, sweat beading on his brow. I gave him a blank stare, my face frozen, my mind reeling, the name—the First Lady—echoing in my skull. We blinked at each other three, four times, the silence stretching, my heart pounding.
"What the actual fuck?" I finally said, my voice sharp, breaking the silence.
Jonathan laughed, a nervous chuckle, sipping his wine, the red liquid swirling as he set the glass down with a clink. "Yeah… that's what I thought when my phone rang this morning and I had to scramble to prepare the papers," he said, his voice lighter. "Whole thing felt like a fever dream," he added, his grin widening.
