The Plot (Complete)

Aftermath

The apartment was pristine and impersonal—white walls, minimalist furniture, expensive fixtures that screamed exclusivity and anonymity all at once. Doug stood in the center of it, unmoving, the envelope still clutched in his hand. He hadn't even opened the closet where his belongings had been neatly arranged by the staff Kamala had organized.

He didn't need to. None of it mattered.

He walked slowly to the window and stared out at the city that had become a second home. Somewhere out there, his wife—the woman who once curled into him at night and whispered dreams into the curve of his neck—was carrying on as if nothing had happened. Making speeches. Signing legislation. Playing the part of a woman whose life hadn’t just imploded her husband’s.

Doug sat on the edge of the bed, the same phrase looping in his head: This isn’t real.

But the photos were real. The texts. The silence. Her absence.

And now, this room.

His phone buzzed. Tony.

He stared at the name for a moment. Then let it go dark. He wasn't in the mood for a sympathy call.

He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. If he didn’t move, didn’t think, maybe time would pass. Maybe he’d wake up in their  Brentwood home, to the smell of Kamala cooking and humming Motown.

But when he opened his eyes, the ceiling was unfamiliar. Cold.

The phone buzzed again. This time, he answered.

"Doug?" Tony’s voice was calm, grounded.

"Yeah."

"You don’t have to say anything. Just letting you know I’m here."

Doug exhaled slowly. "I appreciate that."

"I figured you might not want to be alone. The kids have been texting. Couple of your buddies from L.A. too. They’re all worried."

Doug sat up, brows knitting. "I am not really in the mood to talk to anyone right now." How the hell did everyone know to reach out so fast?"

Tony hesitated just long enough for it to register. "Word gets around. People care. That’s all."

"Anyway," Tony added, trying to keep it light, "you want me to swing by later? Bring some real food instead of whatever they stocked that mini fridge with?"

Doug managed a ghost of a smile. "Yeah. That sounds good. Thanks, man."

"Anytime."

"Doug?" Tony’s voice was calm, careful.

"Yeah."

"Are you okay?"

He gave a hollow laugh. "Do I sound okay?"

Silence.

"Did you know?" he asked.

"I suspected something was wrong. I didn’t know the details until today."

"She couldn’t even face me, Tony. Not even for five minutes. Not even to lie to my face."

"I don’t know what to say."

"There’s nothing to say. I just needed to hear a voice that didn’t sound like it was reading from a script."

Tony was quiet for a beat. "I'm here. Whenever you need."

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see. "Thanks."

After the call, he tossed the phone aside and lay back on the bed again. The drink sat on the nightstand, untouched now.

For the first time in years, Doug Emhoff felt completely alone.

---

Across town, Kamala sat in the residence, staring at the blank wall of her private sitting room. She had canceled her meetings for the day. Her staff had fabricated a scheduling conflict. No one questioned it.

The room was too quiet. The emptiness pressed in on her.

She thought about him constantly. Wondered what he was doing. If he had eaten. If he hated her.

Of course he hated her. He was supposed to.

She'd spent the morning rereading the messages she had drafted for Elaine to deliver. Cold. Final. She hated every word.

Her hands trembled as she held the glass of wine she hadn't touched. She couldn’t even bring herself to drink. It felt like cheating on grief.

She had wanted to be strong. To be presidential. But sitting here, alone in the aftermath of the lie she’d told, she felt like anything but.

She picked up the photo from the end table—one of them laughing at a barbecue, taken during the campaign. Her smile was wide. His arms were around her waist.

Before the story broke, she had made arrangements: briefed Maya, asked Tony to reach out, even ensured the kids would be gently contacted and kept close. She’d made sure Doug wouldn’t be alone. That someone would be there when she couldn’t be.

It felt cold now, calculated. Like she had planned his heartbreak with the same precision she planned national policy.

She ran her fingers over his image. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

But he wasn’t there to hear it.

And that, more than anything, was the part that broke her.