The Sunday interview had shifted something.
By Monday morning, Kamala’s team was tracking a quiet but significant shift in public sentiment. Social media posts flooded in—words like dignified, human, resilient rising in trending tags. The press was still relentless, but the tone had changed. She was no longer being ridiculed. She was being examined. Respected. Even defended.
Her approval rating climbed three points in forty-eight hours.
Inside the West Wing, the mood shifted with it. Staff who had been walking on eggshells found renewed energy. Senior advisors no longer whispered in hallways. There was a sense that maybe—just maybe—this would pass.
Kamala focused on the one thing she could control: the job.
She doubled down on policy work. Legislation that had been stalled began to move. She met with lawmakers with new urgency, held town halls, and sat for economic briefings that stretched well into the night. She smiled more in public. Not much—but enough.
It hurt like hell. But she was doing it.
Every time she was tempted to reach for her phone, she reminded herself of the stakes. Every time she looked at Doug’s shirt folded on the armrest, she forced herself to keep walking.
The presidency came first. It always had.
But somewhere in the dark corners of the internet—on encrypted forums and shadow message boards—her progress wasn’t seen as survival.
It was seen as defiance.
The person, or people, behind the threats hadn’t forgotten Doug Emhoff. They had simply adapted. And as Kamala stood before Congress, discussing new climate legislation with a calm that masked her heartache, someone else was watching.
They saw a woman who had not crumbled.
They saw someone who had taken the hit and kept moving.
And it made them furious.
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The event was meant to be routine.
Kamala was scheduled to speak at the opening of a federal green energy facility—a milestone for her administration’s investment in sustainable infrastructure. It was in downtown D.C., close enough that she didn’t require a full travel security detail, but far enough from the White House to offer a little breathing room.
The morning was crisp. The sky was a brilliant blue. The crowd was manageable.
Kamala wore a deep green suit, simple gold earrings, and a quiet expression.
She stood at the podium on a temporary outdoor stage, delivering her remarks with clear, confident precision. Applause followed her closing words. As she turned to step down from the platform—
—an explosion tore through the street two blocks away.
The sound was deafening. Concrete buckled. Glass shattered. Panic erupted.
Kamala’s security team was on her in an instant, shielding her, shouting commands into earpieces.
People screamed. The crowd surged. Debris rained down from a partially collapsed building near the blast site.
“WE HAVE TO MOVE!” someone yelled.
Kamala was ushered behind the stage and then through the back of the facility toward emergency vehicles and reinforced transportation.
But the chaos made navigation impossible.
Another boom sounded—smaller, but closer. A secondary device.
The air filled with dust and smoke.
In the confusion, there was a split second—just one—where Kamala lost visual contact with her team. A piece of debris struck a metal awning above her, which crumpled and fell.
The Secret Service screamed her name.
Then everything went dark.
YOU ARE READING
The Plot (Complete)
FanfictionI wish no ill will to anyone. I very much like Kamala and Doug as a couple and the love and support they provide to each other. But as in all good fiction, there must be drama.
