The mechanics of the briefing clicked on around her, the wall of famous faces was now ramrod straight in the front row, each of them wearing their own version of The Look of Deep Concern (furrowed brow, nodding head), and yelling to be heard over one another at the cameras in the back of the room.

“We don’t know what he’ll say.”

“Expecting the press secretary at any moment.”

“I’d hate to speculate, so I can only guess.”

They were all saying the same thing—absolutely nothing.

The blue door on the back wall of the briefing room slid open, sending a flutter along the edge of the flags on either side of the podium with the great Seal of the President on it.

Matt tapped his left eye with his phone to get Natalie’s attention. “One of your lashes is falling off.”

Of course it was. She was even failing at keeping her eyelashes on. She reached up and ripped it off, flinching. She crunched the lashes in her hand and didn’t know if it was the pain or the subtle air of excitement that swept over the room, but in that moment her nervousness transformed into resolve. Maybe she was only temporary, but she wasn’t going to give up without a fight. She just had to play their game, and do it better than they did.

She watched as three serious young White House aides carrying clipboards and wearing unfortunate suits marched through the door and sat poker-faced in classroom-style chairs against the wall, looking as though they’d just been told they were going to have to retake driver’s ed. About four paces behind them came Adam Majors, the White House communications director. Natalie had seen him on television so many times she felt like she knew him. As usual he appeared to be in a state of pique. He stood behind the podium surveying the room with the pinched look of a bachelor tasked with changing a dirty diaper.

“Welcome to your White House briefing. I’m here to talk about the summit. It’s a glorious event organized by our president, meant to strengthen America and our alliances. And to keep gas cheap.”