John Franklin held two dark secrets. The one concerning his true lineage he kept from the American people, and the second one he kept from his wife. Just like his father and his beloved uncle, beneath the public veneer of respectability, he was innately immoral. He was a deep-rooted misogynist and, throughout his married life, had kept a string of mistresses in a discreet downtown apartment. He had just enjoyed an afternoon tryst with his latest fling, who was already beginning to bore him. Her name was Annabelle Johnson; a twenty-something fashion model who was hooked on cocaine and the presidential candidate. They had met backstage after one of Franklin’s many TV appearances, and, for the last four months, she had been ensconced in the apartment. As he walked out of the bedroom, he paused in the doorway. He had already decided she’d overstayed her welcome. Annabelle had just finished showering and was drying her hair by the side of the bed.

“Annie, I want you gone by Friday as I’m redecorating the apartment. It’s been fun, but it’s time to move on.”

She switched off the dryer and her eyes immediately began to well up. “John, what the fuck do you want me to do? I’ve got nowhere to go.”

“Today I transferred thirty thousand dollars into your personal account. So just fuck off.”

He slammed the door and walked into the hallway.

She screamed after him. “You fucking bastard. That dick of yours will cost you the White House.”

He smiled as he reached the front door and murmured under his breath. “You stupid bitch. That’s the least of my problems.”

An hour later, he was enjoying dinner at home with his wife, Caroline, and their twelve-year-old son, Bill. In the last few months, he had rarely been home as he had visited over thirty different states in his relentless pursuit to win the Republican presidential nomination. Achieving that goal would bring him one step closer to the ultimate prize, which was now within touching distance.

He was deep in conversation with Bill, who was entertaining his father with an in-depth account of a school visit, earlier that day, from his football idol, David Beckham. Bill was a huge LA Galaxy fan and was telling his father about his favourite Beckham tattoo and how he wanted one exactly the same. The particular piece of body ink that Bill was besotted with featured a Gothic-style cross joined to a set of angel wings that were positioned above the name of his son, Romeo.

The debate on the merits of a twelve-year-old boy having a neck tattoo was cut short as Franklin’s phone buzzed. Caroline gave him a slightly disapproving look, but he still took the call. It was from Cathy Douglas, who was heading up his campaign.

“John, I know you are having a family night off but switch the TV on right now and then call me back.”