The election results came out exactly as the polls had predicted — no surprises, no upsets. If there was one word to describe how the campaign ended for the Black president and Charlie, that word was disaster.
By nine-fifteen on election night, the opposing candidate had accumulated enough electoral votes from the states he'd already won to lock up more than 270. The race was over before a third of the country had finished counting. Whatever the remaining states produced was academic.
The results were certified and final.
The following morning, the Black president stepped onto the White House lawn and formally conceded defeat, extending congratulations to his opponent and calling on him to move quickly to assemble his administration and begin the transition process.
Barring any unforeseen circumstances, Benjamin Asher — the former military man turned presidential candidate — was going to the White House. That much was already carved in stone.
The public was thrilled. As far as most people were concerned, this president had been a walking disaster from the start, and it was long past time for him to go. With Benjamin Asher's iron-fisted approach in the commander-in-chief seat and Old Willie's sainthood behind him, wasn't it practically God-given that America would prosper? All they had to do was sit back and count their money.
...
The failed campaign still hit the Swan family, though the fallout came in a strange shape.
All the election-season publicity had made Bella famous.
She'd already had a name in narrow circles — first as a bestselling author, then as the reigning queen of Chanel's fashion world. But fashion's reach only went so far. A man like Victor von Doom — the archetypal tech-obsessed straight-guy type who spent every waking hour obsessing over scientific progress and the structure of human society — had zero interest in perfume or women's couture. Not even remotely. Don't bother telling him about it, either.
The election, though, put the Swan family in front of the entire country. And of the Swans, most were content to stay in the background. The one who wasn't — the one with money, with time, and with a face worth looking at — stepped naturally into the public eye.
Bella was drowning in compliments. The constant adoration fed her a nearly inexhaustible supply of psionic energy, and she could feel herself inching closer and closer to mastering her first 6th-level spell.
Happy. Exhilarated. On top of the world.
And also: deeply, profoundly annoyed.
"I love you madly, without you my life has no meaning, ha — oh, listen to this one — Dearest Bella, I would die for you—..." Natasha was reading aloud from a newspaper with theatrical flair, affecting the voice of a lovesick suitor. Lately, confessions had been appearing in the classified ads with almost daily regularity — from men and women alike.
Natasha was losing it. Beside her, little Katie sat in her stroller watching the two older girls with wide eyes, clearly wanting to laugh but not quite daring to.
The Swan household had been chaotic lately, to put it mildly.
Flowers. Strangers coming over to hit on her. Fake requests for directions. Staged car accidents. People dramatically collapsing on the front doorstep. Every variety of suitor had shown up at least once.
Charlie, worn down to his last nerve, had quietly suggested to his daughter that maybe she should consider disappearing for a few days.
She would have gone in a heartbeat — if the baby in Natasha's belly had nothing to do with her. But it had everything to do with her.
You're going to go off gallivanting for five months while your wife is pregnant, come home for two days to catch your breath, and then vanish for another five months?
Natasha hadn't said a word. But Bella herself knew that kind of behavior was indefensible.
So she stayed. She'd turned down Monarch's invitation to join the second Savage Land expedition — the Antarctic valley that Monarch and S.H.I.E.L.D. had officially named the Savage Land — under Natasha's hopeful gaze, telling Dr. Serizawa she had absolutely no interest in outdoor adventure. Not going.
Cornered, with no escape and an army of admirers at the gate, she had to do something.
Bella — Mentor of the Assassin Brotherhood, elder stateswoman of Kamar-Taj's younger sorcerers, shadow power behind Weyland-Yutani, queen of Arendelle — found herself stumped. What exactly do you do with a mob of lovesick admirers? You can't just send assassins after them.
As Natasha's tone grew noticeably more sour by the day, Bella pulled out the big gun.
She wrote the music, wrote the lyrics, and recorded a single — ten days of work, start to finish — to make her feelings on the matter perfectly clear.
The song was called "GQ."
A staggering amount of promotional spending followed. She hit the major charts hard — blitzing every platform with a promotional push — and the results were immediate. The lyrics were simple, the beat was breezy, and when paired with Bella's distinctively languid voice, "GQ" detonated on arrival. Even middle-aged people who never listened to pop music were humming it in the elevator.
> Stop wasting my time
>
> Even on the cover of GQ
>
> I am never going home with you
>
> A leather jacket don't impress me
>
> I'm not a fool
The single was immediately dubbed the "fuckboy takedown song." It was a blunt, gleeful skewering of every well-dressed, smooth-talking man who'd been preening in front of her while thinking with the wrong half of his body.
"So?" Bella turned to her wife. "Does my song speak to your heart, Nat?"
"You're so raunchy," Natasha said, and that was her complete review.
...
The Black president, knowing full well the public had no love for him, threw himself into the transition with unusual diligence. On January 20, 2005, Benjamin Asher placed his hand on the Bible, took the oath of office, and was sworn in as the 44th President of the United States, officially moving into the White House to begin his four-year term.
That weekend, now a private citizen with no obligations, the Black president came by the Swan house with Hobbs Sawyer in tow.
"I've had enough — but honestly, you still have a shot. This time around it was me who dragged you down. Your performance in the vice-presidential debate was excellent. If you're interested, now is exactly the time to start laying the groundwork..." He nursed his beer and gave Charlie the pitch.
Bella and Hobbs had history — they'd explored the Savage Land together — so the two of them had drifted to one side to drink and left the two politicians to their conversation.
In her heart, Bella didn't think Charlie should wade back into that swamp. No real point.
Charlie was torn.
He understood what was actually being offered. This wasn't just encouragement — it was the transfer of a political machine. The man's faction within the Democratic Party, the network he'd spent years building, all of it.
His exhaustion was obvious. Those four years had wrung him out completely, and he had no appetite for another run. If Charlie said yes, he would inherit the entire operation and spend the next four years positioning himself for the top spot.
"Your father running for president himself next cycle is also an option," Hobbs said. Big man, quiet wisdom — Hobbs Sawyer wasn't apolitical, just uninterested. But he understood the stakes. They'd talked about this during the Savage Land expedition. When it's a stranger sitting in the Oval Office versus someone you're actually related to, the meaning is entirely different.
Bella hadn't taken a side then, and she didn't take one now.
There were arguments for it. There were arguments against it.
What mattered was Charlie's own choice. Their job as family was to be the backdrop, not the directors. Stay out of it.
Something occurred to her. She turned to Hobbs: "I heard you're leaving Monarch to take a position as a Special Forces instructor?"