Chapter 3: The Golden Interior
President Ron Drumpf awoke to a dazzling glow that morning, a shimmer so bright it could have been mistaken for a divine apparition. In truth, it was the reflection of early sunlight on the newly installed golden drapes of the Ivory House master bedroom. The heavy brocade curtains – threaded with actual gold filigree – cast flecks of warm light across the room, illuminating the space in a garish hue of yellow. Ron blinked awake in this gilded cocoon, momentarily disoriented by the opulence he himself had ordered.
He sat up in the oversized bed, its headboard recently refitted with gold-leaf embellishments shaped like laurel wreaths. The President smiled in groggy satisfaction. This was how a leader of his stature should live: ensconced in luxury that screamed of victory and wealth. History be damned – the Ivory House belonged to him now, to remake in his own image. Gone were the staid cream walls and modest colonial furniture beloved by past presidents. In their place, ornate mirrors with golden frames hung alongside enormous oil portraits of Ron Drumpf himself in various heroic poses. Every table leg, every lamp, every doorknob had been replaced with something shinier, louder, more him.
A faint knock at the bedroom door interrupted his reverie. Ron cleared his throat. "Yeah, come in," he called, voice still raspy from a night of fitful, covfefe-fueled dreams.
The door opened to reveal Ivy Drumpf, impeccably dressed even at this early hour in a tailored cream pantsuit. The first daughter and Special Advisor to the President moved with practiced poise across the gilded threshold. Behind her trailed an aide balancing a silver tray bearing two cups of coffee and today's Columbian Times folded neatly.
"Good morning, Daddy," Ivy chimed, her tone as sweet as the artificial sugar substitute dissolving in her coffee. She took in the room's dazzling decor without a blink. By now, she was used to it – she had helped plan much of the redesign, after all. Ivy had long mastered the art of keeping a serene smile in even the most ostentatious of surroundings.
Ron grinned, gesturing broadly at the room with outstretched arms. "Morning, sweetheart. How do ya like what I've done with the place? Hah! Even Louis the whatever – that French king guy – even he didn't have it this good." He chuckled, already pleased with his own joke.
Ivy stepped closer and perched on the edge of an ornate armchair upholstered in white velvet and trimmed with gold studs. She glanced up at the ceiling, where a new chandelier dripping with crystal and gilded cherubs hung, catching the morning sun. "It's very...you," she offered diplomatically. The light glinted in her eyes, making it hard to tell if they were sparkling with amusement or fatigue. "The newspapers certainly have noticed. There's a piece in the Times about the 'Golden Interior'." She nodded toward the folded paper on the tray the aide was still holding.
At the mention of media, Ron's smile faltered. He reached for the paper. "What're they saying now? Probably praising it as the most luxurious makeover ever, right?" His voice bristled with defensive pride even as he fumbled with his reading glasses.
Ivy maintained her pleasant expression. "They compare it to, um, Saddam Hussein's palace, King Midas's castle, and a bit to Liberace's taste, I believe." Her careful phrasing couldn't mask the sharp edge of satire the journalists no doubt employed. Ivy had read the article; it dripped with the kind of arch tone that flew right past her father.
Ron squinted at the print, lips moving as he skimmed. "'Gaudy display…lack of respect for historical…' blah blah." He tossed the paper aside onto the golden duvet. "Fake news. They're just jealous. The Ivory House has never looked better. Classiest decor of any presidency, maybe ever. Anyone with an eye can see that." He jabbed a finger upward, presumably indicating the unseen masses of people who should appreciate his aesthetic.
The aide silently placed the coffee cups on a small side table carved to resemble an eagle with outstretched wings – its plumage, naturally, gilded – and excused himself.
Ivy leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially even though they were alone. "Daddy, the article does mention names of a few lobbyists and donors... implying they financed some of this redecoration. We should be prepared to respond."
Ron waved a hand dismissively, nearly spilling his coffee. "Respond? Why? Everyone loved those lobbyists when they poured money into the campaign, but now they want to whine about a few home improvements?" He took a gulp of the lukewarm coffee and made a face; it wasn't his preferred fast-food brew, but Ivy was insistent on these bespoke beans. "Anyway, who cares if they paid? That's what supporters are for, right?"
Ivy allowed herself a small sigh. "Of course. But the optics—"
"Optics?" he scoffed. "Optics is that thing for glasses, I have 20/20 vision." Ron slid out of bed, revealing his paisley silk pajamas straining over his stomach. He grabbed a burgundy robe, custom-embroidered with the Presidential seal in gold thread, and threw it over his shoulders. "Relax, Ivy. People expect me to live like a king. It shows strength."
Ivy stood, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in her sleeve. "Strength, yes. It certainly sends a message." She paused delicately. "Speaking of our generous friends, a few of them are coming by later to see the changes. Possibly to ensure their 'investments' were put to good use."
Ron smirked and moved to a gilded mirror above the fireplace to inspect his hair – still holding shape from last night's copious styling gel. "Great. I love an audience. We'll give them the grand tour. Did you see the Oval Office yet? I had them install those gold-plated handles on the Resolute Desk. It's beautiful, tremendous. The best desk upgrade since Roosevelt, maybe ever."
"I peeked in yesterday," Ivy said. "It's...unique." She chose her words like a diplomat, which ironically, she effectively was. "Just remember, Senator Brewster will be here, and he's bringing that hedge fund friend – the one angling for an ambassadorship. They'll definitely comment on the decor."
At the mention of an ambassadorship, Ron's attention sharpened. He turned from the mirror. "Ah yes, the ambassadorships." A sly glint flickered in his eye, as if he'd just spotted an opportunity in a business negotiation. "Remind me, which country does he want again? Something with a beach, right?"
Ivy allowed herself a faint, knowing smile. This was her specialty: managing the delicate transactional dance of the Drumpf administration. "He's very interested in the ambassadorship to Saint Kitts and Nevis."
"Saint Kits and... what is that, a Caribbean island? Two islands? Never mind, if it's got a beach resort, I don't blame him," Ron said. He ran a comb through his hair as he spoke, taming a stray wisp back into place. "So the guy funds a chunk of our little redecorating project and in return he gets to play diplomat in paradise. Sounds fair. Washington has been doing this forever. I'm just honest about it."
"Of course, Daddy." Ivy stepped over to the window, peeking around the heavy drapes at the South Lawn below. Even the lawn ornaments hadn't escaped transformation – a new gold-plated flagpole gleamed in the morning sun, the flag of Columbia fluttering proudly above. She turned back to him. "Just be aware that the press might also be aware of the arrangement. If it leaks that a donor effectively bought an ambassadorship by financing your new...interior design project, there will be scrutiny."
Ron shrugged and belted his robe, a defensive gesture as though armoring himself for battle. "Let them scrutinize. I'll say I chose him because he's a terrific guy, very successful, knows about island things – he has that yacht, doesn't he? So he'll be a natural fit sailing around those little countries."
A ghost of a frown crossed Ivy's face. "I believe Saint Kitts and Nevis are actually two islands that form one country, and he likely won't be sailing much as an ambassador, Daddy. But yes, he does have a yacht."
Ron grinned. "There you go. He'll feel right at home. And he donated, what, five million to the cause? That's worth something. We're saving taxpayer money on these upgrades!" He swept an arm theatrically to indicate the lavish room again. "I should get credit for that, not criticism. Private sector solutions!"
The First Daughter suppressed the urge to correct her father that those were political contributions and not exactly earmarked for gold paneling the Lincoln Bedroom. Instead, she nodded. "We'll spin it that way if needed. Speaking of upgrades, the contractors have finished the East Room overnight. They installed the new Italian marble floor and the gold-trimmed columns you wanted. The lobbyists from the mining association will be here at noon to see their contribution."
Ron clapped his hands once in delight. The mining lobby had ponied up handsomely to have the President's ear on some land leases; in exchange, they had underwritten a full refurbishment of the East Room, complete with marble imported from Carrara and topped with—naturally—gold leaf inlays. It was a win-win, as far as he was concerned. "Noon, got it. Make sure there's plenty of cameras. I'll thank them publicly for their patriotism or something. They'll eat it up."
Ivy managed a thin-lipped smile. She had already arranged a small press pool to cover the President "inspecting renovations" in the East Room, framing it as highlighting American craftsmanship (even if much of the material was imported). Spin was her forte. "All set. Just remember to mention how these enhancements honor Columbian greatness." She used the word "Columbian" pointedly.
"Right, right, Columbian gold, Columbian marble, best in the world," Ron rattled off, waving a hand as he moved toward the bathroom to get ready for the day. As he entered the bathroom, Ivy heard an appreciative "Ha!" echo off the tiles. He had no doubt seen the new fixtures: custom faucets of solid gold, shaped like eagle heads with water spouting from their beaks. It was a gift from a defense contractor's CEO – a thank you for an increased military budget. One more example, Ivy thought wryly, of policy literally trickling down as gold-plated water into a marble sink.
She took a breath and headed out to prepare for the day's parade of benefactors. As she left, she nearly collided in the hallway with Melina Drumpf, the First Lady, who was just returning from her morning Pilates. Melina's eyes widened briefly as she caught the sunlight bouncing off a newly hung gilded mirror, magnifying the glow of Ivy's blonde hair. Even Melina, who was no stranger to extravagance, looked vaguely unsettled by the palace-like interior that had taken over the Ivory House.
"Oh, good morning, Melina," Ivy greeted her stepmother politely.
Melina tugged off her oversized designer sunglasses, revealing carefully made-up eyes. She glanced around the corridor, noting the transformed decor – gold crown molding running along the ceiling and a series of gold-framed mirrors lining the walls between portraits of Ron. "It is a bit...much, no?" she said in her softly-accented voice, tilting her head at a mirror that reflected them both surrounded by glinting ornamentation.
Ivy gave a practiced shrug. "Daddy's very proud of it. It's his way of leaving a mark."
Melina's lips pressed into something like a smile but thinner, and perhaps more strained. "He certainly leaves marks," she murmured. Her tone was light, but Ivy sensed the undercurrent. The First Lady had occasionally tried to moderate some of Ron's more gaudy impulses – she had a stylist's eye from her modeling days – but in the end, Ron's penchant for gold had steamrolled all opposition.
"We have donors visiting later," Ivy offered, as if that explained everything. In their world, it usually did.
Melina pursed her lips. She was dressed in athletic wear now, but Ivy knew she would soon emerge for the public in a pristinely tailored designer outfit, likely chosen to complement whatever grand room she'd be photographed in. "I will be sure to wear gold," Melina said dryly, and with that she continued on toward the residence wing, shaking her head slightly as she passed a newly installed gold bust of President Ron Drumpf on a pedestal in the hallway.
Ivy checked her phone, already seeing a string of messages from the Chief of Staff about the day's schedule. Time to move. She made her way down the grand staircase (the railing, once polished mahogany, now a swirl of gold and mahogany carvings) and toward the Oval Office.
On the way, she passed a cluster of tourists being led on a special tour – donors being rewarded with a morning peek inside the refurbished Ivory House. Their faces ranged from astonishment to barely concealed horror at the sight of such uninhibited grandiosity. Ivy smiled graciously as she glided by them, catching bits of murmured conversation:
"...like a Vegas casino..."
"...did you see that sofa? It has his face embroidered on it..."
"...I kind of love it, it's so bad it's good..."
She pretended not to hear, focusing instead on her destination.
Inside the Oval Office, Ivy found Ron Jr. slumped in one of the new chairs. The chairs were upholstered in rich burgundy leather with gold rivets, and each bore the presidential seal—along with Ron Drumpf's personal signature embossed on the headrest, lest anyone forget whose seat of power this was. Ron Jr. – the President's eldest son – cut a far less polished figure than his sister. He was fiddling with a gilded paperweight shaped like a miniature skyscraper.
"Morning, Ivy," Ron Jr. drawled, not rising from the chair. He wore a navy suit jacket over jeans – the Drumpf family's idea of business casual – and had an American flag pin the size of a silver dollar on his lapel.
"Good morning," Ivy replied. She took in the scene. The Oval Office was nearly unrecognizable now compared to the historic chamber they'd inherited. The famous Resolute Desk remained at the center, but even it had been altered: gold-plated drawer handles and decorative gold filigree edging along its top. Behind it hung an enormous portrait of President Drumpf glaring heroically into the distance, a pose strongly reminiscent of a painting of Napoleon crossing the Alps (with similar dramatic clouds and wind-swept hair, though Ron had insisted the artist make him even taller and more muscular).
The once cream-colored walls had been repainted a rich ivory white with a subtle shimmer, providing a backdrop for all the gold trim that lined the room's architectural details. Heavy gold-patterned draperies flanked the windows. In one corner, a golden coat rack held Ron's collection of custom "#1 President" caps (the thread in the embroidery glinted, as Ivy suspected, with metallic gold fibers).
Ron Jr. followed her gaze and chuckled. "Hell of a makeover, huh? I told Dad it feels like we're sitting in a treasure chest." He tossed the paperweight between his hands. "But he loves it. Kept saying how the media used to call it the 'White' House like it was so pure, but now it's the Golden House, the best house." Ron Jr. affected a dramatic tone clearly imitating their father.
Ivy permitted herself a small laugh. She walked around behind the desk, adjusting a slight misalignment of the chair with an instinctive touch. "As long as he's happy. He's certainly in his element. Though I think we've nearly run out of things to gold-plate." Her eyes landed on the pair of golden cherub statues perched atop a cabinet. She had no idea where those even came from—some donor's attic, perhaps.
Ron Jr. set the paperweight down carefully. It was a gift from a telecom magnate, Ivy recalled, who had insisted on presenting a golden replica of Drumpf Tower for the President's new office. In exchange, the magnate had likely gotten an ear for regulatory rollback. "So," Ron Jr. said, standing up and straightening his jacket, "we doing this tour for the donors together? I hear some big fish are coming."
Ivy nodded. "Yes. Senator Brewster and his hedge-fund friend – Leonard Pittman – will be here any minute. Also a few people from the Gold Alliance."
Ron Jr. raised an eyebrow. "The Gold Alliance? Is that a club or something?"
She smiled. "It's a coalition of, ironically, gold mining interests. They're thrilled with the decorative theme – it's like free advertising for them. They contributed heavily to these lovely accents, and in return they're hoping for some public lands to be opened for mining."
Ron Jr. let out a barking laugh. "Of course. Well, Dad's not gonna say no. He's like a kid in a candy store with them now, literally decorating with their product."
As if on cue, they heard Ron's boisterous voice coming down the hall before they saw him. President Drumpf strode into the Oval Office, now dressed in his suit and an extra-shiny gold tie that Ivy had to squint at in the morning light. Behind him trailed two Secret Service agents and the Chief of Staff, Walt, who looked mildly out of breath keeping up with the President's brisk, excited pace.
"Ah, here's my team!" Ron boomed, clearly in an expansive mood. "Ivy, Junior, you ready to show off the place? The Senator and our friend will be here in five. I want to start in the East Room – that's the showstopper."
Ivy stepped forward. "All arranged, Daddy. Press is ready as well."
Walt the Chief of Staff cleared his throat gently. "Mr. President, just a reminder to perhaps temper the messaging – emphasize historical preservation combined with enhancements, rather than, um, personal taste." His eyes flicked uneasily at the golden eagles mounted above the doorway.
Ron clapped Walt on the back, nearly making the shorter man stumble. "Don't worry, Walt. History is all about strong leaders making their mark. That's what I'll say. Lincoln redecorated too, you know."
Walt opened his mouth as if to correct that statement, then visibly decided it was a losing battle. He simply nodded. "Yes sir."
A Secret Service agent stepped forward, touching his earpiece. "Sir, the guests have arrived."
Ron immediately puffed up his chest and tugged his suit jacket, a preening gesture. "Fantastic. Let's dazzle them." He headed out of the Oval Office, beckoning the others to follow.
They proceeded down the hallway toward the East Room. As they walked, the gleam of the corridor's new decor was almost overwhelming. Sunlight from the windows danced off gold-framed Revolutionary War paintings that had been relocated here – now in frames far shinier than anything from the 18th century. The carpet had even been changed to a deep crimson red with interwoven gold threads spelling out "RD" in an elaborate monogram pattern that repeated like a designer logo. Ivy heard one of the Secret Service agents mutter under his breath, "Jesus, it's like walking inside a Fabergé egg."
When they reached the East Room, Ivy had to admit it was a spectacle. The East Room was one of the largest state rooms of the Ivory House, traditionally used for formal events. Now, its transformation was breathtaking in a way that felt more like a hotel ballroom in Las Vegas than the seat of Columbian democracy. The floor gleamed with brand-new Italian marble tiles in swirls of white and gray, each veined pattern catching the light beneath colossal crystal chandeliers. Those chandeliers were original to the Ivory House but had been meticulously cleaned and – naturally – refitted with gold-plated light fixtures and additional dangling ornaments shaped like tiny gold eagles.
What dominated the room now were the columns: along either side of the East Room stood a row of columns that had been part of the architecture since the early 1800s. Ron Drumpf had had them updated: each column was now partially clad in mirrored gold plate up to halfway, then capped with capitals painted in a faux gold leaf. The effect was jarring – as if the ancient classical pillars had dipped their toes in molten gold and frozen mid-transformation.
Gathered under the grand chandelier were the invitees: Senator Elijah Brewster – a stout man with a permanent grin and a shock of silver hair – and beside him, the hedge fund billionaire Leonard "Len" Pittman, identifiable by his expensive casual attire and the air of someone used to being catered to. A few other suited individuals hovered nearby – likely the mining lobby representatives – eyeing the new columns with proprietary pride.
"Senator Brewster, Len!" President Drumpf called out, arms wide as if welcoming old friends to his home (which in effect, it was). "Welcome to the new and improved Ivory House!"
The men returned the greeting. Senator Brewster pumped Ron's hand enthusiastically. "Mr. President, this is...something else! My goodness, would you look at this room." His voice had the slightest quaver of disbelief under the performative admiration.
Len Pittman's eyes roved over the golden accents. "Truly incredible, sir. I can see my reflection in those columns." He gave a toothy smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Ron Jr. and Ivy hung back subtly, letting their father soak in the attention. Ivy kept an eye on everyone's expressions, attuned to any sign of doubt or mockery that could sour her father's mood. For now, people played along – mostly.
Ron Drumpf launched into an impromptu tour, gesturing grandly at the features of the East Room. "You notice the flooring, Len? Imported marble, the best quality. Strong floors for a strong country. We had those dull wooden floors, old, very creaky – no good – so we put in marble. Makes it feel like a palace, which it should, right? A presidential palace."
Brewster chimed in eagerly, "Absolutely, Mr. President. Why shouldn't the home of the leader of the free world be as majestic as this?"
One of the mining lobbyists – a tall woman with a fixed smile – pointed upward. "Those chandeliers are magnificent. Are those gold eagles?" she asked, teeing up the obvious for the President.
"Good eye!" Ron exclaimed, delighted. "Yes, little eagles. Pure gold – well, mostly. A gift from patriots at the Gold Alliance." He winked at the group of mining representatives, who nodded approvingly.
Len Pittman stepped closer to one column, peering almost analytically at the mirror-like golden plating. "Impressive... The shine is impeccable. Almost looks like the Tower hotel in Vegas."
Ron didn't catch the subtle barb in that analogy and beamed. "I know, right? We got the idea from some of the great hotels, like the ones I built. People love that look. Makes 'em feel rich just being here."
Ivy noticed Senator Brewster's aide standing off to the side, scribbling in a notebook. Possibly notes for how to justify this extravagance in talking points later, she thought.
As the group migrated slowly toward the center of the room, one of the reporters allowed in cleared her throat and piped up, "Mr. President, what do you say to critics who argue these renovations are a waste of funds or too gaudy for the People's House?"
Ron turned toward the voice, a flash of annoyance in his eyes that Ivy recognized all too well. But he masked it with a broad smile, positioning himself beside a golden column as if it were his partner in a photo op. "I'd say those critics have no taste and no respect," he declared. "The Ivory House is a symbol of our country's greatness. Now it literally shines with that greatness. We did this all under budget, by the way." He shot Ivy a quick, conspiratorial glance, recalling their earlier conversation. "Didn't spend a dime of taxpayer money. Generous patriots helped." He emphasized "patriots", and the donors among the group practically glowed under that title.
Another reporter asked, "Can you clarify which private donors or organizations contributed to these renovations?"
Ivy stepped forward smoothly, intercepting. "The President appreciates the support of several patriotic organizations and individuals. Details of any contributions will be properly documented through official channels," she lied gracefully, knowing full well the documentation would be vague at best. "The important thing is that no expense was spared in honoring Columbia's heritage." She gestured to a portrait on the wall – a historical scene of Columbian revolutionaries crossing a river, now set in an obscenely ornate frame. "We've preserved all the historical artifacts, simply enhanced their presentation."
Ron nodded vigorously. "Enhanced! Exactly. We enhanced the place. It's like adding a fresh coat of paint, only much better. Everyone loves gold." He flashed a grin, his teeth nearly as shiny as the decor thanks to recent whitening.
Senator Brewster gave a hearty chuckle. "I have to admit, it's quite impressive in person, Mr. President. The photos didn't do it justice."
Len Pittman smirked slightly, sipping a glass of champagne that a butler on standby had handed out (Ivy made a mental note: who authorized morning champagne? Perhaps Ron Jr.'s doing, always ready to turn a meeting into a party). "It's definitely a memorable style. Unforgettable," Pittman said.
Ron clapped his hands together. "Well, wait until you see the private residence upstairs. Gold as far as the eye can see. Even the plumbing—"
Ivy coughed lightly. "Maybe we keep the residence private for now, Daddy." The last thing they needed was an image of gold-plated toilets making headlines (even though yes, he had installed gold toilet seats in the master bathroom—gifts from a porcelain manufacturer seeking government contracts).
Ron relented with a wink, "Alright, another time then. But trust me folks, it's amazing."
As the group chatted and admired (or pretended to admire) the room, Ivy guided the conversation toward safer grounds. She complimented the donors for their contributions and deftly allowed them moments to emphasize their patriotism. Photographers snapped pictures of the President shaking hands with the mining lobbyists in front of a golden column – a literal picture of backscratching if ever there was one.
Off to the side, Walt the Chief of Staff murmured to Ivy, "This is going... okay." Which in Walt's world was near high praise. Ivy simply nodded. She could see the glint in her father's eyes – he was in his glory, basking in adulation within a palace of his own making.
Near the end of the tour, Senator Brewster gently steered Ron aside, with Ron Jr. hovering nearby. Ivy observed discreetly as Brewster lowered his voice to mention the real reason for Len Pittman's eager visit: the ambassadorship. She watched her father's face break into a smile and an emphatic series of nods. Brewster pointed out the substantial support Pittman had already shown – funding election efforts, super PACs, and now the lovely East Room floor and columns. Pittman himself joined, speaking about his "deep desire to serve Columbia" which Ivy cynically translated to a desire to have a fancy title and a villa abroad on the government's dime.
Ron Drumpf put a hand on Pittman's shoulder, as if anointing him. "Len, you're exactly the kind of guy we want representing us out there. Smart, successful, classy guy." Ron Jr. stood behind them, giving a thumbs up. "I'll talk to the Secretary of State – we've had our eye on you for Saint Kitts and Nevis. Wonderful place, you'll love it. Great beaches."
Pittman flashed a genuine smile for the first time all morning. "I'm honored, Mr. President. Truly. I won't let you down. Saint Kitts will effectively be an extension of Club—of Columbia's hospitality." He caught himself before saying what Ivy suspected was "Club Columbia's hospitality," referring to the Florida estate where these deals often percolated over golf. Smart man, she thought; he knew to keep that part unsaid.
The Senator looked like a proud broker, mission accomplished. Ron Jr. slapped Pittman on the back jovially. "Congrats, Len. Or should I say, Ambassador Pittman!" He laughed. "Be sure to send us some of those Caribbean cigars."
Ivy stepped forward now, before more promises could be made in earshot of the press. "Gentlemen, perhaps some photos here with the President in front of the new Presidential portrait?" She directed them towards the giant painting of Ron in heroic pose. It was an ideal backdrop, showing Drumpf the way he saw himself.
They assembled for pictures. Flashbulbs reflected off the gold frames, giving everything a starry glimmer. President Drumpf grinned broad and triumphant, one arm around Senator Brewster, the other around Len Pittman – the golden light dancing around them. Ivy stood just to the side, smiling pleasantly, a picture of dutiful support.
She couldn't help but think that, in this moment, the symbolism was almost too perfect: power, money, and vanity all captured in one gaudy tableau. The room practically oozed with them. It would have been grotesque if it weren't so absurd, so darkly comic in its blatantness. The Golden Interior, indeed.
As the cameras clicked and the onlookers applauded politely, Ivy held her smile. This was the new normal in the Drumpf White House – a place where everything was for sale, even the decor, and where influence came plated in 24-karat gold.
In the midst of the clinking glasses and forced laughter, President Ron Drumpf took one more satisfied look around at the palace he'd built within the Ivory House, his chest puffed with pride. In that gleam of gold, he saw not opulence, not excess, but validation. To him, it was proof that he was winning.
And in Columbia, the line between personal vanity and national interest had never been thinner – or shinier.
Chapter 4: Club Colombia
The late afternoon sun cast a golden haze over the manicured lawns of Club Colombia, the President's exclusive Florida estate. Once a private resort known for its pink Mediterranean-style architecture and swaying palm trees, it had now become an unofficial second seat of power – a tropical annex to the Ivory House. On this balmy weekend, the estate was teeming with high-powered guests clinking glasses and making small talk as a string quartet played under a gazebo. From a distance, it could have been any elite country club event. Up close, it was a marketplace of influence operating in plain sight.
President Ron Drumpf stood on the 14th tee of the resort's championship golf course, squinting into the distance. Dressed in his customary golf attire – a bright red polo stretched over his girth and a white cap emblazoned with "Club Colombia" – he looked every bit the contented host. Flanking him were three companions: the Governor of Texas, a coal industry CEO, and Ron Jr., who acted as his father's de facto caddy whenever business and golf mixed, which was often.
Ron Drumpf wagged his driver experimentally, then settled into his stance over the ball. Before he could swing, the Governor cleared his throat. "Mr. President, about that infrastructure funding for the border region we discussed..."
Ron froze mid-backswing and looked up, not annoyed at the interruption – he rather enjoyed mixing business with leisure – but eager. "Right, right, the highway project. You were saying your donors are very interested, huh?"
The Governor nodded, wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. "Yes sir. Some of the contractors are here today, actually. We flew down hoping to bend your ear. Figured out on the course might be a good time."
Ron Jr. stepped forward helpfully, offering his father a bottle of water. "Dad, I believe Mr. Jackson from LoneStar Construction is at the clubhouse now," he supplied, recalling the guest list Ivy had prepared. Club Colombia's guest lists these days read like a who's who of industries seeking presidential favor.
Ron Drumpf smirked, lowering his club. "Excellent. We'll have a chat after this round. I always say, deals are best made on the greens. Isn't that right, fellas?"
The coal CEO, a barrel-chested man with a deep tan and an even deeper wallet, gave a hearty laugh. "Absolutely, Mr. President. I reckon more policy gets set on this golf course than in Congress!"
They all chuckled, a bit too knowingly. Ron settled back over his ball. "Alright, let's focus for a second here." With a mighty swing – and an inelegant grunt – he sent the golf ball slicing hard to the right, careening towards a line of palm trees.
"Damn it," Ron muttered as one of the Secret Service agents peeled off in a golf cart to find the wayward ball. No one commented on the poor shot. At Club Colombia, flattery was par for the course.
As they ambled down the fairway, conversation resumed. Ron Jr. took the opportunity to bring up another item of interest. "By the way, Dad, we've got a friend from overseas here too. Sheikh Samir from the Kingdom of Al-Jazeer flew in last night."
Ron looked pleased. "Samir! Love that guy. Always brings those amazing dates – the fruit, I mean – from his country." Ron Jr. and the Governor exchanged a glance, deciphering whether the President was joking. It appeared he was not; Samir indeed often gifted crates of premium dates and fig sweets along with more extravagant offerings.
The coal CEO seized the opening. "The Sheikh is a smart man. He knows face time with you is invaluable, sir." He paused, then added casually, "I heard he's hoping to discuss a certain arms purchase, maybe grease the wheels on that."
Ron sniffed, looking ahead where the green glistened in the sun. "We'll see. The King over there already promised to buy billions in jets. If Samir's got something new, he can bring it up over dinner." This nonchalant approach to arms negotiations would have made the State Department cringe, but none of them were present on this fairway – only donors, politicians, and the President's son.
Behind them, a pair of caddies and a policy advisor-turned-golf partner trailed at a respectful distance. One of them, a deputy trade representative hoping for a word with the President about an upcoming summit, fidgeted with his golf glove. But as usual, he found it difficult to get a word in edgewise amidst the swirl of unofficial business. Club Colombia weekends tended to sideline actual officials in favor of those who paid for access.
They reached the green where, after an obligatory bit of putting, the group called it quits for the day – the game itself long forgotten amid the conversations. A small cadre of Secret Service agents kept a perimeter, their expressions blank behind dark sunglasses, one agent carefully carrying the nuclear football briefcase in one hand while discreetly stowing the President's golf clubs with the other. It was an absurd image if one thought about it: the codes to the deadliest weapons on earth resting in a monogrammed golf bag, right next to spare clubs and half-eaten bags of potato chips.
Back at the clubhouse, guests milled about on the marble terrace overlooking the rolling course. This terrace had effectively become an open-air political salon. By design, it was dotted with clusters of rattan chairs and low tables, each cluster hosting a different murmured negotiation.
At one table under a white parasol, Ivy Drumpf sat with two tech industry titans, nodding attentively as they pitched a plan for a new government contract in cybersecurity. Ivy's polished smile and perfectly calculated nods gave nothing away, but one of her heels tapped lightly – a subtle sign of impatience. She had heard countless proposals like this, each promised donation sweeter than the last. Still, she indulged them, adding occasional "We should explore that" or "I'll mention it to my father," as needed. The tech moguls, one of whom had recently paid the hefty sum to become a club member, looked thrilled just to have her ear for fifteen minutes.
Not far away, Melina Drumpf lounged on a chaise by the pool, oversized sunglasses on, a floppy sun hat shielding her immaculate complexion. She sipped a neon-colored mocktail through a straw and scrolled on her phone, effectively tuning out the power games around her. A pair of South American businessmen in loud tropical shirts were at the next table, animatedly discussing trade tariffs in between ogling the First Lady from behind their sunglasses. Melina, as usual, seemed in her own world – physically present for the sake of appearances, but spiritually on another plane entirely.
Inside the main dining room, preparations were underway for the evening's "networking dinner." White-jacketed waiters rushed to and fro setting up lavish displays: towers of chilled shrimp, caviar canapés, and a bar stocked with the finest wines and whiskeys. At one end of the ornate room (which Ron had personally redecorated with gold draperies to match his Ivory House aesthetic), Jason – Ivy's husband and the self-styled "Senior Advisor extraordinaire" – conferred with the club manager about seating arrangements. The placements were critical: one did not simply seat a pharmaceutical CEO who needed FDA favors too far from the President. The closer the seat, the higher the perceived favor.
As twilight settled, tiki torches flickered to life along the paths and the sound of a jazz trio drifted through the humid air. The assembled power brokers moved to their assigned seats in the dining hall, a low roar of conversation filling the space. In the center, at the largest round table under a chandelier, sat President Drumpf flanked by the evening's most "important" guests: the Sheikh Samir from Al-Jazeer on his right, Senator Brewster (still hanging around since the Ivory House tour, never one to miss a potential donor or deal) on his left, and next to the Senator, Len Pittman – now introduced proudly by Ron Jr. to others as "our next Ambassador" with a chuckle. Also at the table was a defense contractor CEO and his wife, and Ivy taking a seat gracefully opposite her father.
Before the first course was even served, deals began flowing as freely as the champagne. Over a delicate lobster bisque, the defense contractor leaned toward Ron, speaking in a low tone about a new missile system he was developing. Ron, more focused on buttering his bread, nodded absently and mumbled, "Talk to Jason about it, he handles those techy things." Jason, seated a table away with some banking executives, perked up at hearing his name and raised his glass in acknowledgment across the room.
Next, between bites of steak, Senator Brewster seized the chance to press a political point. "Mr. President, about the environmental regulations we've discussed – those really are hurting the energy sector back in my state." He shot a glance at the coal CEO, who sat at a neighboring table but was clearly eavesdropping.
Ron wiped his mouth with his napkin and gave a reassuring pat on Brewster's shoulder. "Elijah, don't you worry. We're going to take care of those regs, okay? Clean coal, beautiful coal, I've always said it. Those rules from the last administration were a disaster. We'll roll 'em back further – your folks will be happy, believe me."
Brewster beamed and raised his wine glass. "To deregulation and prosperity," he toasted quietly, and Ron clinked glasses with him.
Sheikh Samir observed all this with a polite smile. When a lull in conversation arose, he interjected smoothly, "Mr. President, may I extend again an invitation from His Majesty the King for you to visit Al-Jazeer? He was most delighted by the idea you mentioned of a grand visit."
Ivy tilted her head, interested. This was part of the reason Samir had come: to solidify plans for an upcoming state visit, which Ron was keen on, having heard tales of lavish royal treatment.
Ron's face lit up. "Yes! The Kingdom – they want to roll out the red carpet for us, Ivy." He turned to his daughter as if she were his Secretary of State. "They're great people over there, very rich culture, tremendous welcome planned. I can't wait to see it. Perhaps next month?"
Samir nodded eagerly. "We can make that happen. His Majesty has already begun preparations. There will be a formal ceremony, a beautiful banquet... and of course, discussions of mutual benefit."
Ron grinned, clearly picturing the pomp and opulence awaiting him. "Tell the King I'm very much looking forward to it. We'll bring the whole family." He elbowed Ivy gently, nearly making her spill her champagne. "Ivy, you'll love it – they have these huge gold palaces. Right up our alley, huh?"
Ivy smiled benignly. "I'm sure it will be enlightening." She caught Samir's eye with a measured gaze. "We appreciate the invitation, Sheikh. And I'm certain there will be many opportunities for partnership between Al-Jazeer and Columbia."
Samir inclined his head. "Indeed. In fact, we have some investment funds eager to find projects in your country... and perhaps vice versa." His eyes flicked knowingly to Ron, then to Ron Jr., who was listening from his seat just behind the President's chair.
Ron Jr. jumped in, "Samir, we should chat later about some private developments we're looking at. Florida has some great beachfront, you know. Maybe an Al-Jazeer-Columbia resort collaboration?" He grinned, and Samir chuckled appreciatively.
Ivy's polite smile stiffened a fraction – typical of Ron Jr. to bring up personal business at a government dinner. But this was exactly the ethos of Club Colombia: the line between the United States—pardon, Columbia—and the Drumpf family business was blurred beyond recognition.
As dessert was served – an extravagant chocolate cake adorned with sparklers – a gentle breeze carried in the sound of waves from the nearby ocean. The setting could have almost been romantic if not for the content of the table talk. On one side, Len Pittman bragged to the defense contractor's wife about his upcoming posting in the Caribbean ("The President personally tapped me, yes. Oh, Saint Kitts is lovely year-round..."), while on the other, Brewster was trading business cards with the tech moguls Ivy had entertained earlier, promising introductions to regulators.
At the head of it all sat Ron Drumpf, enjoying a second slice of cake and basking in what he considered the fruits of his success. Why bother with stuffy Oval Office meetings when he could govern from a place where he felt at ease, surrounded by the comforts of his own property? Here, there were no protesters, no pesky oversight committees—just paying members and guests who all adored him (or at least pretended convincingly, which was just as good in his book).
In a corner of the terrace just outside the dining hall, two long-time club members – wealthy retirees who had been coming to the estate since before it was presidential – sipped brandy and observed the spectacle. One shook his head in disbelief and murmured to the other, "Remember when this used to just be a quiet place to play golf and have Sunday brunch? Now look at it."
His companion, a septuagenarian real estate developer, chuckled. "I know. Hell of a cover charge to join this circus now. But... access is worth its weight in gold." He swirled his drink. "I talked to the Secretary of Commerce in the steam room this morning, would you believe? I pitched him my idea for import tax breaks while we were in towels. He said he'd give it serious thought!"
The first man sighed. "Wild times. It's like the whole government's moved to Palm Beach on the weekends."
Inside, as people began to rise from dinner and drift back out to the terrace, one of the President's aides carrying a briefcase squeezed past waiters to approach Ron. The young man looked slightly out of place in the revelry. He bent down to whisper something to the President, showing him a phone screen with urgent news. Ron's cheery face clouded for an instant.
"What? Another missile test?" he said aloud, frowning at the phone. The jazz music and conversations masked his voice from most, but those nearest grew quiet.
Jason hurried over, noticing his father-in-law's change in mood. "Everything okay?"
Ron grunted. "North Koreko fired off a missile or something. The generals want a secure line in ten minutes."
Jason blinked, processing. "Do you want to move to the secure room?"
Ron waved a hand dismissively. "Nah. I'll call from here after dessert. Let 'em wait a few. I'm with company." He stood up and clinked his wine glass with a spoon, forcing a bright smile back onto his face.
"Attention, everyone!" the President announced. Conversations hushed and all eyes turned to him, the golden light from the chandeliers reflecting off his rosy cheeks. "I just want to say, this has been a tremendous evening. The best people in the country – and the world – are right here. I appreciate all of you. This club, this..." he spread his arms, as if encompassing the opulent room and all its power-brokers, "this is what making Columbia great is all about. Good friends, good deals, and a beautiful setting. So thank you, and enjoy the rest of your night. We'll keep winning, believe me!"
Applause rang out. Glasses were raised. Ron downed the rest of his own drink in one gulp, then leaned into Sheikh Samir with a chuckle, "They love me here, you see? Best decision I ever made, opening this place to a few more friends."
Samir nodded with a polite, close-lipped smile, perhaps wondering if he had just witnessed statecraft or a cocktail party or both.
As the party resumed its buzz, Ivy stepped over to her father, concern pinching her features. "Daddy, the situation with North Koreko – should we convene in the secure communications room now?" She kept her voice low.
Ron patted her hand. "In a minute, sweetie. Let them gather their reports first. Besides, Samir and I were just about to discuss those real estate ideas." He motioned for Ron Jr. to join them. "Junior, walk with us. The Sheikh has some proposals."
Ivy watched as her father and brother led the willing Sheikh off toward a quieter corner of the patio, talking animatedly about beachfront investment funds and perhaps throwing in a word or two about arms deals amidst the mix. She sighed and pulled Jason aside. "Make sure he gets on that secure call soon, or at least that someone responsible is handling it."
Jason nodded. "I'll check with the military aide. But you know your father – he hates stepping away when he's the center of attention."
Meanwhile, at the bar area near the pool, a small commotion was brewing. A middle-aged woman in big sunglasses and a floppy hat – not unlike Melina's, though this woman was clearly not the First Lady – had been hovering around, trying to blend in. She had slipped past the club's not-so-stringent security earlier claiming to be a guest of a member. In reality, she was a freelance journalist from New York, angling for an undercover story on the pay-to-play culture at Club Colombia.
She had managed to remain unnoticed for most of the evening, jotting down mental notes of all the high-level hobnobbing and perhaps overhearing a sensitive tidbit or two. But now, emboldened by a glass of purloined champagne, she attempted to snap a covert photograph of a cluster of officials discussing something under a palm tree. The flash on her phone accidentally went off – a rookie mistake.
Immediately, two Secret Service agents closed in. "Ma'am, I'm sorry, no photos allowed here," one said firmly, already reaching for her phone.
The woman tried to back away, but found her arms gently but decisively restrained. "I- I'm sorry, I was just—"
"Who invited you, ma'am?" the second agent asked, voice cool.
At that moment, Ron Jr., returning to the bar for a refreshment, noticed the scuffle. He stepped over. "Is something wrong?"
The woman's eyes widened as she recognized him. "I'm, um, a guest of Mr. uh, Thompson," she lied, naming a random member she'd seen on a club roster.
Ron Jr. frowned. "There's no Thompson on the membership." He nodded to the agents. "Go ahead and escort her out. And check she doesn't have anything... you know, sensitive on her."
The agents quietly but efficiently led the protesting woman away toward a side gate. Ron Jr. sighed. There was always one trying to sneak in these days – the price of fame, he mused. At least this one hadn't made it near his father.
It was true. Club Colombia had become such a magnet for influence that it also drew would-be infiltrators, grifters, and scandal-chasers like moths to a porch light. Everyone wanted a piece of the action, or at least to witness it up close.
By the time the intruding journalist was removed and handed over to local police for trespassing, the crowd at the club had thinned. The hour grew late; many of the older donors had retired to their suites (for a hefty fee, one could stay in luxury villas on site). The band was packing up their instruments.
Out on the moonlit lawn, Ron Drumpf finally took the secured call with the generals about North Koreko, though not without insisting on staying outdoors where he could feel the pleasant ocean breeze. As he listened on a secure phone, he simultaneously waved off a waiter offering more champagne. "No, no, I'm good," he mouthed. The juxtaposition was striking: a President discussing a potential nuclear threat while standing in golf clothes on a dewy grass, tiki torches flickering behind him, as if it were just another part of the evening's entertainment.
When the call ended, Ron looked around for his family. Ivy and Jason had already gone to make sure some VIPs were seen off properly. Melina had long since slipped away to their private quarters upstairs. Ron Jr. was supervising the staff as they cleared plates—he'd taken a liking to bossing around the club employees when his father wasn't looking, enjoying the feeling of authority.
Satisfied, President Drumpf took a deep breath of the warm night air. He gazed over the now-quiet golf course where earlier deals had been struck between swings. A self-satisfied smile crept onto his face. This – this paradise of palm trees and power plays – was his element. It was where he could operate free from the pretenses of Washington. Here, influence was currency and everything had a price, clearly labeled and paid upfront. A million for a dinner seat, five for a private audience – why bother hiding it behind political niceties? It was honest, in a warped way.
He jingled the coins in his pocket absently (a habit when he was deep in thought, Ivy once noted – as though even his subconscious needed the comfort of money's jingle). Club Colombia wasn't just a resort; it was an extension of his presidency. The critics sneered and ethics lawyers howled, but none of that mattered on these grounds. Here, he was king, and the kingdom ran on his rules.
As Ron Drumpf headed inside for the night, past waiters who bowed their heads and lingering guests who shook his hand one more time, he felt a swell of pride. He had turned the presidency into something profitable – a venture that paid dividends in real time. The country was being run, in many ways, from this very spot over cigars and brandy. And as long as the cash flowed and the deals made themselves, why would he have it any other way?
Under the Florida stars, Club Colombia's grand façade glowed softly from floodlights – an inviting beacon to those with the means to be invited. And behind its doors, the blending of state affairs with personal enterprise continued in full swing, a darkly comic tableau of governance-as-hospitality.
In the days to come, rumors would leak of promises made on the golf course and policies auctioned off over dessert. But tonight, within these walls, it all felt oddly normal. Just another evening at the President's club, where cocktails came with a side of influence, and the house always – invariably – won.
Chapter 5: Foreign Exchanges
The heat in the Kingdom of Al-Jazeer was like an enveloping cloak, thick and dry, as Air Force One touched down on the gleaming tarmac of the royal airport. Outside, a grand reception awaited beneath a cloudless cobalt sky. A long red carpet stretched from the base of the airplane stairs to an opulent welcoming pavilion bedecked with fluttering flags of Al-Jazeer and Columbia intertwined. Rows of royal guards in white and gold uniforms stood at attention, their ceremonial scimitars held high in salute.
As President Ron Drumpf emerged at the top of the stairway, squinting in the bright midday sun, a brass band struck up the Columbian national anthem. Ron paused, tugging at the front of his suit jacket, and cast a broad smile to the dignitaries assembled below. Flanking him were Ivy and Jason – Ivy in a modest but stylish long-sleeved dress (adhering to local customs she'd been coached on), and Jason in a sharp suit despite the heat. Melina followed, wearing an elegant ivory headscarf over her hair and large designer sunglasses, her expression unreadable as always. Ron Jr. and a handful of officials – including the donor-turned-Ambassador Len Pittman, now formally installed in his island post but tagging along for this big diplomatic debut – came behind, blinking at the spectacle.
At the foot of the stairs, King Azim of Al-Jazeer himself waited, arms outstretched in a warm gesture. The King was a regal man in his sixties, wearing flowing traditional robes embroidered with elaborate gold patterns, a jeweled agal holding his headscarf in place. His graying beard was neatly trimmed, and a broad smile of practiced hospitality graced his lips.
Ron descended quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly – Ivy had to subtly motion for him to slow down for the cameras. As he reached the King, Ron did what he often did when unsure of protocol: he went in for a hearty two-handed handshake, patting the outside of King Azim's hand with his free palm.
"Your Majesty! This is fantastic, really fantastic," Ron boomed, giving the King's hand an enthusiastic pump. The translators beside each man hurried to keep up, though the King spoke English well enough to understand the greeting.
"President Drumpf, welcome to Al-Jazeer," King Azim replied warmly. "We are honored by your visit." As the King spoke, he gestured for an attendant who stepped forward carrying a large, ornate necklace – a heavy chain of gold and gemstones centered on a golden medallion embossed with Al-Jazeer's royal crest.
The King lifted the chain as two aides guided Ron gently by the shoulders to face the cameras. In a ceremonious move, King Azim placed the golden medallion around Ron Drumpf's neck. It gleamed against Ron's tie, a hefty piece that looked almost like a rapper's bling – albeit one signifying the Order of Al-Jazeer, the highest honor the kingdom bestowed.
Ron's eyes widened in delight. He lifted the medallion to look at it closely, then gave the King a thumbs-up before remembering to shake his hand again. "Tremendous honor! Beautiful, very beautiful," he said. Ivy, standing just behind him, maintained her composure, though she inwardly winced at the thumbs-up gesture caught by every camera in the vicinity.
With the formal greeting complete, the entourage made their way to the pavilion, where plush couches and cool refreshments awaited. The King introduced a lineup of princes and ministers to the President and his family. Each handshake was an exchange of fixed smiles and respectful nods. When one of the princes greeted Ivy, he bent courteously and said, "It is our pleasure to welcome you, Princess." Ivy wasn't sure if he meant it as a royal title or was using the term loosely; either way, she responded with a gracious smile and a polite "Thank you for your kindness."
Melina kept to Ron's side, offering a soft-spoken "It's very lovely to be here" when addressed. She had been briefed to stay cordial but mostly silent, which suited her fine.
Soon they were whisked into a fleet of air-conditioned black limousines for the journey into the capital. As the motorcade sped down a highway flanked by towering palm trees, they passed giant billboards bearing Ron Drumpf's face alongside King Azim's, with bilingual messages welcoming the President of Columbia. Ron was tickled by these and nudged Jason. "Look at that – my face is all over town already. They love me here."
Jason nodded, eyes scanning the skyline. The capital city was a forest of glittering skyscrapers and grand mosques, a testament to oil wealth and modern ambition. "They certainly know how to put on a show," he replied.
Ivy chimed in from the opposite seat, looking up from a briefing folder she had been skimming. "We'll be heading straight to the Royal Palace for the official welcome ceremony and banquet. After that, tomorrow is the big U.S.-Al-Jazeer business forum."
Ron absentmindedly fiddled with the heavy gold medallion still hanging around his neck. "Business forum? You mean we're talking deals?" His eyes glinted.
Ivy nodded, keeping her voice measured. "Yes, trade deals, investment agreements— all above-board on paper." She added the last part knowing full well her father's mind was already likely wandering into what personal gains might be gleaned. "We'll have our Columbia business delegation there too. Many of them came on the flight with us."
Ron Jr., from the third row of the limo, leaned forward. "That reminds me – the guys from Allied Resorts are here, Dad. They're hoping to get a foothold in a new hotel project over here. I told them we might introduce them around."
Ron grinned. "Sure, sure. The King must have some nice land for a resort. Maybe a Club Colombia Al-Jazeer?" He chuckled at his own joke.
Melina peered out the window at a grand fountain that the motorcade circled – it was spraying water high into the air, rainbows forming in the mist. "This place is like a fairy tale," she murmured, not quite directing it at anyone.
Ron patted her hand. "Just wait till you see the palace, honey. I hear it makes Buckingham Palace look like a little shack."
Indeed, as they approached the Royal Palace, even the jaded Drumpf family members were momentarily awed. The palace rose from manicured gardens like a mirage of marble and gold. Dozens of fluted columns lined its façade, and ornate arabesque patterns in gold leaf decorated the massive entry doors. The motorcade passed under an archway and into a courtyard where a troop of Royal Guards on horseback paraded in formation for the guests' arrival.
Inside the main banquet hall, the welcome ceremony unfolded with luxurious pomp. The Drumpfs entered to find a cavernous hall, its domed ceiling painted with night-sky constellations and its walls inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Crystal chandeliers the size of SUVs cast a brilliant glow over an enormous horseshoe-shaped table, already laden with extravagant floral centerpieces and silver place settings.
King Azim guided President Drumpf to the seat of honor beside him, and their respective delegations filled in along the table. Ivy ended up seated next to the King's eldest son, Crown Prince Karim, a handsome man with a western education and a keen interest in business. Jason was placed further down by some trade ministers. Melina was seated beside one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting, who kindly complimented her on her dress. Ron Jr. found himself next to an Al-Jazeeri business magnate who promptly started discussing golf – an easy common ground.
As servers brought forth course after course of exquisite cuisine – spiced lamb, saffron rice, stuffed dates, aromatic stews – an orchestra played gentle classical music. Ron Drumpf loved every minute. He oohed and aahed at the food, loudly praising the tenderness of the lamb ("just like my steaks back home, except I usually have ketchup with mine" he remarked at one point, causing Ivy to cringe internally). King Azim took it in stride with polite laughter.
Toasts were made: to the health of the King, to the friendship between Columbia and Al-Jazeer, to prosperity. Ron raised his glass enthusiastically each time, perhaps consuming his sweet fruit-juice cocktail (no alcohol in the Kingdom's official functions) a bit too quickly.
Midway through dinner, as conversations hummed in multiple languages around the table, King Azim broached a topic with Ron. "My dear friend, I am grateful we will be signing the new arms agreement tomorrow. Our defense minister was most pleased with the terms your administration offered."
Ron dabbed his mouth with a silk napkin and nodded. "Absolutely, absolutely. Best equipment in the world, and you're our preferred customer. We'll make sure you get a good deal on those fighter jets. Top-notch, no one else will have anything like it in the region."
He said this as if he were selling one of his condos. The King smiled. "I appreciate that. And in turn, be assured we are ready to make significant investments in Columbia's infrastructure fund as we discussed. Billions, Mr. President, to support your vision."
At the mention of "investments," Ron's grin stretched ear to ear. He stole a quick glance down the table where Ivy was listening in on a conversation between Prince Karim and a Columbian export-import official. He caught her eye and subtly tapped his glass – their code for pay attention. Ivy turned her focus towards the King and her father.
"That's fantastic, Your Majesty," Ron replied. "Music to my ears. Columbia needs roads, bridges… with your help, we'll build them shiny and new." He chuckled, raising his glass in a mini-toast.
King Azim leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice for just the President. "Of course, some of our investments may also be channeled through certain private ventures—like the Columbian Dream Fund foundation your daughter mentioned in correspondence. We believe in contributing to charitable endeavors close to your family's heart."
Ivy, who was just close enough to catch that snippet, maintained her serene smile while her mind raced. The King's team had responded positively to the solicitations she'd made quietly in advance of the trip. A generous "donation" to the Columbian Dream Fund, likely in the tens of millions, was being dangled as a sweetener. In exchange for what exactly, one could debate – perhaps goodwill, perhaps those arms deals, perhaps future "considerations." In any case, the blending of official and personal business was proceeding seamlessly.
"That's so generous, truly," Ron said, trying and only partially succeeding to sound statesmanlike in response. "Our First Family's charity does wonderful work. We'll make sure your contributions go to very deserving causes." He shot him a wink before taking another gulp of his drink.
Meanwhile, at Ivy's end of the table, Crown Prince Karim was charmingly quizzing her about her role in her father's administration. "They call you the First Daughter who's also like a First Minister, yes?" he teased lightly.
Ivy laughed softly. "Oh, I'm just an advisor. I care deeply about promoting entrepreneurship, education…especially for women." She made sure to highlight something palatable. Part of Ivy's agenda was to score some soft-power points by talking about women's economic empowerment at a scheduled forum the next day.
Karim nodded. "That's admirable. Perhaps you could share some of those ideas with our council. The King has been encouraging more initiatives for women here too." He then added, "And if you have any interest in expanding your business ventures, Princess Ivy, our sovereign fund is very keen on fashion and luxury investments abroad." His eyes flicked to the diamond bracelet on her wrist – one from her own jewelry line.
Ivy caught the drift and gave an appreciative incline of her head. "That's wonderful to hear. I'll be sure to have my team follow up on that with your people." Indeed, a major foreign fund bankrolling her brand or other ventures would be a win. She mentally noted to mention it in her debrief with Jason later; he handled the behind-the-scenes detail work.
Jason, for his part, was engaged in a somewhat dull exchange with the trade ministers about lowering certain tariffs on Al-Jazeeri petrochemicals in exchange for who-knows-what. He kept glancing over to see how Ron and Ivy were faring. Jason thrived on these international trips—he saw them as chances to play global dealmaker, even if his actual expertise was questionable. Already he was fantasizing about negotiating a groundbreaking peace agreement or mega-investment that he could claim credit for. But so far, he was stuck discussing import quotas on polyethylene.
Finally, the banquet drew to a close amid another round of florid compliments and handshakes. There was to be a brief press event – a joint statement in the palace's grand foyer. As everyone shuffled toward the press area, Ivy quietly instructed Ambassador Pittman to coordinate collecting all the gifts they'd received so far (numerous ornate vases, jewel-encrusted daggers in display cases, gold watches for each of the Drumpf men, and a ruby pendant for Melina – all "diplomatic gifts" that by Columbian law should technically go to the state archives unless purchased by the recipient; but Ivy had a feeling these would find their way back to New York with them).
In the foyer, under a gilded dome, Ron Drumpf and King Azim stood at twin podiums flanked by their flags. A throng of reporters – both local and international press – gathered, the Americans jostling to see over the traditional robes of the Al-Jazeeri press. The atmosphere was cordial and perfumed by incense wafting through the palace air conditioning.
King Azim spoke first, welcoming President Drumpf and praising the strong partnership between their nations. "Today marks a new chapter of cooperation – economically, culturally, and in our shared commitment to security," the King declared. He was measured and eloquent, giving nothing away beyond diplomatic pleasantries.
Then it was Ron's turn. He stepped up, the medal around his neck clinking slightly against the microphone. "Thank you, Your Majesty, for the incredible welcome. Just incredible. Columbia and Al-Jazeer have never been closer, I'll tell you that. We've had a –" he paused, searching for a word, "– a tremendously productive day. We're signing billion-dollar deals, big stuff. Jobs for Columbia, security for Al-Jazeer, everyone's happy." He continued in this vein, giving one of his typical off-the-cuff summaries. It lacked detail but conveyed enthusiasm, and King Azim graciously smiled and nodded along.
The press Q&A that followed was tightly managed by the King's protocol team – only four questions, two for each leader. The local press lobbed gentle inquiries about strengthening cultural ties and regional stability. Then a Columbian reporter got a microphone. She asked pointedly, "President Drumpf, critics back home say you're using this trip to benefit your family businesses – for example, reports suggest your company might pursue projects in Al-Jazeer or that your foundation is receiving large donations from this country. How do you respond to those who see this as a conflict of interest?"
Ivy stiffened just off to the side. How that reporter even got in one of those questions was surprising; perhaps someone slipped up in screening, or perhaps the King's team allowed one tough question to give a veneer of press freedom.
Ron's smile tightened. He was quick on his feet when it came to deflecting. "I think that's a nasty question, really nasty," he said, shaking his head. "I'm here to get deals for our country, okay? That's all. We got a lot of wealthy people here who want to invest in Columbia, because they believe in me and what I'm doing – that's a good thing. It's good for our country. There's no conflict at all. In fact, it's a convergence of interests – Columbia's interests and my interests are the same, because I want what's best for the country."
That eyebrow-raising admission caused a susurration among the press. The idea that the President's interests and the nation's were one and the same was a core of Drumpfian philosophy, albeit one that sounded alarm bells to any ethicist listening.
King Azim smoothly stepped in to help, adding, "We in Al-Jazeer have full confidence that any investments we make will benefit the people of Columbia foremost." An artful dodge that implied altruism while avoiding mention of the Drumpf family.
The last question went to a reporter from a major European outlet, who asked the King about human rights issues in the region. King Azim gave a polite, practiced answer emphasizing gradual progress and mutual understanding. Ron, unprompted, added, "Every country has challenges, you know. Al-Jazeer is doing a fine job – really, they've made tremendous strides. Not like some other places I won't name. The King here, great leader, tremendous." He flashed a thumbs-up again, apparently having decided it was an international symbol of approval.
With that, the press event wrapped. Ron stepped off the dais, and Ivy immediately touched his elbow. "Daddy, that question about business… we might get some heat from that back home."
Ron shrugged, unbothered. "Let them talk. They're just mad because we're doing big things." Then, without missing a beat, he turned to King Azim, "So, Your Majesty, where do we stand on that resort idea? Maybe a nice new golf course by the sea? I saw a beautiful coastline flying in."
The King chuckled, steering Ron gently away from the remaining microphones. "We will certainly have our investment council discuss it, Mr. President. Perhaps a project we can announce on your next visit."
Behind them, as the delegations began to disperse to their evening accommodations, Ambassador Len Pittman let out a low whistle to Ron Jr. "This place is unbelievable. Did you see the gold toilet fixtures in the guest washroom? Puts your dad's Ivory House ones to shame."
Ron Jr. laughed. "I know. I might ask if we can import a few." He then lowered his voice conspiratorially, "Hey, did you hear anything about the funding they're doing? For the charity?"
Pittman nodded. "One of the finance guys mentioned something about a generous pledge, yes. Coming through some foundation back channels."
Ron Jr. patted him on the back. "Sweet. That'll keep the Columbia Dream thing going for years." He said it casually, openly, as if they were discussing the weather. The Ambassador just smiled thinly – he was still learning that in the Drumpf orbit, these things weren't considered scandals at all, just standard operating procedure.
That night, the Drumpf family stayed in a royal guest palace so lavish it made their Florida estate look quaint. The ceilings soared twenty feet high, with murals of peacocks and desert flowers. The floors were white marble that coolly kissed their feet through soft slippers provided to each guest. Every room was stocked with bowls of fresh exotic fruits, French chocolates, and gifts ranging from silk robes to gold-plated compasses engraved with the date of the visit.
Melina wandered through their suite in awe, trailing her fingers along a table inlaid with emerald and lapis. "Maybe we should redecorate our bedroom like this, Ron," she said in a rare moment of playful humor.
Ron, who was loosening his tie, looked around at the sumptuous bedroom – the canopy bed carved from dark wood, draped with silk curtains embroidered with patterns of falcons and palm trees. "It is something else, huh," he admitted. "But we can't let them win the gold game. Maybe I'll ask for the name of their decorator."
Ivy and Jason, in their own quarters down the hall, held a quick debrief even as fatigue weighed on them. Ivy kicked off her heels and rubbed at her temples while Jason poured himself a glass of the complimentary pomegranate juice. "Tomorrow's forum will be big," Ivy said. "We need to ensure the MOUs are all prepared for Dad to sign. Trade, defense, that cultural exchange thing… And the women's entrepreneurship event I'm doing with the Princess."
Jason nodded, gulping the juice. "All set. And I talked to Prince Karim more at the break – he's very interested in partnering on some real estate fund. Wants to perhaps co-develop something in New York or Florida with us. He hinted at a possible stake in PatriotCoin too if that's of interest to them for diversifying their sovereign holdings."
Ivy raised an eyebrow. "PatriotCoin? You're bringing that up already?"
Jason shrugged, "I mentioned we have a big crypto initiative at home. His eyes lit up. These guys have money to burn, Ivy. If they invest in our crypto, it could legitimize it."
She held up a hand. "Just be cautious. We don't need to overpromise anything on PatriotCoin yet – that launch is still being hammered out with Treasury."
"Understood." Jason put the glass down, moving behind Ivy to massage her shoulders. "You were great today, by the way. That reporter's question – you looked ready to leap up there and shut it down yourself."
Ivy sighed, allowing herself a brief moment of vulnerability in the privacy of their room. "It's just exhausting having to constantly worry what he'll blurt out. We got through it though. And tomorrow, once those deals are signed, the headlines will be about the billions in trade and the glitzy images, not the conflicts."
Jason smiled. "Bread and circuses, right? Or in this case, gold and orb ceremonies."
Ivy let out a small laugh. Indeed, one of the more surreal moments was yet to come – the next evening, they were scheduled to visit Al-Jazeer's Global Center for Counter-Terrorism, where a certain ceremonial photo op awaited. She could already imagine the image of Ron and King Azim placing their hands on a glowing globe (the "orb ceremony," she dubbed it) would flood the media. It would be equal parts impressive and uncanny, fodder for both praise and parody. And it would certainly dominate coverage, likely more than any talk of shady deals.
The following day unfolded with more choreographed grandeur. The business forum saw Ron and the King preside over multiple signings of agreements: multi-billion-dollar arms sales, joint investments in infrastructure, and partnerships between Al-Jazeeri and Columbian companies. Each signing had an ornate gold pen and a handshake photo. Ivy spoke on a panel with local female entrepreneurs and was photographed smiling with a group of women in hijabs, which played well on social media as a "diplomatic win." Jason networked furiously, trading business cards and WhatsApp numbers with every billionaire or minister he could find.
In quieter side meetings, more personal arrangements took shape: A memorandum of understanding (unofficial and unsigned) that Al-Jazeer's sovereign wealth fund would consider a sizeable stake in a Drumpf-branded luxury hotel in their kingdom; a discussion about easing certain banking regulations that had hindered one of Drumpf Org's previous attempts to enter the market; and of course the confirmation of that "donation" to the Columbian Dream Fund, set to be wired via a labyrinthine route by the month's end.
By evening, at the counter-terrorism center, the promised spectacle occurred. In a darkened room illuminated by a single glowing orb atop a pedestal, Ron placed his palms on the orb alongside King Azim and another regional leader for a symbolic "unity against terror" moment. The three men's faces were lit eerily from below, and cameras captured the bizarre scene. Ron thought it looked "cool, very sci-fi," and grinned proudly. Ivy, standing off-camera, thought it looked like a cabal of comic-book villains plotting world domination, but she kept that observation to herself.
When the trip concluded, King Azim saw them off with a flourish of gifts and flowery words. On the return flight to Columbia, Ron Drumpf reclined in his plush seat aboard Air Force One, shoes kicked off, sipping on a Diet Cola. Around his neck he still wore the golden medallion the King had given him, unwilling to take it off. He was riding high on the praise and the pomp.
"That," he declared to Ivy, Jason, Ron Jr., and the few aides assembled in his cabin, "was one hell of a success. Did you see the way they treated me? Red carpets, medals, huge posters. They don't do that for just anyone. Only for me." He winked.
"Yes, Daddy. It was a very warm welcome," Ivy agreed, both verbally stroking his ego and genuinely relieved that everything had gone according to plan (and profit).
Ron Jr. was scrolling through online news on his tablet. "Media back home is already calling it a spectacle." He chuckled. "Some of these photos – look, they put a laser sword in place of the orb in this meme. People are having a field day."
He held up the screen to show an internet meme where Ron and the others looked like they were summoning dark forces. Ron Sr. squinted and then laughed. "As long as they spell my name right, who cares? Besides, while they're joking, we got a lot of what we wanted, didn't we?"
Jason nodded vigorously. "Absolutely. Billions in deals. And I think we made some friends who will be very helpful down the line."
Melina, curled up with a cashmere blanket in the corner, piped up quietly, "I got three different diamond sets as gifts. I'll have to declare them, I suppose, but maybe I can buy one back from the government archive later." She said it more to herself, but it lightened the mood further.
Ron wagged a finger playfully. "We'll get you something even nicer for Christmas, Mel. Don't you worry." He stretched, a sign he was done holding court. "Alright, I need a nap. Jetlag."
As the President settled in to doze, Ivy and Jason exchanged a glance. There was still much to parse from the trip – which promises to pursue, which to quietly shelve. But for now, they could breathe easy. The headlines would be full of shiny visuals of Ron sword-dancing with princes (yes, that happened at one of the dinners) and that absurd orb photo, and commentary about how Drumpf was strengthening alliances.
The deeper story – of how the First Family blurred every line they crossed, turning diplomacy into a buffet of personal enrichment – that would not be on the front pages, at least not yet.
Ivy closed her eyes for a moment, letting the hum of the jet's engines lull her. In the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw flashes of the trip: golden palaces, eager smiles, discreet winks over contract papers, and always the cameras clicking, capturing the theater of it all.
It was diplomacy, Drumpf-style: a traveling roadshow where the United States' interests were performed on stage, while backstage the Drumpf family's interests were quietly and lucratively served.