Chapter 4 - 4

Chapter 9: Checks and Imbalances – Institutions on the Brink

The grand hearing chamber of the National Assembly's Ethics Committee was packed to capacity, cameras lining the back wall and a low drone of chatter filling the air. The room itself, ordinarily a staid theater of parliamentary propriety, had taken on the atmosphere of a carnival. Committee members shuffled papers or whispered to aides as they awaited the star witnesses. At the center of it all sat Ivy Drumpf and Jason Pennington – Ivy, the poised First Daughter with a practiced smile, and Jason, her slick-haired husband and special advisor – both flanked by their legal counsel. They had been summoned ostensibly to answer questions about alleged conflicts of interest and misuse of public funds within the administration. But as the hearing was about to demonstrate, the very notion of accountability had become a tenuous one.

At 9:00 a.m. sharp, the Committee Chair, an opposition lawmaker by the name of Bernard Haskell, gaveled the hearing to order. He cleared his throat and adopted a grave tone that echoed through the microphones. "This Ethics Committee convenes today," he intoned, "to address serious allegations of corruption and conflicts of interest at the highest levels of our government." His words hung in the air, weighty but fragile. Across the table, Ivy Drumpf crossed her legs and folded her hands neatly on the table, the picture of calm composure. Jason Pennington adjusted his tie with a faint smirk. They appeared less like witnesses under scrutiny and more like honored guests at a luncheon, entirely at ease.

Chairman Haskell began with straightforward questions. "Ms. Drumpf," he said, "it has been reported that you continued to manage or influence the family business empire while serving as an unpaid advisor to your father, the President. Can you clarify your role and whether you set up any blind trusts or divested your holdings as recommended by the Office of Government Ethics?"

Ivy tilted her head and gave a charmingly regretful smile. "Thank you, Mr. Chairman," she said sweetly, "for the opportunity to clear that up. First, let me say it's such an honor to be here to discuss these issues of ethics, which our family takes very seriously." Her voice was smooth as syrup. A few of the Committee members exchanged glances at her opening gambit. "I have always sought to separate my public service from any private enterprise. If I may, I'd like to submit for the record a glossy booklet we've prepared – 'Our Ethical Commitment' – which outlines all the wonderful steps we've taken to go above and beyond compliance." She gestured delicately as an aide passed out copies of a shiny brochure bedecked with patriotic clip-art and smiling Drumpf family photos.

The Chairman blinked, momentarily wrong-footed by the unexpected pamphlet. "Ms. Drumpf," he interjected, "the question was about whether you divested or set up blind trusts for your business interests."

"Of course," Ivy nodded sympathetically. "In our commitment brochure, you'll find a section, page 15, detailing how I stepped back from day-to-day management. My brother Eric took on most of the operations for Drumpf Industries when my father assumed office the first time." She paused to flash a pearly smile. "I did not formally divest, but I have always kept my advisory role completely separate from any business discussions. Out of an abundance of caution, you see."

Across the dais, Representative Mona Alvarez, another opposition member, leaned into her microphone. "Isn't it true, Ms. Drumpf, that you continued to receive quarterly updates about your companies' performance and even pursued new foreign licensing deals during your tenure as Advisor to the President?"

Ivy's eyes widened in feigned surprise. "Congresswoman, I... well, I have many friends around the world. Sometimes they happen to be interested in our family's entrepreneurial spirit. It would have been rude not to listen to congratulatory calls or share general thoughts. But any notion that I was mixing those conversations with government business is simply not accurate." She delivered this with a soothing cadence that gave no actual information. Each sentence had been polished to a high gloss by her team of attorneys, saying a lot but meaning very little.

Representative Alvarez opened her mouth to press further, but before she could, Representative Gerald Noonan, a staunch Drumpf loyalist on the committee, cut in loudly. "Mr. Chairman, I think the witness has answered sufficiently. We have that lovely commitment brochure right in front of us which I'm sure addresses the Congresswoman's concerns," he said. His tone was dripping with feigned helpfulness. "And might I add, Ms. Drumpf, thank you for taking ethics seriously. It's refreshing to see."

A few chairs down, Representative Alvarez threw her hands up in frustration as her time was declared expired. The loyalists on the committee had clearly coordinated their strategy: eat up the clock, interrupt tough questions, and lob softballs to the Drumpf witnesses.

Next, Jason Pennington was up. A wily operator with boyish dimples, Jason had mastered the art of courteous evasion. Senator Mallory Greer, an elder statesman who remembered a time when subpoenas meant something, asked Jason to explain an email in which Jason (in his role as a senior advisor) seemingly instructed a government agency to direct a large contract to a company owned by a major Drumpf campaign donor. "Mr. Pennington," Greer said, voice echoing, "did you or did you not advocate for awarding the Great Columbia Infrastructure Project contract to Allied Alliance Corp, which is run by a close friend of the First Family?"

Jason smiled disarmingly. "Thank you, Senator, for that question. I can sense how deeply you care about proper process. I too share that passion for good governance." He placed a hand modestly on his chest. "As you know, the Infrastructure Project was one of the President's signature initiatives to rebuild our nation's roads and bridges. We wanted only the best companies involved. If I communicated with the agency, it would have been only to ensure that they considered all the best candidates for the job. Allied Alliance Corp has a great track record of patriotic service."

Greer frowned. "The email says, and I quote, 'Make sure Allied gets this. POTUS wants them.' It seems quite direct."

Jason gave a light chuckle as if an amusing misunderstanding had occurred. "Senator, emails can always appear blunt out of context. The President, as a great leader, naturally had preferences for who could deliver on his vision. I likely meant that Allied's proposal aligned with what the President was looking for in quality and efficiency. There was no improper pressure—merely guidance to look closely at a qualified bidder who, by the way, ended up doing fantastic work. Columbia's roads are better for it."

On the sidelines of the room, a few reporters scribbled notes and exchanged raised eyebrows. The performance by Ivy and Jason was a masterclass in polished stonewalling. They cooed about ethics and patriotism, complimented the questioners to blunt their attacks, and ultimately revealed nothing incriminating. Time and again, opposition lawmakers tried to corner them with documents and facts, and each time the witnesses slipped away on a grease-slick of genteel deflection.

As the morning wore on, the pattern solidified. When Representative Alvarez tried to pin Ivy down on how a luxurious new resort in Manila had received a lucrative federal loan guarantee, Ivy responded with a misty-eyed anecdote about her love for the Filipino people and how her father taught her to support allies abroad. When Senator Greer probed Jason on whether he had security clearance when handling sensitive diplomatic portfolios, Jason launched into a syrupy ode to the hardworking intelligence community, never actually answering the question.

Meanwhile, the loyalist members of the committee ran interference with gusto. They raised parliamentary objections over trivial points, demanded the Chair reprimand their colleagues for "badgering" the witnesses, and in one instance even staged a feigned outrage that the President's family was being "persecuted." Representative Noonan at one point theatrically waved Ivy's glossy "Ethical Commitment" brochure and declared, "This right here proves the First Family has gone above and beyond! I see no reason for this hearing to continue." This prompted applause from a cluster of audience members in red "Team Drumpf" hats who had somehow made it past the usually neutral audience seating rules.

By the time the Chair finally declared a recess for lunch, the Committee had made laughably little progress. In the hallway, reporters swarmed Ivy and Jason as they departed flanked by security. "Ms. Drumpf, do you feel you sufficiently answered the committee's questions?" shouted one. Ivy gave a gracious smile: "I was happy to cooperate and clarify some points. It's all just a big misunderstanding. We have nothing to hide." Jason added, "Total transparency, that's our goal." With that, the pair swept down the corridor, untouchable and serenely confident that nothing they didn't want revealed had been revealed.

Inside the hearing room, Chairman Haskell rubbed his temples in frustration. He muttered to his colleagues, "This is a farce." The few opposition members nodded glumly. They all sensed it: the formal mechanisms of oversight were being systematically hollowed out, live on national television. One junior lawmaker on the committee, new to the Assembly, looked stunned. "Can they really just... not answer anything and get away with it?" she asked quietly. Veteran Senator Greer patted her shoulder sadly, "They can and they are, my dear."

But the day's onslaught on accountability was only just beginning.

That same afternoon, across town, another drama was unfolding in bureaucratic silence. Inspector General Horace McMillan, a career official tasked with watchdogging the administration's expenditures, sat in his cramped office finishing the final lines of a report that would, briefly, shock the nation. For the past year, McMillan had been investigating allegations of misuse of government travel funds and nepotism in federal contracts – much of it swirling around the Drumpf family and their inner circle. His report was meticulous and damning: it documented, for instance, a pattern of Cabinet officials traveling with entourages of family and friends to luxury resorts owned by the Drumpf Organization on the taxpayer dime. It detailed how emergency relief funds from the previous year's floods had been disproportionately directed to counties with Drumpf-owned properties "for rebuilding efforts" that suspiciously mirrored resort renovations. It listed multiple instances where Ivy Drumpf or Jason Pennington intervened to steer contracts to businesses that kicked back profits to Drumpf companies.

Inspector General McMillan knew releasing this report would paint a target on his back. But he had a duty. With a steeling breath, he transmitted the report to the National Assembly's Speaker and posted the executive summary on the Inspector General Office's official website, as protocol demanded. Within minutes, social media lit up with excerpts from the summary: "IG Report Finds 'Gross Misuse of Public Funds' by Administration Officials," one headline read. Another: "Watchdog: Presidency Profiting from Government Contracts."

McMillan watched the reaction unfold from his office computer, heart pounding. He had done it – the truth was out, officially documented. For a fleeting moment, he felt a surge of righteousness. Perhaps, he dared to hope, this would finally hold the Drumpf regime to account.

He barely had time to savor that hope. Less than an hour after the report went live, his office phone rang. It was the President's Chief of Staff. The curt voice on the line said, "Horace, the President thanks you for your service, but your position here is no longer needed." McMillan's stomach dropped. "You're firing me? On what grounds?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. The voice on the phone simply replied, "Loss of confidence. Please clear your desk by this evening."

And just like that, Inspector General Horace McMillan was out. Before the evening news could even debate the contents of his explosive report, the administration had already dismissed him under a cloud of vague accusations. A press release was issued at 5:00 p.m. sharp: "The President has terminated Inspector General McMillan effective immediately, citing performance issues. The President will appoint a new Inspector General who 'better aligns with the administration's ethics and values.'" The dark irony of that final phrase was lost on no one, except perhaps those who crafted it.

The firing sent a chill through the ranks of civil servants and watchdogs across Columbia. It was a message: reveal our secrets at your peril. In the past, such a brazen act – axing an Inspector General hours after a critical report – would have caused a political firestorm. But now, in the Drumpf second term, it was just another frantic headline in an endless news cycle of shock and fatigue. Loyalist politicians either stayed silent or outright defended the move. Senator Regina Culpepper, a key Drumpf ally, went on National News Network that evening to applaud the President's decision. "That IG's report was a partisan hit job," she sniffed to the friendly interviewer. "Good riddance. The President has every right to remove ill-intentioned bureaucrats. This is a witch hunt, plain and simple."

By the next morning, the decapitation of the Inspector General's office was yesterday's news, supplanted by yet another drama. In a packed courtroom at the Columbia Court of Appeals, a panel of judges delivered a ruling on what had been one of the most anticipated anti-corruption cases in decades. A coalition of ethics groups had filed suit against the Drumpf Administration the year prior, alleging that the President had violated the Constitution's anti-corruption provisions (one of which barred profiting from foreign governments) by steering government business to his hotels and receiving foreign dignitaries' money through those properties. The case had slogged through the courts, inching past motion after motion. But now, just when a trial on the merits seemed within reach, the judges issued a terse decision.

In legalese thicker than cold molasses, the Court dismissed the case on a set of technicalities so arcane that one needed a law degree and a magnifying glass to decipher them. The key issue boiled down to "standing" – the question of whether the plaintiffs were entitled to sue at all. The judges, two out of three of whom happened to have been appointed by President Drumpf himself, contorted logic to find that the ethics groups and hotel owners who brought the case could not conclusively prove they were directly harmed by the President's actions. One line of the decision read: "While the allegations raise significant moral questions, the plaintiffs lack the specific injury required for judicial intervention at this time." Another portion cited an obscure precedent from the 1800s to argue that courts had no jurisdiction over how Congress chose to enforce (or not enforce) corruption laws against a sitting president.

The bottom line: case dismissed, with prejudice. No trial, no judgment on the actual merits of whether the President had or hadn't been illicitly profiting. It was as if the judiciary shrugged and said, "Not our problem." In the courtroom, a murmur of disbelief and despair spread among the assembled reporters and members of the public. One of the ethics group's lawyers dropped his pen, his shoulders sagging. He had genuinely believed that the rule of law might prevail here – that obvious corruption could not go unanswered. But technicalities had provided cover for what many saw as a blatant whitewash. The President's supporters, of course, celebrated the dismissal as a grand victory and vindication. Outside the courthouse, a gaggle of Drumpf loyalists in bright red hats cheered and held up signs that read "Game Over – No Crime!" and "Let Our President Govern."

As if these blows to oversight were not enough, the week had one more spectacle in store. During a midday session on the Assembly floor, Representative Jack Mackey – one of the President's most fervent allies in the legislature – took the microphone to float an idea that left even some of his colleagues slack-jawed. With an earnest smile, as though proposing a patriotic resolution, Mackey drawled, "In light of the constant harassment our great President has faced from partisan bureaucrats, I think it's high time we rethink these so-called 'ethics watchdogs' who aren't accountable to the voters. Perhaps we ought to abolish the Office of Government Ethics altogether."

An audible gasp went up in the chamber. A few lawmakers laughed, thinking they'd misheard. Abolish the Office of Government Ethics? It was an office created post-Watergate to ensure no executive branch official abused their power. Even in the depths of previous scandals, no one had openly suggested scrapping the very mechanism of executive accountability. But Representative Mackey barreled on, buoyed by the half-smile creeping onto the Speaker's face. "I'm serious," Mackey insisted, raising his voice. "The Office of Government Ethics has been weaponized by unelected deep-state agents trying to undermine our democratically elected leaders. We in this Assembly have a duty to streamline government and remove redundant obstacles. We already have elections to hold people accountable. We don't need a nanny state ethics czar telling the President or any of us what we can and can't do!"

Some lawmakers applauded. Incredibly, it was not just the fringe. A smattering of others on the majority side joined in, nodding and clapping at Mackey's bold suggestion. The minority members shouted objections, but the Speaker gaveled for order and pointedly did not rebuke Mackey's statement. In the press gallery, journalists fired off breaking news alerts: "Senior lawmaker proposes eliminating ethics office." The Office of Government Ethics itself, a tiny agency with a modest staff, responded within the hour with a stunned press release defending its purpose – but who was listening? The proposal was still just a notion, not yet a formal bill, but the Overton window had shifted drastically. What was once unthinkable – openly doing away with ethics oversight – was now floated as a legitimate policy idea.

By the end of that tumultuous week, the institutions that were supposed to check power had been not just tested, but publicly humiliated. A Congressional hearing had become a toothless circus. A diligent Inspector General had been sacked for doing his job too well. The courts had abdicated on holding the powerful to account. And the legislature itself entertained dismantling ethical safeguards altogether.

It was as if the Constitution's carefully wrought checks and balances had morphed into a cruel joke – checks and imbalances, indeed. The very phrase had started circulating ironically on social media, a bitter play on words capturing the state of things.

President Ron Drumpf, for his part, was jubilant. That evening, he held one of his trademark rallies in the heartland – ostensibly a policy speech on tax reform, but in reality a victory lap in front of his adoring base. The crowd of thousands roared and chanted "Four More Years!" (some had taken to chanting "Forever Years!" just to drive the point home). Drumpf took the stage basking in applause, a broad grin on his face. Behind him, giant banners proclaimed "Promises Made, Promises Kept" over an image of an eagle flying free of chains.

Midway through his speech, after deriding the "Do-Nothing opposition" and celebrating the court victory ("some very wise judges, they saw right through the nonsense"), President Drumpf addressed the events of the week with a kind of triumphant glee. "We had these phony hearings today," he scoffed, prompting boos on cue from the crowd. "My wonderful daughter Ivy and my son-in-law Jason went in and absolutely schooled those Assembly hacks. Didn't give 'em a thing. Because guess what? There was nothing to give! No collusion, no corruption, no nothing – just a witch hunt!" The crowd cheered, waving signs that read "Leave Ivy Alone!" and "Stop the Witch Hunt!".

Drumpf continued, reveling in the attack. "Then you had this so-called Inspector General," he went on, making air quotes and a mock confused face to laughter. "Oh, he writes a fake report, full of lies. Total lies. So we said, 'You're fired! Get out!'" The mass of supporters roared their approval as Drumpf mimed kicking someone in the rear. "We don't want bad people in our government, folks. Only the best people. That guy was a bad apple, very disloyal."

He then referenced the court case. "And how about those judges, huh?" he grinned. "They did the right thing. They looked at this phony case and said 'get out of here'. Because there's nothing there. Nothing! I could've told you that. In fact, I did tell you that all along." The crowd chanted his name.

Finally, President Drumpf leaned on the podium, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You know, they say no one is above the law," he said, wagging a finger theatrically. "And that's true, it's true. But after all this, I have to say – maybe the law just caught up with how great we're doing." He paused for effect, then delivered the line that would dominate headlines and late-night show monologues for days. With a broad shrug and a chuckle, Ron Drumpf proclaimed, "We're not above the law... the law just no longer applies to us!"

The audience exploded in delirious applause and laughter as if their team had just scored the winning touchdown. Many didn't fully grasp the dark implication of the joke – or if they did, they didn't care. To them, it was just another instance of their champion sticking it to the establishment. On stage, President Drumpf clapped along, basking in the uproar he'd caused. In that moment, the nominal leader of the free world openly declared himself beyond accountability, and instead of outrage, he was met with cheers.

Thus, Chapter 9 ends with oversight in shambles, the guardrails of democracy battered to the brink. The Drumpf administration, drunk on the week's victories, marched forward with impunity. And a giddy Ron Drumpf reveled in a new American motto that would have been unthinkable just a few years prior, but now felt like cold reality: the law did not apply to them.

Chapter 10: The Loyal and the Weary – Inside the Regime

Curtis Marsh stared at the computer screen in his small, cluttered office, a knot tightening in his stomach. On the monitor was an email marked "Urgent" from the Deputy Minister of Administrative Services – Curtis's political superior, a brash appointee half his age. The directive was clear: approve the special travel request for "VIP delegates" attached to the First Family's upcoming private retreat, and do it immediately. Curtis knew exactly what this euphemism meant. The "delegates" were not diplomats or officials at all, but a gaggle of Ron Drumpf Jr.'s hunting buddies and a few favored donors, all expecting an all-expenses-paid weekend at Camp Victory courtesy of the taxpayers. Flights on a luxury government jet, five-star catering, golf outings – the works, charged to the public under the guise of a "cultural exchange visit." It was blatantly fraudulent, the kind of abuse of public funds that once would have cost people their jobs or worse. But now, approving such extravagances had become routine in the second Drumpf term.

Curtis removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. He had served for thirty-two years across multiple administrations. He remembered when ministers and even presidents – of both parties – had respected the guardrails, at least enough to keep civil servants like him out of ethical torment. But in the Drumpf era, those guardrails were smashed. The old joke, "I'm from the government and I'm here to help," had twisted into something new: "I'm from the government and I'm here to help myself." Curtis had tried to keep his head down through the first term, telling himself that the institutions would hold, that cooler heads would prevail. But after the past week – after witnessing an Inspector General fired for simply telling the truth, after seeing the courts shrug off corruption on a technicality – Curtis felt his hope shriveling.

He glanced at the framed photograph on his desk: a much younger Curtis shaking hands with President Michaelson, a former leader known for fiscal discipline and integrity. That was fifteen years ago. Curtis had been proud to serve then. Now, he wasn't sure what he was anymore – a rubber stamp? An enabler?

The door to Curtis's office banged open without warning, startling him upright. Logan Jeffries, the Deputy Minister of Administrative Services (and the author of the urgent email), sauntered in. Logan was all slick hair and expensive cologne, a former lobbyist thrust into a senior role thanks to being an early Drumpf campaign fundraiser. He had a grin that never reached his eyes.

"Heyyy, Curt my man!" Logan said, spreading his arms as if they were best pals. Curtis mustered a thin smile. He disliked being called "Curt," especially by someone young enough to be his son who hadn't earned any familiarity. "Got my message, I assume," Logan continued, parking himself on the edge of Curtis's desk and picking up a paperweight – a small marble statue of Lady Justice – to fidget with. Curtis tried not to grimace as the man handled it carelessly.

"Yes, I saw it," Curtis replied evenly. "The travel authorization for the Camp Victory trip."

Logan chuckled, spinning the Lady Justice figurine between his fingers. "Right, right. Need that done ASAP. The First Son leaves tomorrow with his… 'delegation.'" He winked conspiratorially. "You know how it is, these VIPs expect a certain level of comfort. And hey, if they're happy, the boss is happy."

Curtis folded his hands to hide a slight tremor. "I understand the request, Logan, but there are some... irregularities in the documentation." He kept his tone diplomatic. "For one, the justification section is blank. Typically, for using government aircraft and funds, we need a stated public purpose. The form should indicate what the official function is."

Logan rolled his eyes dramatically. "Oh come on, do we really need to spell it out? Fine, type in 'cultural exchange' or 'fact-finding mission' or something. The usual buzzwords."

Curtis felt heat in his cheeks. "If I sign this, I'm attesting that the expenses are government-related. Frankly, it appears to be a personal trip for Mr. Drumpf Jr. and some friends. I'm not comfortable approving without a legal rationale."

At that, Logan hopped off the desk and fixed Curtis with a look that was equal parts incredulity and threat. "Not comfortable? Curtis, buddy, we're all on the same team here, right? The President personally okayed this outing. You think he provides a 'legal rationale' every time he hops on a plane?" He put down the paperweight with a thud. "Listen, if we start nit-picking every invoice and trip, nothing will get done. The First Family's time is valuable. Their relationships are an asset to the country." His voice took on a harder edge. "And between you and me, the big man upstairs is tired of bureaucrats throwing sand in the gears."

Curtis knew that "big man upstairs" did not mean God – it meant President Drumpf, who was practically deity in the eyes of lackeys like Logan. He swallowed, choosing his words carefully. "I have never been one to throw sand, Logan. But I have a duty to ensure funds are used appropriately. If this were audited..."

Logan stepped closer, leaning in. Curtis could smell the sharp scent of peppermint gum and ego. "There is not going to be any audit," Logan said quietly. "Not anymore. You saw what happened to the IG who tried to audit anything." He didn't need to elaborate; the threat was crystal clear. The watchdogs have been muzzled – and declawed, and defanged, Curtis thought bitterly. "We have the green light from the top to expedite these things," Logan continued. "So please, just sign the damn papers, okay? Or I can find someone else who will. There are plenty of bright young staffers eager to do your job if you're feeling... tired."

Curtis's jaw tensed. He was both insulted and unsettled by the brazenness. This kid was threatening to replace him for doing his job correctly. "I will process it," he said at last, voice stiff.

"Good man," Logan smirked, patting Curtis on the shoulder as if rewarding an obedient dog. "Knew you'd get it. One team, one dream, right?" With that nauseating motto, Logan strutted out, leaving the door ajar behind him.

For a long moment, Curtis remained still, staring at the authorization form on his screen, the cursor blinking at the empty justification box. One team, one dream. He quietly shut the door, then returned to his computer and scrolled through the attached expense breakdown: private charter flight – $250,000; luxury resort catering – $45,000; "miscellaneous hospitality" – $30,000; and on and on. He felt sick. It was one small request among dozens he'd seen, each more shameless than the last. He thought of all the mid-level employees in federal agencies who had to fly coach and share hotel rooms at conferences because of budget constraints. Here was Ron Jr. and his pals living like kings on public money, and Curtis was expected to just click "Approve."

Curtis's hand hovered over his mouse. With a heavy sigh, he began typing in the justification field: "Official delegation – cultural exchange and strategic recreational outing." He almost laughed at the absurdity of those words sitting together. It was bureaucratic gibberish, a fig leaf barely covering the naked truth. But it would do. He scrolled to the signature line and added his digital sign-off. Done.

After sending the approval through, Curtis slumped back in his chair, heart pounding with a mix of anger and shame. He had done what was demanded. He told himself it was to keep his job so he could fight another day, but each compromise weighed on him. He gazed once more at Lady Justice on his desk – the figurine now slightly askew from Logan's fiddling. Her blindfolded face seemed to stare judgmentally.

Suddenly resolute, Curtis stood and quietly closed his office door again. If "no audit" was the new rule, then internal channels were useless. He decided then and there that he would have to take matters into his own hands. If he couldn't blow the whistle through official means (the proper watchdogs being gutted or ignored), he could at least ensure some evidence saw the light of day.

Curtis locked his computer and walked over to a tall metal filing cabinet in the corner of his office. From his keyring – laden with decades' worth of jangling keys to long-gone supply rooms and archives – he selected a small brass one. With a click, the cabinet opened to reveal a trove of files. He thumbed through them. Over the years, he had kept copies of certain documents that disturbed him. Call it a personal failsafe. He hadn't admitted it to anyone, but every time a questionable directive came down, he'd printed a copy and slid it into this cabinet. It was a habit born more of anxiety than any real plan, but now those meticulously collected papers might find their purpose.

He pulled out folders labeled "Travel – Unofficial", "Contracts – Preferential", and one simply labeled "Nepotism". Spread across his desk, the papers painted a damning picture of a bureaucracy being twisted to enrich the Drumpf family and reward their cronies. Here was an invoice for an Air Force flight that ferried Ivy Drumpf's personal fashion designer from New York to Washington (justified as "consultation on diplomatic wardrobe"). And there, a copy of an email instructing the award of a construction contract for a foreign embassy not to the lowest bidder but to a company owned by Eric Drumpf's college roommate. Another file held the memo from two years ago that had made Curtis's blood boil: a quiet directive redirecting funds from a Federal education grant program into a "Patriotic History Youth Summit" hosted at a Drumpf-owned hotel, essentially turning public money into profit under the guise of an event.

Curtis's hands trembled slightly as he reviewed these. With the IG gone and no one left internally to trust, he knew what he had to do. He would leak this. Not just one item—a flood. The public would get the full scope.

He gathered the choicest documents and scanned them to a USB flash drive, carefully naming each PDF with innocuous titles. Then he encrypted the drive; he wasn't entirely tech-savvy, but enough to know not to leave a plain trail. As dusk fell outside the narrow office window, Curtis found himself breaking into a sweat. The act of copying government files for unauthorized release was, in technical terms, illegal. He could face serious consequences. Under normal circumstances, he would never have dreamed of it. But normal had died long ago. The law, he thought, recalling the President's gloating rally line from the night before, no longer seemed to apply to those at the top. Would it protect someone like him trying to do right? Unlikely.

Just then, a noise in the hallway made him jump. Footsteps. Curtis quickly shut the laptop and slid the papers back into the cabinet, leaving it slightly open in his haste. A cleaning staff member pushed a cart past his door, the wheels squeaking on the tile. Curtis forced himself to breathe. Perhaps he was getting paranoid.

He finished up, locking his trove of originals away. The USB drive he slipped into the secret lining of his briefcase. It was past 8:00 p.m. when he finally left his office. The corridors of the Administrative Services building were quiet and dim, save for the humming fluorescent lights. Most employees had gone home hours ago, leaving only the faint smell of burnt coffee in the air. As he walked to the exit, Curtis nodded at the security guard and tried to appear casual. Did the guard somehow know? Did a camera catch him scanning documents? Each benign glance felt suspicious to his guilty conscience.

Outside, the autumn night was crisp. Curtis pulled on his overcoat and began the short walk to the Metro station. In his pocket, his fingers closed around a small slip of paper – one he had prepared with a journalist's contact information and a phone number for a secure tip line. He had followed the career of Melody Tran, an investigative reporter known for exposing government malfeasance. If anyone would know what to do with this trove, it was her. Curtis decided he would contact her anonymously first thing in the morning from a pay-as-you-go phone he intended to purchase.

As Curtis disappeared into the night, the faint relief of taking action finally cut through his dread. He didn't know what exactly would come of his leak – whether it would spark the outrage and reform he hoped, or simply result in his ruin. But he knew doing nothing was no longer an option. For the first time in months, he felt a glimmer of something like pride.

While Curtis was making his quiet stand, across town at the Presidential Palace communications office, Sally Rodriguez was fighting her own moral battle on a very different front.

Sally sat at her desk in the bustling West Wing Communications bullpen, staring at the draft press release on her screen. The headline read: "President Drumpf Removes Biased IG, Stands Up for Integrity." The content that followed was a surreal exercise in doublethink. It described Inspector General McMillan's firing as a courageous move by the President to "root out disloyalty and politically motivated dishonesty in the bureaucracy." It praised the administration's "unwavering commitment to ethical leadership" and suggested McMillan had overstepped his authority. In other words, black was white, down was up.

Sally's fingers hovered over the keyboard. She was a junior communications aide—this was her draft, but it would go through layers of revision and approval by higher-ups before release. Still, it troubled her deeply that she had to write these words at all. Only yesterday, she had seen a copy of the IG's executive summary (leaked to the media before the site was scrubbed)—the findings were serious, not partisan. How could they call McMillan biased or dishonest? Everyone in the building knew the IG was fired precisely because he was honest.

"Rodriguez!" A sharp voice snapped her out of her thoughts. It was Colleen Briggs, the White House Deputy Communications Director and Sally's immediate supervisor, striding toward her desk. Colleen was efficient and hard-edged, known for her no-nonsense approach to shaping the Drumpf narrative. She peered at Sally's screen. "Is that release done? The Chief is waiting on it."

Sally swallowed. "Just about, ma'am. I was just making sure the language about the IG is, um, consistent with what we've said before..."

Colleen rolled her eyes. "Consistent? The only consistency we need is making sure it hits back twice as hard. Here—" She leaned over Sally and scrolled through the document, rapidly making edits. Sally watched as Colleen replaced "removes biased IG" with "removes deeply flawed IG," and where Sally had written somewhat mildly "overstepped his role," Colleen tacked on "to undermine the President."

"That's more like it," Colleen muttered. "And this part—" she pointed to where Sally had written the phrase 'unwavering commitment to ethical leadership.' "Add this: 'unwavering commitment to ethical leadership and the rule of law.' Really drive that irony home."

Sally did a double take. Did Colleen just say the quiet part out loud? The Deputy Director caught the look and smirked. "Something wrong, Rodriguez?"

It wasn't Sally's place to object—she was two months into this job and still considered green. But she felt a twist of conscience. "Ms. Briggs, do we have to call him 'deeply flawed'? I mean, everyone saw the report. Won't attacking him so personally maybe draw more attention...?"

Colleen's expression hardened. "Sally, our base will eat it up. They need an enemy, and we're giving them one. As for everyone else – who cares? We could put out a press release saying the sky is green, and National News Network would run a headline 'President Boldly Redefines Sky Color'. Meanwhile, our opponents will sputter and fact-check and it won't make a dent. We control the narrative or we lose. Understand?"

Sally nodded mutely, a lump in her throat. Colleen gave a curt pat on her shoulder. "I need that final version in ten, okay?" Then she strode off, barking at another staffer about a tweet that needed rewording.

Sally exhaled shakily. This was not what she'd imagined when she applied for a job in the communications office. Fresh out of a top university, she had been ecstatic to land a White House position – to serve her country, to be part of history, even if she wasn't on the side she'd personally voted for. She told herself it was about experience, about learning how government worked from the inside. She had naively assumed there would be at least some baseline of truth-telling involved. Instead, she was learning that crafting official statements here meant spinning, twisting, sometimes outright denying reality. And doing it with a smile.

She finished the press release as instructed, layering on Colleen's aggressive touches. With a click, she sent it up the chain for approval. Almost instantly, a reply came back from higher up: "Good stuff. Release immediately." By now, Sally recognized the terse style of the Communications Director himself, or perhaps even Ivy Drumpf's chief PR advisor. Whomever it was, they wanted this out fast to shape the story.

Within minutes, the statement was blasted to the press and posted on official channels. Sally glimpsed a news alert pop up on her screen: "White House: Fired IG was 'deeply flawed' individual trying to undermine President." She felt a small pang of guilt, seeing her carefully crafted propaganda doing its work in real time.

She needed a break. Leaving her desk, Sally headed to the restroom to splash water on her face. On her way, she passed the open door of a larger office – the communications team's lounge and brainstorming room. Voices were raised in laughter inside.

"...they're so gullible, it's almost sad—" she heard someone say between chuckles.

Curious, Sally paused just outside, the door ajar. She recognized the voices: one was Tim Washington, a senior communications strategist known for his cynical wit; the other sounded like Grant Kim, one of the social media gurus. They didn't notice her just outside as they bantered.

"I'm telling you," Tim laughed, "the base is in a frenzy over that line. You see the rally footage? 'The law no longer applies to us!' and they're cheering like it's a football game. They don't even realize what he's admitting."

Grant snorted. "Why would they? These idiots think he's invincible on their behalf. I swear, we could tell them the moon is made of barbeque ribs and they'd bring the sauce."

That sent both men into another fit of laughter. Sally's eyes widened. She peered through the crack. Tim was leaning against the snack counter, a Red Bull in hand, while Grant was practically doubled over, tears of mirth in his eyes.

Tim caught his breath. "Did you see some of the fan forums? They actually think firing the IG was heroic. One commenter wrote, 'Drumpf protecting us from deep state traitors, thank you Mr. President.' Unbelievable. We ghost-wrote that 'deep state traitor' line in one of the President's tweets and they just parrot it."

Grant shook his head, grinning. "I sometimes wonder if half of them even believe the earth is round, or if they'd change their mind if Drumpf said so."

Tim raised his drink in a mock toast. "To the Loyal!" he proclaimed theatrically.

Grant followed suit, raising an imaginary glass. "To the easily led!" he added, and they both howled.

Sally felt her face flush hot with shock and anger. These guys – her colleagues – were mocking the President's supporters, the very people they purported to serve and inform. The "loyal" base that turned out to rallies, hung on every word of the communications team's output – these staffers saw them as buffoons to be herded and fleeced.

Unable to stand more, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. Tim and Grant immediately straightened up, startled mid-laugh. They knew Sally only in passing; as a junior aide she wasn't usually part of their inner-circle banter.

Tim coughed. "Oh, hey Sally. Need something?"

She stood there, heart pounding. She struggled for the right words. "I... I heard what you said. About the supporters." Her voice was quieter than she intended, but the room was dead silent now.

Grant gave a flippant shrug. "Just joking around. Blowing off steam, you know."

Sally clenched her fists. "These are the people who trust us. Who trust the President. If you think they're so stupid—"

"Relax," Tim interrupted, giving a half-smile that was more condescending than reassuring. "We operate in the real world, Rodriguez. Of course we respect the base," – his sarcastic emphasis on 'respect' said otherwise – "but part of the job is understanding, well, the psychology. And sometimes that means recognizing how to... simplify messages for folks."

Grant nodded, still grinning as if it were all a big joke. "Yeah, lighten up. Everyone in politics knows the game. You tell the public what they want to hear, not what is."

Sally felt a wave of disillusionment crashing. "Maybe they believe in something real. And we're just... using them," she said, voice trembling not with fear but with indignation. "Doesn't that bother you?"

The two men exchanged glances. Tim looked at her as one might look at a child who asked why the sky is blue. "You're new, huh?" he said softly, almost pityingly. "Look, if it makes you feel better, think of it this way: We're giving them purpose. A team to root for. That's more than they get from most politicians. Who cares if it's a bit embellished? They're happy, the President's happy, and we get paid. Everybody wins."

Sally stood in stunned silence. Grant polished off the last of his coffee and tossed the cup. "You want to survive here, you gotta toughen up. All that journalism school ethics stuff—" he made a dismissive motion with his hand, "—doesn't apply in a campaign environment. And face it, this White House is a permanent campaign."

Tim chuckled. "Amen. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a narrative to refine for tomorrow's social feed. Think the boss wants something trending about 'Loyalty Day' or whatever." He patted Sally on the arm as he passed, a gesture that felt half sympathetic, half patronizing. "Don't let it get to you, Sally. It's just the job."

They left her standing in the lounge, the door swinging shut behind them. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Sally felt a lump in her throat and realized she was on the verge of tears – of frustration, of disappointment, she wasn't even sure. She quickly splashed cold water on her face in the restroom and took a few deep breaths.

Returning to her small desk, Sally noticed her hands were shaking. She couldn't focus. The press office bustle around her faded to a blur as she stared at her computer screen. Emails were pouring in with directives for the next day: talking points for surrogates to spin the court case dismissal as a "huge victory over frivolous lawsuits," a draft tweet praising Representative Mackey's call to "streamline ethics oversight," and ironically, an internal memo prepping to celebrate "National Honesty Day" next week – a PR fluff event that now felt like a cruel joke.

Sally realized she was done. She could not write one more word of praise for lies, could not stand in one more briefing holding up talking points she didn't believe. And she certainly couldn't work alongside people who sneered at the very public they served while manipulating them.

Her mind was made up almost as soon as her heart admitted it. The decision gave her a strange sense of calm. She opened a blank document and began typing her resignation letter. She kept it short and formal: effective immediately, thank you for the opportunity, etc. No grand statements of moral protest—what was the point? It would cause more trouble than it was worth, and likely no one would read it anyway.

As she typed, she felt someone approach. It was Colleen Briggs again, holding her phone and frowning. "Sally, did you post the Instagram graphic with the President's quote like I asked?"

Sally looked up, surprising herself with how steady her voice was. "No, I haven't yet."

Colleen sighed with irritation. "We're on a schedule. Get on it, please. And I need you to start drafting the President's remarks for the Pardon Anniversary event." She paused, noticing the open letter on Sally's screen. "What's that?"

Sally straightened her back. "It's my resignation, Ms. Briggs."

Colleen blinked in disbelief. This clearly was not a scenario she expected. "Excuse me?"

"I'm resigning," Sally repeated, surprised at how firm she sounded. "I can't continue working here."

For a moment, Colleen just stared, as if waiting for a punchline. When it didn't come, her expression curdled into annoyance. She snatched the letter from the printer tray where Sally had just sent it. Her eyes flicked over the text. "Effective immediately," Colleen muttered. "So you're just... walking out? Because you had a little crisis of confidence?"

Sally stood and quietly began gathering the few personal items she had at her station – a framed photo of her family, a mug, a notepad with a motivational quote she once found inspiring. "I appreciate the chance, but yes. I'm leaving."

Colleen tossed the letter back onto the desk. "You realize this is career suicide, right? People will say you were a nobody who couldn't cut it in a high-pressure job."

Sally nodded, slipping her notebook into her bag. "Maybe. But at least I'll be able to look at myself in the mirror."

Colleen's jaw tightened. She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. "Listen, if you think the outside world will give a damn about your scruples, you're naive. The loyal get rewarded, the traitors get forgotten. Or worse."

Was that a threat? Sally met her superior's glare with newfound courage. "I'm not a traitor. I just won't lie for them anymore."

Colleen shook her head. "This place chews up idealists like you. Fine. Go. We'll replace you by Monday." She pivoted on her heel and stalked away, throwing back one last line: "And don't think about spilling anything you heard here. You signed an NDA. Legal will come after you if you so much as tweet a bad word. Understood?"

Sally watched her go and let out a shaky breath. She powered down her computer and slid her government badge and work phone onto the desk – the tools of her now-brief trade.

A few colleagues noticed the strange scene and looked on quizzically. One of them, a friend named Dana from another team, hurried over. "Sally? Are you okay?" she whispered.

Sally mustered a small smile. "I'm fine. I just resigned."

Dana's eyes widened. "What? Why? Did something happen?"

Sally glanced at the cacophony of the communications office around them – phones ringing, TVs blaring with pundits, staffers hunched spinning the latest narrative. "Nothing new happened," she replied. "That's the problem."

Dana looked both worried and envious; perhaps she too had doubts but wasn't ready to jump. She gave Sally a quick hug. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

"I will," Sally said, surprising herself by how certain she was.

Walking out of the West Wing that evening, Sally felt a mix of sadness, relief, and fear for the future. She had no immediate plan, no next job lined up. In fact, she suspected Colleen was right that she might be unofficially blacklisted from many political communication circles for breaking ranks. But at that moment, none of that mattered. As she passed through the security gate for the last time, returning her visitor pass (her permanent badge confiscated until paperwork could be processed), she breathed in the cool air of early night. She felt lighter than she had in months. Conscience clear, soul intact.

Two days later, an anonymously sourced exposé appeared in the leading national newspaper detailing how routine government functions were being subverted for the Drumpf family's gain. It cited internal documents about extravagant trips and sweetheart contracts – a trove only an insider would have access to. Curtis Marsh, reading it under the soft glow of his lamp at home, felt a cautious sense of vindication. His leaked files had made it out. The truth, at least some of it, was there in black and white for citizens to see.

Meanwhile, on social media, rumors swirled about a young communications staffer who had abruptly resigned. Some speculated she quit out of principle, but pro-Drumpf commentators dismissed her as a "low-level nobody" and a "potential deep-state plant." Sally saw some of these comments from the quiet of her apartment and closed her laptop, deciding not to engage. She had spoken her truth by leaving; that was enough.

Curtis and Sally never met, and likely never would. Yet in parallel, each had reached a breaking point in an administration that demanded absolute loyalty and punished conscience. Curtis had chosen to fight quietly from within by exposing the rot, and Sally had chosen to walk away and preserve her integrity. They were two tiny specks in the vast machinery of the Drumpf regime – one an aging cog slipping out of alignment, the other a fresh bolt spit out before it could be tightened. Their actions alone could not halt the machine. But they were a sign that inside the regime, beneath the facade of unanimous devotion and confidence, cracks were forming – cracks of doubt, fatigue, and rebellion that no amount of propaganda or purge could fully seal.

Chapter 11: Family Feuds and Fortunes – Dynasty Dynamics

A warm breeze whispered through the pines at Camp Victory, the presidential retreat nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains. On this secluded estate – rebranded from its former name to better suit President Ron Drumpf's penchant for superlatives – nearly everything bore the stamp of the First Family's ego. The rustic cabins had been renovated with gilded fixtures and renamed after virtues like "Prosperity" and "Dominion." A massive Columbia flag hung between two towering oaks at the entrance, and the pathway lights were customized to project the Drumpf family crest onto the ground after dusk.

It was ostensibly a casual family weekend, a chance to unwind away from prying eyes. But inside the largest lodge (dubbed the "Victory Lodge"), the atmosphere was anything but relaxed. The Drumpf dynasty was gathered around a long oak table for an informal strategy session that felt more like a board meeting of a family corporation – which, in effect, it was.

President Ronald "Ron" Drumpf Sr. sat at the head of the table, a position he commanded with an almost regal entitlement. To his right sat Ivy Drumpf-Pennington, elegantly casual in a designer cardigan and jeans, her posture straight and confident. Beside her was her husband Jason Pennington, quiet and observant, a tablet device in front of him likely filled with figures and notes to bolster Ivy's ideas. On the President's left slouched Ron Drumpf Jr., nursing a bourbon and looking half bored, half restless. He wore an outdoor vest over a camouflage shirt – he had been out skeet shooting earlier and still carried the faint scent of gunpowder mixed with expensive cologne. Further down the table sat Eric Drumpf, the younger son, who was idly twirling a pen; he wore a bright polo emblazoned with the logo of Drumpf Golf Resorts. Eric's eyes darted between his older siblings, as if trying to anticipate their moves. Conspicuously absent was the First Lady, who had politely excused herself from the "business talk" – it was well known in the family that these plotting sessions were not her arena.

President Drumpf cleared his throat, and the low buzz of casual chatter instantly ceased. When the patriarch was ready to speak, everyone listened. "Alright, kids," Ron Sr. began, steepling his fingers in a gesture of command. "We've got four more years – well, a little less now – to do what needs to be done. And we're in a position that, frankly, nobody has ever been in before. We run this country, and we run it our way. No interference." He gave a toothy grin, clearly alluding to the events of recent weeks. "The fake ethics people tried to make trouble, and where are they now? Gone. The courts? Totally in our pocket or too chicken to fight. So this is our time to think big."

Ron Jr. nodded eagerly at this, but Ivy merely smiled a controlled, knowing smile. Jason took a sip from a glass of sparkling water, eyes on the President. Eric piped up helpfully, "Absolutely, Dad. The haters and losers have been muzzled. It's like, what you always said – you could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue—"

His father waved a hand. "Figure of speech, Eric, but yes. We have freedom to get creative." He leaned forward. "And that's why I wanted this meeting. I want each of you to tell me what you've got cooking. New ideas. Big profit, big impact. Ways to turn our position into something lasting – for the family and for Columbia, of course." He added the last part with a wry smirk, and they all chuckled. The pretense that any of their ventures were truly for the country had long since become a shared family joke.

Ron Jr. was practically bouncing in his seat. "I'll go first!" he announced, not waiting for permission. Ivy arched an eyebrow but allowed him the floor with a polite tilt of her head.

Junior set down his bourbon and pulled a glossy pamphlet from under his notebook. On the cover was a stylized shield logo featuring a rearing eagle holding a rifle in its talons, above bold letters that read "DRUMPF DEFENDER". He slid copies down the table to his father and siblings.

Ron Sr. adjusted his reading glasses (which he only donned in private, loath to show any sign of age in public) and examined the brochure. Ivy and Jason perused theirs with measured interest, while Eric fumbled to open his.

"So," Ron Jr. said, excitement creeping into his loud voice, "we know our base. They love two things: my father" – he pointed to President Drumpf with a grin – "and their guns. And why shouldn't they? Guns are as Columbia as apple pie. Now, we've done merch – hats, flags, that stuff is great. But I'm talking a whole new level: Drumpf-brand firearms and accessories."

President Drumpf let out a small "hmm" of intrigue as he flipped a page. There were mock-ups of handguns and rifles engraved with the Drumpf name, some in gold finish, others with patriotic designs. One page depicted a special edition hunting rifle with Ron Sr.'s silhouette etched into the stock.

Junior took this as a sign to continue. "Picture this: the 'Patriot Protector' handgun, a sleek 9mm with our family crest on the grip. Or the 'Liberty AR-15' – a custom AR-15 rifle in red, white, and blue with 'Victory by Drumpf' scripted along the barrel. We can sell these to the public, but not just that. I've spoken with some friends in Defense—" he glanced conspiratorially at his father, who nodded (it helped that the Defense Minister was an old golfing buddy) – "and there's openness to letting our companies produce a special line for military and law enforcement purchase. Tied in with the new national service pistol contract maybe. We could effectively elbow into the arms industry with our branding."

At the word "arms industry," Ivy pursed her lips ever so slightly. Junior pressed on. "Imagine how the base will eat it up. They'll swap out their Glocks and Remingtons for Drumpf Defenders in a heartbeat. It's not just guns either – think ammunition with our logo, tactical gear. Hell, we could open Drumpf Firearm Experience centers nationwide. Ranges with membership subscriptions. It's patriotic, it's profitable, and it solidifies our image as the first family of All-American values."

He finished, looking mighty pleased with himself. Eric tapped the brochure thoughtfully. "I like the colors," Eric offered, "and maybe we could include one of those little challenge coins or something with each purchase, like a collectible."

Junior waved dismissively, "Sure, details to work out, but the main thing is – it prints money and expands the brand."

President Drumpf leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking. "Not bad," he said, which in Ron-speak was high praise. "Our people do love their guns. And tying it with law enforcement procurement... that could be big. I'd get to say we modernized the police arsenal with homegrown brands." He scratched his chin. "Any regulatory issues?"

Jason cleared his throat, chiming in diplomatically. "There might be some hurdles, sir, but nothing insurmountable. Conflicts of interest could be raised if the President's family is directly selling to the government." He delivered this like a neutral analyst, though everyone knew the subtext: they'd have to launder the deals slightly, perhaps through shell companies or friendly intermediaries, to keep it technically legal (or at least defensible).

Ron Jr. shrugged. "Semantics. We can set up a new subsidiary, put someone else as figurehead CEO. We'll still own it behind the scenes."

Ivy now interlaced her fingers and spoke up in her refined tone. "It's an interesting idea, Ronnie." She used the diminutive deliberately; Ron Jr.'s smile faltered at being addressed like a child. "Though I wonder about the optics. Directly profiting off weapons while we're in office... even with cut oversight, it could attract unwanted attention from the press, maybe even internationally. Some of our allies might frown on a President's son pushing guns, given global arms treaty talks and such."

Ron Jr.'s face reddened. "Optics? Like you care about optics, Ivy, with what you have in mind." He huffed. "At least my idea connects with our base. You want to talk global allies? Why, you got some foreign buddies lined up to fill our coffers again?" The jab was not subtle.

Ivy kept her smile, but a flash of irritation showed in her eyes. "Father asked us for ideas, not criticisms," she responded smoothly. "I wasn't criticizing, just considering long-term ramifications, dear brother."

Ron Sr. raised a hand to forestall further bickering. "We'll circle back to the gun thing. Ivy, let's hear your proposal."

Ivy nodded graciously and reached for a slim folder she had placed by her side. Unlike Ron Jr.'s flashy pamphlet, her materials were understated – a plain manila folder containing a few typed pages and charts. She distributed a copy to her father and brothers. Jason straightened, clearly already familiar with what was inside.

"Thank you, Dad," Ivy began, centering the folder neatly in front of her. "So, as you noted, we have a unique window of opportunity. The oversight apparatus is effectively neutralized. We can afford to be more...creative, as you said. My idea leverages that freedom on the international financial stage."

Ron Jr. affected a yawn, but Ivy ignored it. "In short," she continued, "I propose establishing a private equity fund – let's call it the Columbia Global Prosperity Fund for now – that will operate in the shadows, with foreign capital and our guidance. This fund will accept investments from select partners around the world: wealthy individuals, sovereign wealth funds from countries eager to be in our good graces, oligarchs looking to park money with friends in high places."

President Drumpf's eyes lit up at the mention of wealthy foreigners. "Go on," he said, his voice practically purring.

Ivy did go on. With the polished confidence of someone who had sat in hundreds of boardrooms, she laid it out: "The fund would be officially run by trusted proxies – people not overtly linked to us – perhaps Jason can quietly arrange that through his network. We, however, would direct its investments. Thanks to our inside knowledge of upcoming policies and international deals, the fund can make extraordinarily well-timed moves in stock markets, real estate acquisitions, currency trades, even buying government assets that might go on sale."

Jason chimed in, his tone measured, "For example, if we know that Columbia is about to sanction a competitor of, say, a Turkish businessman who's an investor in our fund, we short that competitor's stock beforehand. Or if we plan to announce a major agriculture subsidy that will benefit certain companies, we quietly buy futures or shares in those companies first."

Ivy nodded. "In essence, it's the ultimate insider trading – on a global scale, beyond the reach of any one nation's regulators. And because it's not explicitly tied to us, and the Office of Government Ethics is toothless now, it becomes very hard to trace or prove any wrongdoing. Profits flow to our family trust accounts indirectly. Meanwhile, our foreign investors and partners are thrilled because they're effectively buying policy outcomes or at least betting with the house."

There was a moment of awed silence. Even Ron Jr. stopped fidgeting with his drink. The plan was audacious – it made his gun idea look like child's play in comparison. President Drumpf slowly tapped a finger on the table, clearly impressed. "This sounds... huge," he said, voice low. "Like... we're talking billions potentially."

Ivy smiled demurely. "That's the idea, Dad. Real fortunes, diversified globally. And it sets us up post-presidency too – a structure to maintain influence and wealth for decades. We always talk about the family brand; this would institutionalize it."

Eric finally spoke up, adjusting his posture. "Would this fund invest in our projects too? Like, say I want to expand our golf resorts into South America, could it chip in?"

Ivy glanced at Eric as one might at a child asking if candy could be included with dinner. "Potentially, yes. If it's strategic. The key, though, is subtlety. It must operate quietly."

Ron Jr. had been scanning Ivy's documents. "Shadow investment fund is right," he muttered, perhaps not intending to speak aloud. "This is like selling the whole country piece by piece to foreign bidders."

Ivy bristled. "No, it's not selling the country. It's leveraging our position for mutual benefit. Columbia gains too – our investors will be inclined to support our country's interests because they profit with us."

Ron Jr. rolled his eyes. "Spare me the patriotic spin, Ivy. You're basically setting up an offshore slush fund. If it leaks, it would look like the biggest corruption scandal in history."

President Drumpf cut in sharply. "It won't leak." He looked at Ivy. "It had better not leak."

"Of course not, Father," Ivy said quickly. "Absolute discretion. Only a handful of trustworthy people would know. We'd likely domicile the fund in a very secretive jurisdiction, and use layers of shell companies."

Jason added, "And our communications would be strictly private. No emails that anyone could ever FOIA or hack."

Ron Jr. gave a skeptical snort at Jason's remark. "You mean your encrypted apps that you think nobody knows about? Newsflash: those can be hacked too."

"Stop," Ron Sr. interjected firmly. He hated when meetings devolved into tech squabbles he didn't fully understand. "Both ideas have merit. But I'm hearing a bit of friction." He cast a stern glance at Junior and Ivy in turn. "We're not here to shoot down each other's plans. We're here to win, as a family."

Ivy and Ron Jr. both mumbled agreements, though neither looked truly conciliatory. The President turned to his younger son. "Eric, you've been quiet. Do you have any bright ideas to add?"

Eric straightened, caught off guard at being asked. "Well, Dad, I, uh, I was thinking... maybe we could get into the entertainment business?"

Ron Jr. coughed, possibly masking a laugh. Ivy blinked patiently. The President raised an eyebrow but motioned him to continue.

Eric, warming up, said, "We could start a streaming network – like an app or channel – where we produce our own reality shows or dramas that promote our values. You know, like patriotic shows, maybe a series about a fictional Drumpf-like leader, or reality contests at Drumpf resorts, stuff like that. It would make money and also push our messaging. We could even get some celebrities who support us to star in them."

There was an awkward pause. Jason politely kept his face neutral. Ivy gave a tight-lipped smile. Ron Jr. opened his mouth, thought better of it, and drank instead.

President Drumpf sighed. "Eric, not a bad thought on messaging, but that sounds more like something for the campaign team to think about for PR. I'm focusing on business moves." He didn't scold, but the message was clear: Eric's idea was small potatoes.

Eric flushed and looked down at his notes, clearly embarrassed. He scribbled something nervously, underlining it twice though there was no one to see it but him.

Ivy reached over and patted Eric's hand lightly, a gesture of sisterly comfort. "Maybe we can take that up with our media division later, Eric. It's a creative idea," she said kindly, which made Ron Jr. smirk into his glass.

Sensing a brewing fight if he let the tension sit, Ron Sr. took charge. "Alright. Ron, Ivy – both of your ideas have big potential. And big risks." He held up a hand before either could protest. "Yes, yes, oversight is weak now, but don't get sloppy. We might have gotten rid of the pests, but the second we think we're invincible is the second something bites us. Understood?"

They all nodded, chastened. The patriarch rarely spoke in such cautionary terms; it was almost jarring.

Ron Sr. continued, "Ronnie, I like that yours builds on our public image and the base. But Ivy is right, we need to manage optics. Maybe roll it out gradually, test it under a different name first, see if anyone squawks. As for Ivy's fund – brilliant concept, honestly." He flashed a proud smile at his daughter, causing Ron Jr.'s jaw to tense. "But you will keep it airtight. You come straight to me with any big move, and Jason, I expect you to be the vault for this operation."

Jason nodded solemnly. "Of course, sir."

The President drummed his fingers on the table decisively. "Now, I didn't come here just to listen. I have a few ideas of my own." He looked around conspiratorially, even though everyone in the room was family (or treated as such). Lowering his voice slightly, he said, "For starters, the National Parks. They're beautiful, they're huge, and they're underutilized monetarily. We've already opened some up for drilling and logging in term one – quietly. But I'm thinking resorts, private development zones, maybe even selling some land off to friendly buyers. Why not? It's federal property, under my control. We can designate some tracts as 'underperforming assets' and offload them. Who do you think could swoop in to 'save' those lands by buying them on the cheap?" He spread his hands, indicating the obvious answer: them, the Drumpf empire, via proxies.

Ivy nodded appreciatively. "Real estate – the original family business. That could dovetail with what our fund does, Dad. The fund could purchase parcels as 'foreign investment in Columbia's infrastructure' or something, then lease it to our companies."

Ron Jr. grinned. "Put a luxury hunting lodge in Yellowstone. Our supporters would love that – a chance to shoot elk on former federal land with our name on the gate."

Eric, eager to get back into good graces, chimed in, "We could brand it like 'Patriot Park Resorts – Experience America's Wilderness the Drumpf Way.'"

The President chuckled. "Now you're thinking, Eric."

They went back and forth, the family brainstorming session churning out ever more grandiose schemes: a chain of "Victory Towers" luxury condos near government buildings (favored foreign diplomats could get apartments as unofficial bribes), a privatized toll highway initiative where Drumpf Infrastructure would get the contracts, a plan to push for a constitutional amendment to allow the President to personally invest in a 'national wealth fund' (which they of course would control) – the ideas flowed, each feeding off the last.

The initial tension between Ivy and Ron Jr., however, hadn't dissipated entirely. It simmered beneath the surface, visible in the occasional side-eye or pointed question.

As the conversation grew more freewheeling, Ron Jr. couldn't resist a jab when Ivy mentioned possibly using one of her contacts in the Middle East to seed the Columbia Prosperity Fund. "Just be careful he doesn't ask for one of our nuclear codes in exchange," Junior quipped, referring to a previous controversy where Ivy had been criticized for her cozy ties with a certain oil-rich prince. The tone was jocular, but Ivy stiffened.

She retorted lightly, "Don't worry, I leave national security to the big boys. I'm just securing our financial future – which you'll thank me for when you see the returns."

Ron Jr. scoffed. "Assuming you're not in jail by then."

"Enough," Ron Sr. barked, not loudly, but with a force that silenced them at once. The room fell quiet. He seldom showed anger to his children, but when he did, it had a primal effect, like cubs chastened by the lion's growl.

He slowly stood up from his chair. The rest of the family instinctively sat a little straighter. The patriarch looked around at his offspring, one by one, his gaze firm but not without warmth. "I know each of you," he said, voice steady. "I know your strengths, I know your... quirks." There was a glint of humor in that last word. "Ronnie – you're a fighter, a true champion of the cause, and you've got my boldness. Ivy – you're brilliant, polished, you can make things happen that I wouldn't trust anyone else to do. Eric – you have heart, and you often see things we overlook, even if your presentation needs work." Eric managed a small grateful smile that his father had found something nice to say. "Jason – you're practically family by now, and I trust your counsel and loyalty."

They all nodded along, absorbing the praise and the implicit criticisms between the lines. Ron Sr. placed his hands on the table, leaning over slightly. "But let me remind you all: none of those individual talents matter if we don't stick together. Loyalty to the family – loyalty to me – that's the first and foremost rule. I won't tolerate infighting that jeopardizes what we have."

Ron Jr. opened his mouth to protest, "We weren't—", but his father held up a hand for silence. "I let you speak freely here because I value your input. But when I say cut it out, you cut it out."

Junior shut his mouth and looked down. Ivy folded her hands and murmured, "Yes, Father."

The President continued, now circling the table slowly as he spoke, like a general addressing his troops. "We are making history, you realize. The Drumpf name will be more than just a business empire or a political footnote. We're shaping a new era – an era where our family is synonymous with leadership and success in this nation. There's a reason I picked Camp 'Victory' for this talk." He gestured around the opulent lodge. "Because victory is what we're about. But victory, true victory, requires unity."

He stopped behind Ivy and placed a hand on her shoulder, then did the same to Ron Jr. on the other side. "I don't ever want to hear about you two squabbling like you did back when you were kids arguing over who got the bigger bedroom. Understand? We're beyond that. The stakes are too high now."

Both Ivy and Junior mumbled assent. Jason looked on attentively, and Eric nodded vigorously.

Ron Sr. let that sink in. He then stepped back to the head of the table and, with a dramatic pause, delivered the part he knew would really bind them: "When my time in office is done, I want to ensure everything we've built doesn't just survive – it thrives. One of you will have to carry the torch."

All eyes fixed on him. Even the crickets outside seemed to hush. He had never directly broached the topic of succession before, though all had hungered for a hint.

The President surveyed his children's faces. "I won't be President forever. Not officially, anyway," he chuckled, hinting at his own fantasized exception to term limits which they all had heard him muse about after a few whiskeys. "But one of you could be. Or at least take up a role to keep our influence intact – maybe as the next President, maybe as something else equally powerful."

Ron Jr.'s eyes gleamed. Ivy maintained a serene expression but a flush of adrenaline colored her cheeks. Eric blinked rapidly, as if trying to process the possibility that he too might be considered. Jason remained poker-faced, though a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he glanced at his wife; if Ivy were to ascend, he ascended with her.

Ron Sr. raised a finger. "However – and listen carefully – I will not even consider passing the mantle to anyone who isn't 100% loyal, 100% effective, and 100% committed to our family above all else. I love each of you, but I love this family as a whole even more. So show me you can work together, not against each other, and maybe – maybe – you'll earn the right to step into my shoes when the time comes."

The siblings were silent, processing both the enormous promise and the weighty ultimatum. The crackling of the lodge's stone fireplace was the only sound for a moment.

Then Ivy spoke softly, "Dad, you can count on me – on us. I'm devoted to this family and what you've built. Any differences between us are trivial compared to that."

Ron Jr. bobbed his head, swallowing his pride for once. "Of course, Dad. You know I'll always have your back. And... and Ivy's and Eric's too." He shot his sister a tentative grin. "We're Team Drumpf."

Eric chimed in, "Team Drumpf, absolutely. I'm all in, Dad. You know that."

Jason put a hand on Ivy's back and nodded to his father-in-law. "Sir, you have my word as well. The family's interests are my interests."

President Drumpf, still standing, raised his glass of diet soda (he'd switched from his usual diet cola to a new brand that his own beverage company recently launched – product placement even in family time). "Then let's toast, shall we? To the Drumpf family – may our loyalties be as strong as our ambitions."

The others lifted their drinks – Ivy her herbal iced tea, Ron Jr. the remainder of his bourbon, Eric a can of beer he'd been nursing. Glasses and cans clinked together over the mahogany table.

"To family," they echoed.

"To victory," added Ron Sr., with a wink.

"To family and victory," Ivy polished it neatly, her smile genuine now.

They drank. And for a short while, the tension in the room dissipated. The Drumpf siblings even shared a laugh as Eric attempted a joke about who would play them in a movie (Ron Jr. jokingly suggested a famous action star for himself and a Barbie doll for Ivy, to which she rolled her eyes but laughed, retorting he might be played by a circus clown; even that was taken in stride).

On the surface, unity was restored. Ron Sr. went on to regale them with a funny story about a phone call he had with a stodgy old senator earlier in the week, doing an impersonation that had them all cracking up. Ivy and Ron Jr. began discussing possible ways their two schemes – guns and funds – could actually cross-promote (a notion that would have seemed absurd an hour ago, but now they entertained it civilly, at least as a hypothetical exercise). Eric excitedly offered to start researching parcels of national park land that might be prime resort sites, eager to contribute.

Yet, beneath the friendly veneer and clinking glasses, a new seed had been planted in each of their hearts – the tantalizing hint that one of them might ascend to ultimate power, with the father's blessing. And with that seed came quiet, scheming ambition. Ivy was already thinking of how to showcase her brilliance and discretion even more, to outshine her brothers in her father's eyes. Ron Jr., though outwardly joking along, was steeling himself to prove he was the true heir – the fighter, the one who could rally the base and be a strongman like Dad. Even Eric, in his simpler earnest way, began fantasizing that maybe he had a shot if he could come up with something truly impressive.

The patriarch had masterfully played them, turning their squabble into a contest of loyalty and competence for his favor. For now, it bound them together – each desperately wanting to prove themselves worthy. The family would move as one, at least until the day came to choose a successor.

That night, as the Drumpf family retired to their respective cabins under the serene starlight of Camp Victory, the unity was palpable. They bid each other warm goodnights; Ivy even gave her brothers quick hugs, and Ron Jr. playfully punched Jason's shoulder with a "take care of my sis" line that almost sounded sincere. President Drumpf, watching this display, felt a surge of satisfaction. On the surface, all was well – his dynasty was intact and motivated.

Only the silent woods bore witness as each Drumpf scion lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, minds churning with future possibilities. The family was unified in public and to one another for now, but in the privacy of their own thoughts, the rivalry had merely gone underground, like embers buried under ashes – ready to spark into flames when the winds of fortune shifted. For the moment, however, appearances were maintained. The Drumpfs would wake the next day as a picture of familial solidarity, ready to pursue their grand schemes, each secure in the knowledge that father's love – and possibly an empire – was theirs to earn.