William Hartford sat motionless in his red leather wing chair. The single green bankers light perched on the corner of his antique leather-topped desk provided the only illumination in his twelve thousand square foot Washington, DC apartment.

The glass of Blair Athol Whisky sat untouched on the end table by the side of leather wing chair. Hartford had poured and ignored it. The ice was gone leaving only a thin layer of clear water to reflect the banker’s lamp as it floated on top of the amber liquid. A twelve-year-old single malt whiskey should never be treated with such disdain.

Hartford let the cool September wind rustle the papers on the desk behind him. As the wind picked up and papers began to shift across the desk, Hartford leaned forward and pushed the window to just within an inch of closed. This would permit the night sounds to drift in without interfering with the arrangement of the files on his desk.

In stark contrast to the antique Georgian mahogany wood and the dark green tooled leather top of the hundred year old partner’s desk, a small LED clock burned bright blue on the far right corner. The time showed as 11:32 p.m. and Hartford used these last few moments of each day to reflect as he glanced at the clear liquid floating on top of the whiskey. He'd been sober now for twelve years, three months and five days. And during that time had managed to become a respected politician. He was so well trusted that he had been voted almost unanimously to preside over Congress for the last two years. But with the change in leadership expected in the upcoming elections, his time in a position of power was coming to a close.

The phone on the leather topped desk rang.

He was used to late-night calls from all around the world, even on a politically uneventful Thursday night, and answered after only the second ring. The caller ID showed up as blocked, but the soft melodic voice he recognized instantly.

“In one week you will be President of the United States.”

“Hannah!?”  Hartford sat up in shock and absently reached for the glass of whiskey before stopping himself short. Twelve years, three months and five days was not that long after all.

“Are you ready for what I have spent over a decade preparing you for?” The soft voice betrayed the sinister nature of her statement.

“Without you I would never have gotten this far, but how you can be so sure that you can actually make me the President?”

“The Presidential Succession Act will make you President. I'm only clearing the way.”

A small-town city councilman, who spent every weekend in a drunken stupor, was the last person that should have been selected to become the leader of the most powerful nation in the world. But Hannah had told him that if he sobered up and promised to stay away from the devil's nectar, she would make that happen for him.

For the last twelve years, three months and five days, he had kept his side of the bargain and, as he was maneuvered up the ranks of the political ladder, it was obvious that she was keeping hers.

Not bad for someone he had never met face-to-face. They always spoke over the phone, or in recent months, he met with her second in command.

He glanced at the glass of whiskey.

This dependency.

This crutch.

Hannah had proven to him that he was better off without it. That success was more achievable when it was left out of his life.

He had been silent for too long and Hannah said exactly what Hartford needed to hear. “Play it my way, and we both get what we want.”

"Why now?"

"Because the window of opportunity is fast closing. I have to strike while the iron is hot."

The call ended with a click that sounded more final than anything Hartford had ever heard in his life. Dealing with Hannah was like talking to a bad doctor. You never understood what they meant, until it was too late.

Like an avalanche on a snow packed mountain, now that it had started, not even William Hartford, The Speaker of the House of Representatives himself, could stop it.

As soon as he became Speaker of the House, Hartford was just two heartbeats away from the throne of the most powerful country in the world.

And to make matters worse, Hartford was not in control. Even if he wanted to change his mind, it was already too late. It was too late twelve years ago when he put aside his own personal issues and went along with the most ludicrous scheme he had ever heard in his life.

Hartford grabbed the glass of amber liquid, spilling a little of the watered-down whiskey onto the leather topped desk. He gulped down the entire contents of the glass in a single swallow and let the warm liquid burn his throat and sear the inside of his nostrils. He would not be the first United States President who had overcome a drinking problem in his past.