The Rise of Rachel Price T-Girl Pt. 44

Governor

"This way, Governor," said the steward to Rachel.

No matter how often it was used Rachel was still never accustomed to that term. Police had swarmed over the penthouse, looking for clues. Rachel had reappeared, claiming that her 'kidnappers' had released her and Beth, given she had no value after Levant's death. The FBI said Rachel had been taken by an angry drug cartel to help set up the hit fixing the Governor in one location with a known weakness.

Levant's funeral was lavish, he had planned it himself. Rachel looked good in a vail.

It had been Charlie who first mentioned the surviving spouse rule. Rachel could take Levant's position as Governor. At first, Rachel had said no, but the logic of it quickly revealed itself. Reverend Fitts, as head of the commission for public safety, said he would take over as governor. With access to the Zeitgeist machine, he would continue Levant's legacy. Charlie thought it was the best way to manage the police and FBI. So Rachel was sworn in. Rachel's first instinct was to rid of Volk, but she had gotten to know Mel as a friend. She had also thought if Volk was a free agent, then he might get picked up by another ambitious maniac. So, she kept her friends close and her enemies closer.

Keeping Volk turned out to be a good decision. She was getting used to governing; the secret was to listen and delegate to the best people. After a few months the economy was recovering. She wasn't perfect, but after a few early mistakes, Rachel was able to boost her ratings up with the Zeitgeist machine, so she was still a popular Governor.

Now, with control of the Levant fortune, Rachel had set one of the private detectives to finding Hunter's control. Tracing a number of Levant's donations eventually led to the discovery of money supplying the hospital. She had visited the doctor, who denied any wrongdoing. After a little incentive and a veiled threat to investigate the medical malpractice, the doctor had shown her to Hunter. After that, Hunter made a miraculous recovery. Rachel had visited him; he had no memory of her visits, so Rachel was able to keep her secret. He had recovered, and after clearing his name following a mysterious benefactor's donations, he managed to go back to the FBI.

Today was imbued with familial serenity, a harbinger of tranquil times. They had gracefully sailed Poseidon's playground, coursing to the mouth of the cut, nestled within the caress of azure waves and whispering zephyrs. The objective of today's voyage was to behold the majestic Asylum, a sentinel of forgotten times, finally succumbing to the relentless embrace of the sea. The sea was a vast expanse of silver and sapphire, the sun casting diamonds upon its gentle swells. The yacht, a masterpiece of nautical luxury, carved through the waters with elegant assurance, its decks gleaming, and sails whispering secrets of the deep.

Rachel, her eyes repositories of secrets and unspoken thoughts, looked down and smiled, her gaze tender and protective, while little Beth tottered around, her youthful steps a dance between stumble and balance on the polished deck. Her nanny, vigilant and nurturing, mirrored her every move with practiced ease, the golden sunlight dancing in her hair.

Rachel, poised with maternal grace, sat on a vintage picnic blanket of intricate weaves, cradling Nathan and Alex upright against the rhythm of the seafaring world, her eyes reflecting the dance of the waves. The sea breeze played with her hair as she looked out, absorbing the symphony of the ocean's eternal ballet. Lucy, the embodiment of relaxation, was perched nearby Alex, her silhouette painted against the luxuriant backdrop of the yacht.

To one side of Rachel, immersed in the dance of shadows and light, sat Samantha. Her laughter, a silvery note in the maritime symphony, emanated as she sipped another glass of the effervescent Champagne they had discovered in the ship's opulent wine cellar, a treasure trove of liquid amber and golden bubbles. Samantha, had returned after her wonder of European landscapes, had emerged, a blossom in the endless cycle of seasons, just after Levant's death.

In practice, it was hard to identify who had the idea of staging a fake kidnapping. Samantha had been knitting as a stress relief; the ball of thread had escaped from the bed and rolled to Rachel. Rachel picked up the ball, and Samantha had pulled it towards her. Then the idea was born. As soon as it emerged, Samantha became its fiercest promoter. She clung to it like a bulldog with a bone. She had driven Kayla and Jessy K to join in. She had driven the truck herself, an easy steal after Rachel had told her where the keys were normally hidden. Jessy had put the sack over Peter's head, and Rachel had hit him. Perhaps it was the passionate night they had spent together, but they felt they could do more than just run. Samantha had been sound asleep when Rachel had left her to go to Thornbury to finish the problem once and for all. Once done, they all agreed it was for the best.

"I heard Hunter is getting out of the hospital soon," Samantha said.

Rachel looked over, and they linked fingers. "Yes, his recovery has been so rapid. It's strange how sudden modern medicine can be. Thanks for helping find him, Charlie."

"Are you keeping the ship?" Charlie inquired, looking around.

She had flown in from New York especially for this. As the head of the Levant empire, she was busy all the time.

"Douglas had a lot of debts," Rachel stated. "Most people are ninety percent water. He was ninety percent debt. So, if you want me to sell it, I'll sell it. I'll put it on eBay myself."

"No, you can keep the ship. It's just the docks would be an ideal place for a development," Charlie said.

"Well, we are trying to regenerate the entire area. We need somewhere for a new yard, though. I've invested in this new renewables company; they have this under-sea wind turbine which uses the tides to generate electricity twice a day. Reliable as clockwork. It's going to create lots of new jobs," Rachel mentioned. "Oh look, there goes the west wing."

"She's been waiting to say that all day," Samantha noted and laughed.

Beth stopped and looked up as the building fell. Everyone cheered, but scared, Beth ran into her mother's arms. Rachel hugged her.

After a moment, the waves caused by the building falling into the sea hit the ship. By the time the torrent subsided, it was mild enough for people to pick up their drinks.

"I wish I could stay and watch this all day," Rachel said, gaining satisfaction. "There is a vote on the dissolution of the commission for public safety today. Plus, I have a meeting with Agent Farrow about the investigation into my late husband's death." She looked over at Samantha, who, with a slight tweak to the corner of her lips, made a small enough gesture for no one to notice.

_______________

Agent Farrow

Later that day Rachel sat alone in the governor's office with Agent Farrow. It was a solemn time that contrasted the joy of the win of the vote for shutting down the commission for public safety. The last of Levant's toxic legacy was over.

"It was a well-planned, well-executed hit. They hacked the security system. Fingerprint analysis reveals that the killer was a professional, a man called Denver Shores. Minor crimes, then disappeared; we think he was working for a drug cartel. His family suddenly came into a lot of wealth. Grandfather got top-class medical treatment, as did the mother. A new house which they won in a lottery, apparently," Agent Farrow said.

They were in the governor's offices. He wanted to speak alone in person before releasing their report; it seemed the kind thing to do. With the end of the report, the investigation was over. Rachel had been willing to go to jail if she had to, but given how things had been left, she didn't want to. The Commission for Public Safety was now publicly at an end. The Federal government would no longer withhold assorted funds as it had done. Assorted civil lawsuits would be canceled, and Reverend Fitts would no longer have a place in government. It turned out all she needed to do to get the economy back on track was to listen to the experts. She had been quite proactive, rushing up to Santa Barbara after a wildfire. She had been able to order the fire departments to ship water when a main pipe cracked.

"A drug cartel hit?" Rachel's voice carried a mixture of astonishment and skepticism, echoing slightly in the spacious office of the Governor of California, a room filled with a subdued elegance, its grandeur discreet but palpable. The walls, adorned with tasteful artworks, bore witness to numerous significant decisions and discussions over the years. The soft hum of the air conditioning was almost drowned by the subdued city noises seeping through the grand windows overlooking Sacramento. Agent Farrow, a man of imposing stature, his skin a rich shade of black, sat opposite her, his demeanor impassive, his eyes an enigma.

"We are ruling nothing out," he replied, his voice a calm, measured tone, bouncing off the delicate furnishings and rich tapestries, highlighting the contrast between the tense atmosphere and the composed environment. The room was saturated with a silent tension, words carrying more weight than they seemed to, shadows of unspoken thoughts looming in the background. "Agent Hunter has been very instrumental in bringing a diverse group of suspects to our attention..."

Rachel, the Governor, sat ensconced in her high-backed, leather chair, her posture poised, the air around her radiating a subtle resilience. Her eyes, pools of contemplative amber, scanned Agent Farrow, trying to decipher the labyrinth of his expressions, his words. Her fingers lightly grazed the polished surface of the mahogany desk, a desk that had seen countless predecessors, its wood etched with the legacy of governance. Her elegant attire, meticulously chosen, spoke of her status, but it was her demeanor, a mix of grace and strength, that truly defined her.

The ambiance was thick with the undercurrents of unspoken dialogues, the silence intertwined with the barely perceptible buzzing of the fluorescent lights, adding an eerie undertone to the unfolding discussion. Agent Farrow's noncommittal responses were a dance of diplomacy and discretion, every word a carefully choreographed step in this ballet of revelations and insinuations.

Rachel leaned forward slightly, her movements graceful, her voice, though gentle, held an undercurrent of steel, "Thank you, Special Agent Farrow," the title rolled off her tongue with a practiced ease, each syllable a reminder of her official capacity and the myriad responsibilities it entailed. The room seemed to absorb her words, the walls whispering back the echoes of her gratitude and resolve.

As the conversation meandered through the meadows of official formalities and veiled acknowledgments, the interplay of light and shadow on Agent Farrow's face painted a canvas of unspoken emotions and untold stories. His eyes, portals to his seasoned soul, flickered with the dance of thoughts, his experiences etched in his composed features.

Rachel's words were cloaked in politeness and propriety, yet beneath the velvet of her expressions, there lingered a blade of unspoken negotiations, subtle exchanges, a silent symphony played in the concert hall of power and politics.

The concluding remarks hovered in the air, laden with implicit meanings, the subtext a veiled dance between acknowledgment and understanding. The air was a mix of unresolved mysteries and concluded chapters, the juxtaposition highlighting the duality of their roles, the public servant, and the bereaved wife.

Agent Farrow rose, his frame casting a fleeting shadow over the array of accolades and photographs gracing the walls, a visual symphony of Rachel's journey and commitments. The room, a silent observer to their exchange, seemed to exhale as he exited, leaving behind a trail of unsaid words and unwritten chapters, the air slowly dissipating the remnants of their conversation.

Rachel, left in the embrace of her thoughts and the whispered echoes of their dialogue, gazed into the distance, her mind weaving through the tapestry of his words, her soul whispering to the shadows, wondering about the uncharted territories of Agent Farrow's thoughts and the unsolved puzzles of their shared journey.

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Epilog

I hope that when you are old enough to comprehend this, you can understand me. At some point, Agent Farrow might find out I attended your great grandfather's funeral, or that Denver's grandmother is your crystal healer. He might piece things together. I can't quite tell if he has done so and was assuring me everything was fine, or perhaps he wanted a bribe, which I didn't provide. Consequently, they might arrest me.

While Levant's empire was mostly a façade, Charlie managed to salvage a substantial part of the Levant Hotel chain. We still possess a considerable amount of wealth, and we can afford enough lawyers to defend me. So, I don't anticipate going to jail, and if I do, then perhaps I deserve it. I would act similarly again to protect you and those I love, like your second mom Samantha and uncle Nathan. I might even extend this protective feeling to the people of California, possibly even the country. Levant would have driven the country into ruin to satisfy his backers.

What will distress me are the distortions and revelations you will hear. If it goes to court, you will learn things about me which might confuse you or seem incomprehensible. In the worst case, they will separate us, or incarcerate me. They will tell the version of the story that sells the most newspapers, garners the most ads, and advances legal and police careers the most. It won't be the truth.

I know discovering that your mother is also your father might be hard. Eventually, you will understand what is happening, realizing it's about being a family. Just know I love you very much. Hold on to this certainty, and you will be able to navigate any darkness ahead.

That's why I needed to share my truth and my story with you. I'm uncertain of my identity now. After years of striving to reclaim my former self, Levant ensured I can't revert to being Denver, he is dead and can never been seen again. Rachel isn't wholly real, but she is real enough and I am content being her. Eventually, you begin to clock reality not for what it presents, not how it would like to be seen, but for how it began. It means you get to see things from other perspectives. Eventually, you get to see parts of yourself and how other people see you. So I told you how people saw me, because perhaps they were right. Who can say.

If you are reading this, then I believed it was time for you to know my origins. Maybe one day the world will be different, and perceptions can change. I've shared my unmasked, unedited self with you, without glorifying my actions. In life, there are no do-overs, no saved games. I believe in complete honesty and hope this revelation will purge any lingering secrets between us.

I only ask three things. Love each other you are family. Try to forgive me and if I am unable to do so, I hope you will continue to search for your sisters and ensure their well-being and awareness of their identities and that they were not abandoned. I hope you can eventually understand and forgive who I am and who I was.

With all my love and honesty.

Rachel Price

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Author's Note: After the rise of Rachel Price, I'm taking some time off to work on my next book. Despite having mentioned it many times, I realize that this book wasn't the perfect book I set out to write. With everything I've learned and discussed, I'm now writing a new book called "A Walk on the Wild Side" (a good title, let me know what you think).

There won't be any sequels (Levant is dead), but the next book will be set in the same San Francisco as "The Rise of Rachel Price." It begins roughly at the same time as "The Rise." This means we may see familiar figures and places drift in and out of the new book. In fact, you've already met the leads of "Wild Side"; you just don't know it yet.

As with "Rachel Price," there will be a bit of setup before things start to get smutty. Please follow to get notified when the new book begins. Also, feel free to comment on anything you might like to see in the new book.

Chapter 1: The Offer

Tyler Brown was a small, narrow young man with indistinct features and a pallid outlook on life. He was young, and sported a patchy beard, the kind only a teenager could wear or be proud of. He walked the pulsating, bustling streets of San Francisco, shedding the early morning mist as the city came alive. Tyler arrived early at the nondescript downtown headquarters of CircuitWorks. He reached the building punctually, as he always did. He didn't know the guard's name but was on nodding terms with him. He only had an intern badge, so the doors jammed on him every Monday as the guest system reset. The intern system was new, and CircuitWorks administrators were disorganized and seemingly too intimidated by technology to set up a longer visitor's pass for fear of locking everyone out. Tyler nodded at the guard; his mid-length hair shook like a mop as he did so.

Tyler was early not because he believed a perfect attendance record would bolster his internship but rather to escape the squalor and misery of home. His parents were neither rich nor noticeably poor by common standards. However, they had an ability to irritate Tyler to an extreme degree. His parents had signed his name on the certificate while drunk and misspelled it as 'Tayler'. They excused themselves with the promise that they were drunk when they had conceived him as well. This wasn't surprising, as it was likely the pair hadn't had a sober day between them over Tyler's entire nineteen years of existence, nor before it, all the way back to Tyler's eldest sister.

After navigating the barrier, Tyler entered the pale marble lobby of CircuitWorks. The ground floor radiated an air of strained, albeit dull, corporate confidence.

From there, he took the elevator down to the basement. The doors opened to reveal a quintessential cubicle farm. It seemed no one noticed or cared that the place resembled a bleak imitation of what some set designer might conceive for a movie about cubicle farms. Months ago, Tyler's first glimpse made him pause, nod, and internally remark, 'wow, this is so corporate life' at the spectacle. Some might find such an environment soul-crushing, but for Tyler, this was a haven. A refuge of constancy against the turmoil of the nineteen years of his life. Some might deem it dull, but for Tyler, it was comforting in its blandness. He craved predictability and routine at work.

Tyler walked the few paces to the computer he worked on and sat down. He signed in, and while he waited the fifteen minutes for the machine to finish logging him in, he occupied himself with his phone and some stale coffee, which he adulterated with powdery white creamer. Tyler had concluded that CircuitWorks was, indeed, a powdered milk kind of company. It was one of those uninspiring companies that survived by mimicking the innovations of brighter, more insightful tech companies but executing them more inexpensively. The managers posited that many Silicon Valley companies exhibited the 'not invented here' syndrome that CircuitWorks was capitalizing on. For some reason, the lack of originality never bothered Tyler.

The cubicle space was marked by its lackluster ambiance and undistinguished productivity. Flickering fluorescent lights cast a pallid glow over rows of identical cubicles, their mundane gray walls adorned with motivational posters that had long lost their vibrancy. The steady hum of ventilation systems typically blended with the subdued murmurs of disinterested conversations, with employees dressed in muted business attire sluggishly executing their tasks, their expressions a medley of resignation and indifference. Void of natural light or artistic stimulation, the environment radiated a sense of stagnation and monotony, making time seem to languish amongst the array of uninspiring computer screens and the ceaseless sound of typing. Tyler pondered why he felt so at home here. After five weeks, he had barely spoken to six people, which for him, was about three too many. There was a sense of sterile safety here; no one erupted, no one slurred their words, sold the furniture, or staggered about.