Even though everyone present knew Clint had played all his cards and that if he didn't agree, the bill simply wouldn't pass, he still needed to make his concession look dignified.
But they were all seasoned politicians. The victor deserved to be celebrated.
So the flattery around him poured in. His closest aide delivered the line that pleased him most:
"History will remember you, sir, for your contribution to the diversity of political groups within Virginia's Democratic Party."
Clint gave a small, controlled nod.
Then the Speaker banged the gavel and declared:
"I hereby announce that the 'Virginia Large-Scale Residential Housing Support Bill' has passed."
Cheers erupted—until the Speaker raised a hand, revealing a fresh memorandum beneath the bill text.
"Gentlemen, not so fast with your celebrations. Senator Thomas has just submitted an addendum—proposing that the Virginia Postwar Reconstruction Committee be granted oversight of the bill's implementation."
Clint shot a sharp look to one of his loyal legislators.
Immediately that man jumped up:
"Mr. Speaker, I protest! This bill originated in the Virginia Civil Infrastructure Committee, which I chair. Its execution should be supervised by existing bodies like the State Audit Committee or the Department of Finance. The Reconstruction Committee has no such authority."
The Speaker calmly adjusted his glasses.
"Mr. Constantine, Virginia has a political precedent for this. When specialized knowledge is required that the Audit Committee or Finance Department lacks, oversight may be assigned to another appropriate body. Your objection is overruled."
A wave of boos filled the chamber—but it was clearly just Clint's faction stalling for time.
No one in the room was naive enough to be swayed by noise.
It was simply a maneuver to buy Clint a few moments—so he could signal a new round of back-channel offers to waverers with a glance.
Seeing Clint settle back in his chair, the boos stopped at once.
"We will now vote."
Clint watched, satisfied, as the legislators he'd just secured raised their hands.
He relaxed slightly.
He'd achieved his main goal: passage of the bill.
Though the added oversight would create annoying hurdles, they could be managed.
He shot a look at Harry and Thomas on the other side of the chamber, eyes full of contempt.
Childish, he thought. Trying these cheap tricks to irritate me. They've already lost. Only reason I'm not crushing them completely is it would slow down my path to the presidency.
He thought of all his years of maneuvering culminating in this all-in bet.
He genuinely wanted those two dead.
Wait until I'm the next Roosevelt.
He was savoring the fantasy when his aide urgently nudged his arm.
Clint followed his gaze—and his face fell.
Across the room, Republicans who for years had abstained from these votes were suddenly raising their hands.
The Speaker's cracked old voice rang out:
"The count is complete. I declare the 'Virginia Large-Scale Residential Housing Support Bill' to be implemented by the Virginia Civil Infrastructure Committee, with oversight by the Virginia Postwar Reconstruction Committee."
Night fell.
Inside the governor's mansion in the Fan District, Clint was roaring with fury:
"Traitors! They betrayed me! Once I have the power, I'll make an example of them in front of the whole state!"
While Clint was raging, his aide quietly slipped into his car under cover of darkness.
Inside was Wallace.
As the engine rumbled to life, Wallace broke the silence:
"Sir, the $500,000 has been donated to the Arlington Relief Charity Committee."
Just then the car pulled into another shadowy alley in the Fan.
They both got out.
The car drove away toward the mansion.
Wallace watched it go.
His brother approached, scowling.
"You unilaterally diverted the $500,000 research fund that Lendo Company gave me! That money was to fix the mold issues in the materials. Now without it, the next builds will absolutely have problems."
Wallace grabbed his brother by the collar, his voice low and manic:
"We already have nothing. Throwing out that $500,000 ensures the project starts—which means there'll be $5 million, $50 million later. We will fix it eventually. We have to."
Meanwhile, at Leo's company on the border of the southeast district, the lights blazed all night.
When the legislature's decision hit that afternoon, dozens of companies had rushed to sign partnership deals.
They planned an orderly, joint development of the few remaining open areas—Monroe Park and the East District.
Once the work started, the banks would release loans.
And with even a little cash in hand, manufacturers would accept delayed payments—contracts or no contracts.
After all, New Jersey and Pittsburgh suppliers couldn't win lawsuits in Virginia courts.
Inside Leo's office, everyone was moving like clockwork.
He'd given them one goal: finish the first suburban housing development before the Bubble House's debut.
He needed people to see the difference immediately.
And that was just step one.
Leo was planning a whole sequence of moves.
This time he intended to bury Herbert for good.
While Leo was working late into the night, his phone rang.
Governor Harry's voice was strained, almost hysterical:
"We've both staked everything. If this fails, we're finished. You'd better not screw this up. The rest is on you."
Leo was about to hang up when Harry's voice came again:
"Get me a car. I hear at the Lynchburg Hotel I can play Czar. I want those Russian princesses to relieve some stress."
There was a chuckle in the background as Thomas's voice chimed in:
"Get me one too. That last massage really was excellent."
Leo's house in the Highland neighborhood.
He'd gotten home late. No dragon to ride last night—this morning he actually woke up early.
Over breakfast, Emily noticed his frown and asked gently:
"Leo, what's on your mind?"
He set down his paper, squeezed her hand, and said:
"Nothing, darling. Just a bunch of dogs barking."
The paper was full of praise for the Bubble Houses.
His suburban design was being trashed relentlessly.
They called the Bubble House futuristic—America's best promise, the American Dream made real.
But what truly bothered Leo wasn't the words.
It was who published them:
The Washington Post.
Clint wasn't waiting for results.
Even before a single Bubble House community was finished, he was already trying to take the concept national.
Emily, tidying his college uniform, remarked:
"Maybe I should enroll too. Lately it feels like we have nothing to talk about."
She was right.
Today was the first day of classes at the University of Virginia.
As a freshman, Leo had to attend the three traditional events:
the convocation ceremony
the freshman ball
and, at midnight, Fraternity Night.