The inner circle of Trumpworld was not always a pretty picture. Too often, it was a portrait of venality, stubbornness, and selfishness. We leaked. We schemed. We backstabbed. Some of us told ourselves it was all done in the service of a higher calling—to protect the president, to deliver for the people. But usually it was for ourselves. Most of us came to Washington convinced of the justice of our cause and the righteousness of our principles, certain that our moral compasses were true. But proximity to power changes that. Donald Trump changes that. The once-clear lines—between right and wrong, good and evil, light and darkness—were eroded, until only a faint wrinkle remained.

A particular case in point involves Kellyanne Conway, who had the title of Trump’s 2016 campaign manager. (Though it was really Jared Kushner, if anyone, who was actually in charge.) As counselor to the president, Kellyanne managed to land a job with no fixed responsibilities. “What exactly does Kellyanne do?” was a question people asked all the time. So she was able to continue being the president’s pit bull on TV—a job that never goes out of fashion in Trumpworld—and otherwise just dabble in areas that piqued her interest. She would later focus her efforts on the opioid crisis and veterans’ issues, but early on she was content—very content—to sit back, go on TV, and let rivals eat one another alive. And she was predictably resentful of both Ivanka and Jar­ed’s immovable status in Trump’s orbit.

As I watched Kellyanne in operation over our time in the White House, my view of her sharpened. It became hard to look long at her without getting the sense that she was a cartoon villain brought to life. Her agenda—which was her survival over all others, including the president—became more and more transparent. Once you figured that out, everything about her seemed so calculated; every statement, even a seemingly innocuous one, seemed poll-tested by a focus group that existed inside her mind. She seemed to be peren­nially cloaked in an invisible fur coat, casting an all-­knowing smile, as if she’d collected 98 Dalmatians with only 3 more to go.

I’m not sure the president ever fully understood that about Kellyanne. But what he clearly shared with her was a love of media attention. Unlike most human beings, Trump’s greatest fear wasn’t death or failure or loss. It was obscurity. If he was noticed, he mattered. And he didn’t care much if the attention was good or bad, as long as it wasn’t indifferent. Mentions in the press had long been his oxygen. Another Page Six scoop, another breath. A Time magazine cover, a shot of adrenaline. He spent his adult life keeping the brand going, whatever it took. He couldn’t just own a nice hotel, but the most beautiful hotel ever built. He couldn’t just have a difficult divorce, but the most sensational ever to hit the tabloids. He couldn’t just have a popular TV show; it had to be the most highly rated in history. He couldn’t be a good president; he’d have to be as great—greater, even—than Lincoln.

Trump sincerely held most members of the media in low regard—that wasn’t just for show. But what he didn’t like to admit was that he also craved their ap­proval. And nothing was more a focus of his attention in this regard than The New York Times. It was his hometown paper, after all. During a dinner with evan­gelical leaders in the Blue Room, Trump named the exact number of occa­sions he had been on the front page of the Times during his career as a businessman. It was only a handful. “Now, I’m on there almost every day,” he observed, though usually not in the way he would have liked. He added, with a mix of pride and irritation, that Ivanka, who was also in the room, still got better coverage in the Times than he did.