If House of Cards was a chessboard, then Frank Underwood, our Machiavellian protagonist, was the grandmaster, orchestrating every move with ruthless precision. Bromance? Actual faith, trust and love for somebody? HIGHLY doubtful. He lied, he betrayed, he murdered, all in the name of power—never truly loving anyone, never truly trusting a soul. He lived for the game, thrived in the shadows, and bent the world to his will.
But in a universe where alliances were temporary and loyalty was a fantasy, one relationship stood out as genuine, however unconventional it may have been.
Edward Meechum.
Loyal to a fault, Meechum wasn’t just Frank’s personal bodyguard—he was his shadow, his protector, and, perhaps, the closest thing Frank ever had to a true companion. Their relationship was a slow burn, a quiet force simmering beneath the surface of the show’s brutal political theatre. It was never loud, never flashy, but its depth was undeniable.
And that begs the question—was Edward Meechum the one true relationship Frank Underwood ever had? Let’s break it down.
Frank Underwood and the Disposable
If Frank Underwood’s life was a carefully constructed fortress, then every relationship he had was just another brick in the wall—measured, replaceable, and, when necessary, disposable.
His marriage to Claire, for all its grandeur, was an alliance of ambition rather than love. They functioned as a unit, their power interwoven, but they manipulated and betrayed each other just as often as they supported one another. She was the only person who could truly match Frank, but that meant their relationship was built on competition as much as partnership.
Tim Corbet was different—a relic of Frank’s past, a time before politics had stripped him of sentiment and replaced it with strategy. Their bond was once real, forged in youth, untainted by ambition. Tim knew a version of Frank that no longer existed—one that could feel, one that could care. But nostalgia had no place in Frank Underwood’s carefully constructed empire. Perhaps, in another life, Tim could have been something more to him. Tim became another memory to be rewritten, buried under the weight of Frank’s ruthless ascent. Because if there was one thing Frank Underwood never did, it was look back.
Doug Stamper, his most devoted lieutenant, was a different kind of loyal—fanatical, obsessive, but ultimately self-serving. Doug saw Frank as his purpose, his god, and clung to that devotion because without Frank, he was nothing. But Frank never saw Doug as anything more than a useful instrument—powerful, necessary, but utterly expendable when the time came.
Seth Grayson? A slick operator, but ultimately just another pawn, playing the game for himself. He was loyal when it benefited him, easily discarded when it didn’t. Frank’s relationships with Remy Danton and other political allies were built entirely on transactions—useful today, a liability tomorrow.
Catherine Durant was a different kind of threat—one Frank thought he could control until he couldn’t. She was sharp, calculating in her own way, a survivor in the brutal world of politics. But unlike others, she had the foresight to see the tide turning. Frank played her, strung her along with promises, but when she stopped being convenient, she became disposable. He pushed her aside, but Cathy wasn’t the kind to disappear quietly. She knew too much. And Frank, always the pragmatist, ensured she wouldn’t speak again.
Garrett Walker was a weak man who thought himself strong, an idealist drowning in a system that had no patience for morality. Frank propped him up, whispered in his ear, pulled the strings—until he didn’t need him anymore. Walker was never truly an adversary; he was a stepping stone, a means to an end. By the time he realised Frank’s betrayal, it was already too late. He was ruined, discarded like so many before him.
Linda Vasquez was another roadblock—intelligent, capable, and at first, a useful ally. But Linda was never the kind of person Frank could truly control. She saw through him, perhaps not completely, but enough to know she didn’t trust him. And in Frank’s world, a lack of trust was as good as an act of war. She was outplayed, outmanoeuvred, and when she no longer served a purpose, she was sidelined without hesitation.
Tom Yates was a curiosity—a man who saw Frank not just as a political figure, but as a person. He wrote about him, studied him, tried to understand him. And for a while, Frank indulged that. Perhaps a part of him enjoyed the flattery, the sense of being seen beyond strategy and power. But in the end, Tom’s usefulness ran out. He got too close. He knew too much. And Frank, true to form, did what he always did with liabilities.
Zoe Barnes was another ambitious pawn, one Frank wielded expertly. She thought she was playing the game, leveraging her proximity to power to build her career, but she was never in control. Frank dangled exclusives, whispered secrets in her ear, all while pulling her deeper into his web. She was useful until she wasn’t. The moment she became a threat rather than an asset, he disposed of her—quickly, decisively, without hesitation. Her ambition had led her to Frank, and Frank had led her straight to her end.
Jackie Sharp was one of the few who could have been a true successor to Frank. Ambitious, ruthless, and pragmatic, she was everything he admired in a politician. But Jackie had a line she wouldn’t cross, and in Frank’s world, that was the difference between power and irrelevance. She played the game well but ultimately walked away, knowing that staying meant becoming something she could no longer stomach.
Raymond Tusk was a challenge—one of the few men who could match Frank in sheer cunning. Their relationship was a battle of equals, one that tested Frank more than he would ever admit. But even Tusk, with all his wealth and influence, was just another obstacle to be outmaneuvered. Frank played him, used him, and when the time came, crushed him.
Heather Dunbar was a threat not because of her cunning but because of her integrity. She was everything Frank was not—a politician who genuinely believed in doing the right thing. And that made her dangerous. Frank undermined her, attacked her credibility, and ensured she was no longer a threat. In the end, honesty was no match for ruthlessness.
LeAnn Harvey was useful, efficient, and competent—until she wasn’t. She played Frank’s game well, but she made the mistake of believing she was indispensable. No one was indispensable to Frank Underwood. When she outlived her usefulness, she disappeared like all the others.
Even his relationship with his own parents was tainted. His father was nothing more than a cautionary tale of weakness, a ghost he spat on rather than mourned. His mother? Cold, distant, barely a presence. Every connection Frank had, every interaction, was strategic. Calculated.
But then there was Edward Meechum. Meechum’s loyalty wasn’t political, wasn’t desperate, wasn’t conditional. He wasn’t climbing a ladder or seeking validation. He simply was. He wasn’t a rival, a pawn, or an enabler—he was his. In a world where everyone either feared, used, or plotted against Frank, Meechum just followed. Without question. Without hesitation. And Frank, for once, let himself trust. He could replace a Doug. He could replace a Claire. He could replace anyone. But he could never replace Meechum.
A Loyalty Beyond Politics
Frank Underwood didn’t do sentimentality. He saw relationships as tools, people as pieces on a board—useful until they outlived their purpose. His marriage with Claire? A partnership built on ambition, carefully maintained until it no longer served them both. His allies? Temporary conveniences, discarded the moment they became dead weight. Even his occasional lovers were pawns in his endless game, used to further his agenda before being cast aside.
Meechum, though? Meechum wasn’t playing. He was never in the game to begin with.
Introduced as Frank’s quiet, unassuming bodyguard, Meechum started off as just another cog in the Underwood machine. But over time, his unwavering devotion became something different—something personal. He didn’t serve Frank out of political obligation or ambition. There was no ladder to climb, no power to seize. Meechum was just there, steadfast and unquestioning, even when Frank’s actions became more and more monstrous.
That level of loyalty? Unheard of in Frank’s world.
What made it even more interesting was that Meechum wasn’t naïve—he knew exactly who Frank was. He saw the corruption, the ruthlessness, the blood on Frank’s hands. And yet, he stayed. Not out of fear, not out of greed, but because he chose to. His unwavering commitment wasn’t a means to an end—it was the end.
For Frank, that was something entirely new.
Bromance and the Absence of a Power Dynamic
Every relationship Frank had was defined by power. He manipulated Claire just as much as she manipulated him. He crushed allies when they became liabilities. Even his affairs—whether with Peter Russo’s secretary or journalist Zoe Barnes—were strategic, not emotional. But with Meechum, there was no power struggle.
Sure, Frank technically held authority over him, but that wasn’t the core of their bond. Meechum’s devotion wasn’t rooted in fear or self-interest—it was pure. He trusted Frank completely, not because he had to, but because he chose to.
And Frank? Well, he actually trusted Meechum back.
Think about it—Frank Underwood, the most paranoid, control-obsessed man in Washington, let Edward Meechum be his constant shadow, armed and always within striking distance. If that’s not trust, nothing is.
Even Claire saw it. She had her own complicated relationship with Meechum, but she understood that his loyalty wasn’t just professional—it was personal. In the House of Cards universe, trust was a liability. It was the one thing that could bring a person down. But with Meechum, Frank took that risk.
And that says everything.
The Infamous Threesome: Intimacy in the Underwood Household
Ah yes, that scene.
Even by House of Cards standards, that was shocking, might not be for some of you who just know the Underwood’s relationship is questionable but this was a show where people got pushed in front of trains and strangled with exercise equipment—but it was definitely a moment. Frank, Claire, and Meechum sharing a drink before things take a turn.
Now, some might argue this was just another example of Frank and Claire’s strange, transactional take on intimacy. Maybe it was just another power move, another test of control. But if you look closely, it wasn’t about dominance—it was about trust.
Frank wasn’t using Meechum the way he used Zoe Barnes or Rachel Posner. He wasn’t gaining anything from this. It wasn’t about Meechum at all, really—it was about connection. There was something unspoken in that moment. Something deeper than lust or control. It was the most emotionally open we’d ever seen Frank, even if it was in a subtle, House of Cards-style way.
In a twisted, House of Cards way, it was almost… tender.
And if Frank was willing to share that moment—not just with Claire, but with Meechum—that meant something.
Meechum’s Death and Frank’s Reaction
Frank Underwood rarely mourned. He barely blinked when Zoe got shoved onto the train tracks. He didn’t flinch when Peter Russo met his watery grave. Death, to Frank, was just another move on the board.
But Meechum? That hit different.
When Meechum took a bullet for Frank, it wasn’t just the death of a loyal servant—it was the loss of the one person who had never betrayed him, never asked for anything, never played the game.
For a split second—just a flicker—Frank Underwood looked human.
No calculated rage, no political spin. Just a moment of real, unfiltered grief. And in House of Cards, where every relationship was a power play, that was rare.
Even Claire seemed to recognise it. She had shared in the bond, had come to see Meechum as something more than just a bodyguard. When he died, it wasn’t just another casualty in their war for power—it was personal.
Frank could replace staffers, he could replace political allies, but he could never replace Edward Meechum.
The Unspoken Truth
Frank Underwood wasn’t built for love. Not in the traditional sense. He didn’t need romance, friendship, or family—he needed control, and he needed power. But if he did love anyone in his own warped way, it was Edward Meechum.
Because love, at its core, isn’t always about grand gestures or poetic confessions. Sometimes, it’s about loyalty. Sometimes, it’s about trust. And sometimes, it’s about knowing someone has your back—not because they have to, but because they want to.
Meechum was the only person Frank Underwood never had to manipulate. And in a world where every move was a calculated step toward power, that made him irreplaceable.
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