At thirty-two, Gregory Brandt became the youngest president the country has ever elected.
And that same man is sitting right in front of me.
Can you believe that?
I can't.
His midnight black eyes assess me with something between disdain and boredom. His hair is combed back immaculately, his suit layered perfectly, as if wrinkles dare not form in his presence.
He looks powerful, polished, pressure-molded from influence itself.
Definitely not someone who should be picking up a detained murder suspect in the middle of the night.
What could he possibly want with me? I'm certain he isn't a paid assassin. Assassins do not drive limousines and wear luxury watches.
And as far as I remember, we've never met. Not even once.
"Welcome back, wife."
The words leave his mouth so coldly that for a moment I think he's insulting me.
Then the meaning hits me square in the spine, and my jaw unhinges.
He doesn't look like the joking type. His expression is smoother than marble.
Wife?!
The officer earlier had said my husband was waiting outside…
But that makes absolutely zero sense.
"W-wife? What-"
"You must know me," he says. "I am Gregory Brandt."
"Yes," I stammer, nodding so fast I probably look like a bobblehead. My heart is pounding so loudly it's drowning out my thoughts. "O-of course I know who you are, Mr. President."
"But why are you calling me…" I can't bring myself to finish it. The word feels radioactive in my mouth.
He doesn't blink.
Is he mistaking me for someone else?
But the president's marriage, if it existed, would've been national news. The headlines, the gossip, the First Lady features… nothing like that ever surfaced.
He's famously single, idolized, even. The country's favorite bachelor-in-power.
"You must be wondering why your case was dismissed," he says.
"Yes…" I whisper.
"I made it possible."
My eyes widen. "You did? Why?"
He might be the most powerful man in the nation, but even presidents can't simply snap their fingers and erase a murder case. And even if he could… why me?
He called me wife, didn't he?
Could that be the reason?
A horrifyingly plausible thought wiggles into my mind.
I'm a popular singer and songwriter. I've released hit songs. Before the scandal, I was always praised for my looks. It's not impossible that the president might've seen me on TV or social media and developed an interest.
Strange things like this have happened.
A businessman once bought the entire first VIP row at my concert just to ask me to dinner, then offered me a wildly indecent arrangement. Another famous artist's fan proposed marriage at a fan meeting.
Weird things happen to celebrities all the time.
So… maybe the president is a fan? Maybe he took this chance to play hero?
Maybe he—
"Are you listening?"
His voice slices cleanly through my spiraling thoughts.
I jolt upright when I hear the president's voice. His eyes narrow, sharp as scalpels, as if he can see my thoughts drifting miles away.
"I said," he repeats slowly, "I saw your case on television and decided to help you."
I brighten instantly. "Because you're my fan, right?"
"..."
"It's okay," I reassure him with a sympathetic nod. "You don't have to be shy about it. I've had experiences like this before."
He blinks once, and I swear the air grows colder.
"Thank you for helping me out, Mr. President," I continue, "but I don't think it's wise for you to marry a widow with a tainted reputation. You're the president. Your publicity matters, and marrying me would, quite literally, ruin your image."
His brow lifts. "I don't mind marrying a widow with a stained reputation."
"Oh." My smile stiffens at the edges. "You're… very open-minded. A good man, really. But still, I think you should consider-"
"I can take care of my reputation just fine," he says.
My eyebrows twitch, but I force calm across my features.
"I know you can. But being a fan isn't the same as being a husband. You can't just marry me because you admire my music. Marriage doesn't work like that."
Nothing I say seems to land. He remains steady, composed, as if presiding over a cabinet meeting rather than kidnapping a murder suspect from a police station.
"Just because most people treat marriage one way," he replies, "does not mean another approach is impossible. I have my own way of doing things."
A headache blooms behind my eyes. I've had overzealous male fans before, some sending letters and gifts, but it never crossed my mind that a fan would do something like this.
"Shouldn't you be thankful I got you out of prison?" he asks. "Why wouldn't you want to marry me?"
His eyebrow arches, his tone challenging. "I have money, a comfortable home, and, if I may say so, decent looks."
He isn't wrong. The Brandt family swims in old money, and Gregory Brandt is objectively handsome. Sharp, clean features, youth carved into elegance.
"That's not the problem," I protest. "You're deciding on impulse. You like me because you're a fan, but you don't know me. And I… I only know you as the president. What response do you expect?"
I sigh. "I'm grateful. Truly. But my husband just died, and everyone believes I killed him. This is a murder case. Helping me is already risky. If you get entangled in this mess, it will blow up on you."
"Would you rather I send you back to prison?" he asks coldly.
A shiver slices through me.
He doesn't look like a psychopath, but the tone? The tone could freeze oceans.
I wave my hands frantically.
"No, no—of course not! That's not what I meant!"
"You don't want me involved, but you also won't let me correct my mistake and return you to prison?"
I fall silent.
One corner of his lips lifts, barely there, but unmistakably smug.
My lips puff forward in frustration. I look away.
"I don't want to sleep in prison again," I mutter. "And since you already got my case dismissed, you can't just send me back."
"Then marry me," he says simply, "if you don't want to stay in prison."