"If you want to clear your name, I can help you. But you'll need to offer me something in return."
Is he really serious?
When I look at him, I don't just see a man. I see a force of nature wrapped in authority. The type who doesn't understand the word no unless it's coming from his own mouth.
His eyes hold a steely insistence, like he's already calculated the conversation three steps ahead and is merely waiting for me to catch up.
Men really are dangerous creatures.
But marriage with the president? Just how deranged is my life going to get?
"You see how much power I hold. I get your case dismissed, yet you're still painted as a murderer. You need to take back your life and career. You can't do that on your own, not when your enemies are vultures who'd swallow you whole before you even blink."
He's not wrong. I need help.
"What do you want from me?" I ask, forcing my voice to stay firm.
At this point, I can't pretend he's just some fan with a great fanboy fantasy.
Gregory Brandt doesn't give off the vibe of a man driven by obsession or infatuation. No. He has the kind of presence that makes rooms quiet. The kind of aura that smells like polished power and danger wrapped in a tailored suit.
Calculated. Controlled. Coldly capable.
"Marry me," he says, as if proposing a business merger.
"Why? How would it benefit you?" I offer a small smile, though my heart beats a little too hard. "Is this some new political tactic? Give me a moment. I took up Arts, not Politics 101. I'll need a thorough explanation."
"Yes," he replies. "Let's say it benefits me politically. I need someone with a story I can twist to suit my goals. And you're perfect."
"A story you can twist?" My brows pull together. "So you want to take advantage of what happened to me?"
That doesn't sound good.
"Yes. But if you work with me, the truth about your husband's death will come out. And the real culprit will face consequences."
Well, now that's interesting.
Oh no. Are you seriously considering this, Elyn? Get a grip, lady!
"But why do you need my story for publicity?" I ask.
His eyes narrow. A warning. "That's all I can tell you for now. If you agree, we can revisit that discussion."
"You're shady," I mutter under my breath.
"And you don't have the luxury to be picky."
He has a point, annoyingly enough.
I was once adored. People begged for my attention, my voice, my stage presence. Now? They're ghosts. Too frightened to be associated with a tarnished name.
Yet here he is, the most powerful man in the country, offering a lifeline… even if it's wrapped in thorns.
It's tempting.
Being First Lady doesn't sound awful if the alternative is rotting in this miserable cell. And if he's truly capable of revealing what really happened to Logan, if he can protect me long enough to breathe again…
That's hard to resist.
My stomach suddenly churns.
Mr. President's gaze drops to it. "Isn't the station providing rations?"
I rub my stomach and offer a sheepish smile. "They do. But the food is bland, and it's barely enough. You should probably increase the budget so the prisoners don't go hungry."
"The prison isn't a hotel," he replies, tone dry. "People are well aware of what they shouldn't do, and they still do it. I don't see why it's the government's responsibility to make criminals comfortable."
His logic is infuriating… and depressingly presidential.
"But what about the people who are wrongly accused. People like me?"
His eyes barely flicker. "Were you wrongly accused, though?"
My lips fall open. "What kind of question is that? You think I did it?" Heat rushes to my cheeks. "B–but you just said you'd help uncover the truth about my husband's death, so I assumed that meant you believed I'm innocent. Why else would you say something like that?"
He doesn't bother answering. He simply gets his phone.
"Did you only say that to make me agree?" My chest tightens. "Did you offer all that without even knowing if I'm the culprit?"
Silence.
I stare at him—really stare. I've seen him in countless interviews: polished, crisp, a man carved from protocol. The president who delivers speeches about justice, order, and public safety with a voice that makes crowds straighten their backs.
But up close?
He's different. More dangerous. More real. Like someone whose principles aren't tied to morality but to strategy.
Shouldn't it matter to him whether I actually killed Logan? Isn't that what justice is supposed to be?
"I don't have proof," he says finally, sliding his phone back to his pocket. "But I believe you didn't do it."
"Why?" I tilt my head, sarcasm slipping out faster than sense. "Because I look like a sweet little angel who can't hurt a bug?"
People have called me that for years. The innocent face. The angel with a sweet voice. The manufactured charm.
But I'm still human. My edges exist, even if people pretend not to see them.
"What if I did it?" I press. "Would you still ask me to marry you?"
A quick flash of amusement lights his eyes, gone as quickly as it arrives.
Before he can respond, the car rolls to a slow stop. I glance outside. Even with the heavy tint, I can make out a quiet street and the vague outline of a building.
"Why did we stop? Where are you taking me?"
Again, no answer. He simply leans back, closes his eyes, and breathes as though the universe is on pause for him alone.
I click my tongue. Annoyance bubbles under my ribs.
A few moments later, the door opens. The driver hands me a large paper bag and shuts the door immediately after.
The smell hits me instantly. Warm, savory, heavenly. My stomach practically sings. I clutch the paper bag like it's a national treasure.
"While you eat," the president murmurs, eyes still closed, "think about my proposal."
Of course he says that while looking like a man meditating on world domination.