Thanks to Dahlia, I still got to eat real food while being detained. But, of course, she couldn't visit every day.
Which is why the sight of freshly cooked takeout on my lap makes me want to clap in happiness.
"Do you want some?" I ask the president, because manners should still exist even in misery, and he's the one who bought it.
"Just eat and let me know your decision after eating," he replies without even opening his eyes.
I wonder if he's had a nap at all today. He looks like the type who schedules sleep like an international summit, rare and always delayed.
"I can finish this in a few minutes. That's not enough time to come up with a decision, sir," I say between dumpling-stuffed bites. "Can you give me a few days at least?"
"That's fine."
"Really?"
"Yes, that's not a problem for me. You can think about it in prison."
I almost inhale a dumpling.
"But-"
His eyes snap open, and I instantly glue myself to the backrest. Those midnight irises could double as twin black holes—pulling, swallowing, with absolutely no promise of return.
"I don't like wasting my time, Miss Merrit. I'm a very busy man. So if you don't think you can do it, do us both a favor and be straightforward with me."
I glower at him. Not impressively, more disgruntled kitten than tiger.
Before my brain can stop me, my mouth leaps off a cliff.
"Can't you be a little more considerate? My life just hit rock bottom. I'm frustrated. I'm confused. I am a complete mess, and here you are, offering me a marriage in exchange for my freedom. What do you expect me to do? Just decide in a snap? You should understand that I'm about to make a life-changing decision!"
My chest tightens, the words burning as they spill out. I lower my gaze to the warm takeout box on my lap and chew slowly, trying to ignore the tremble in my lips.
Yes, he's pressuring me. Yes, the deal benefits me. But that doesn't make it easy to say yes. I may not be a genius, but I'm not stupid enough to accept a deal without thinking it through.
I glance up from beneath my lashes.
He's watching me.
The car hums along the road, steady and smooth, while I eat in tense silence.
"I'll give you one day, then," he finally says.
I blink at him. "So you'll send me back to prison for a day to let me think about it?"
"Would you like to stay there?"
I freeze, then shake my head. Slowly.
He leans back again, eyes drifting shut. I want to ask what he is planning, but it seems he has already made up his mind.
When I finish eating, I shift toward the far corner of the car, tuck my legs under me, and hug my knees.
The dark-tinted windows turn the night outside into a slow-moving dream. Streetlights blur past. Familiar buildings appear and fade.
But something is wrong.
We're not heading back to the station.
My pulse skitters.
Where is he taking me?
Is he… actually bringing me to the Crown Palace?
The thought makes my stomach twist. The Crown Palace is the president's official residence. The place where dignitaries meet, decisions are made, and the whole country watches like it's a living symbol of power.
But I haven't even agreed to marry him yet, so why on earth would he bring me there?
Half an hour later, I realize he isn't.
The city thins around us with buildings growing sparse, streetlights dimming into softer amber pools, the usual chorus of engines and chatter fading until the silence feels almost eerie.
My heartbeat eases just a little.
Okay. Definitely not the Crown Palace.
Thank God. I'm barely emotionally stable enough to handle prison. Marching into the president's official residence would've pushed me straight into early cardiac retirement.
The car slows as we reach tall iron gates, much taller and heavier-looking than anything guarding a fancy subdivision. A guardhouse stands beside it, manned by uniformed security who straighten the moment they recognize the vehicle.
When the gates swing open, we glide onto a long, winding driveway lined with trimmed hedges.
"Where are we?" I ask as the car finally rolls to a stop.
The driver steps out and opens the door. The moment the cool night air brushes my face, the world widens, and I freeze.
Without the tinted windows muting everything, the estate reveals itself in full, breathtaking detail.
It's enormous. Sprawling over what must be several acres are manicured gardens, lantern-lit pathways, and a fountain gleaming like a quiet jewel under the soft lights. The lawns are trimmed so perfectly they look ironed. This place probably requires a small army of gardeners just to keep a single hedge in line.
And at the center of it all stands a mansion.
Not the sleek, modern, "I make millions in tech" type. No. This is the aristocratic kind—tall white pillars, wide balconies, sweeping staircases, and huge windows glowing with warm light. The kind of house that has a history, a pedigree, and probably a long list of ancestors who once strolled its halls in embroidered coats.
This has to be his private residence.
It fits him. He comes from an old business family. Born wealthy. Raised wealthy. Polished into something sharp enough to run a country. He lived the life of a very comfortable bachelor long before he became the terrifyingly composed politician that he is now.
And here I am, fresh out of detention, standing on his pristine front steps like an accidental stray cat someone smuggles into a palace.
"Welcome home, Mr. Brandt," a middle-aged man in formal attire greets. Two neat rows of staff stand behind him, bowing slightly.
Suddenly I'm hyperaware of… everything. My clothes, my messy hair, my entire existence. I never imagined I'd set foot inside the private home of the president.
"Oh, I didn't know we were receiving a guest today." The middle-aged man turns to me with a warm, practiced smile. "I am Stannis, the butler."
I give a small wave from beside the president. "Hello! I'm Elyn."
"Give her a room and provide what she needs," the president says. Then he turns to me. "I will meet you later."
He murmurs something to Stannis, then walks inside without another glance.
My brows knit. What exactly does 'later' mean in presidential vocabulary? Later tonight? Later in the morning? Later when he feels like talking to me again?
"Follow me, Miss Elyn," Stannis says gently.
I trail after him, trying not to gape at every turn, but it's impossible.
The mansion is stunning. I wasn't raised poor, but this is a different world entirely. The kind of wealth that's been cultivated for generations. Every detail screams craftsmanship and legacy. Sculpted moldings, polished marble, curated art.
Stannis leads me up the grand staircase to the second floor and opens a door.
"This is one of the guest rooms. There are comfortable clothes prepared for visitors. I hope they will suffice for now."
"Oh, no worries! That's perfectly fine."
"If you require anything specific, please let me know. We'll bring it to you."