I swallow the meat too fast and immediately regret it.
I cough once, quietly, because dying in front of the president would be… inconvenient.
Right. His proposal. The very thing I was supposed to spend the entire day thinking about. Instead, I galloped around the estate like a child on summer break.
"I'm sure with the time I've given you, you've already come up with a decision."
His gaze sharpens, cutting through my flimsy composure, as if he can see right through me and can tell that I didn't use the time he gave me to think about his proposal at all.
"Well…" I grab my glass and take a slow sip. "I'd like to know some details first."
I set the glass down and fold my hands neatly.
"Like how long the marriage will last, what you'll require from me, and what I can expect from you. Clear lines are important, right?" I smile, perhaps too brightly. "Surely you can't expect me to say yes to a deal without knowing the terms."
He wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin, takes a measured sip of water, then turns his full attention toward me.
"I will only demand two things," he says. "First, accompany me to public appearances when I ask you to. Second, do not cause me any trouble. That's all I expect from you, should you agree."
"What kind of trouble exactly?"
"You cannot tell the public anything about our arrangement," he says. "And you will not do anything that could compromise my position as president."
Ah. So everything boils down to politics.
He continues, "What can you expect from me? You will be provided with everything you need. Your name will be cleared. The truth about your husband's death will be exposed. You will be protected and taken care of while you are married to me."
That sounds really tempting. After all, all I want is to clear my name and make the real culprit pay for their sins. Logan deserves justice.
"Are you really sure about this?" I ask because I still have doubts.
My scandal was a wildfire, burning fast, loud, and everywhere. Anyone who owned a screen saw my downfall. Can he really spin my story into something advantageous? Or is he overestimating himself?
He nods without hesitation, radiating the kind of confidence only powerful men are born, or trained, to wield.
"How long do you need a wife?" I ask. "A few months? Half a year?"
Instead of answering, he uncorks a bottle of wine and pours himself a glass. The sharp scent of red fills the room.
His hair is slightly tousled, as though he's run a hand through it a few times. His long-sleeved shirt and vest are still on, but his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. His tie hangs loosely around his neck, the picture of a man who has been working all day yet still manages to look put together.
"Is there something to dislike about being my wife?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious. "I have enough money to support three generations. You would be the lady of this residence. You could use my influence as leverage in your industry."
My forehead creases.
Aren't we discussing duration?
Why is he suddenly advertising his qualifications like a luxury resort package?
I smile, trying not to show my confusion.
"Honestly, being your wife would sound like a dream to many women. And it doesn't sound bad to me either." I shrug lightly. "Even if there are things to dislike, what matters is that the arrangement benefits me. And I know it has an expiration date." I let out a nervous chuckle. "After all, this is just for publicity, right?"
He nods but something in his eyes darkens. A shadow. A flicker of disagreement. Or perhaps I'm imagining things because everything he says feels like a puzzle with missing pieces.
"The duration of our arrangement depends on whether my plan succeeds."
A chill runs along my spine.
I frown, curiosity and unease twisting together.
"What plan?"
"This plan will take six months at most. If it doesn't work, then I'll have no reason to keep you."
Six months.
My brain rolls the number around like a marble. Half a year of being Mrs. President.
"About this plan…" I bite my bottom lip, leaning in slightly as if someone might be listening. I lower my voice. "It doesn't involve killing anyone or doing anything illegal, right?"
He lifts an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth almost twitching.
"What if it does? Would that make you hesitate?"
Is he joking? Testing me? Both?
"I'm an upright person, Mr. President," I say, trying to sound dignified instead of mildly panicked. "So if you're planning to do something illegal-"
"I've managed to take you out of prison through illegal means. It's too late to talk about being upright."
My hand flies to my mouth. "What?"
He doesn't smile, but there's a glint in his eyes, a flicker of amusement at my horror.
"Some things are easier when you don't follow the rules. How can you play fair if your enemy doesn't?"
What did he do? Everyone has been watching my case. Every news outlet, every gossip site, every bored office worker with a phone. If he bribed someone or twisted things behind the scenes, isn't he afraid it will backfire?
I want to ask him that. But looking at him now, I see a man who doesn't seem to fear anything.
That kind of confidence is terrifying.
"That's the truth of life, Miss Merrit," he says. "There's no real justice in this world. It can be manipulated by people in power. So what should be done? You play the same game your enemy is playing. Only then do you stand a chance to win."
I've been wondering how he got my case dismissed when my sister-in-law and mother-in-law built such a convincing story, backed by fabricated evidence and public outrage.
I can barely lie with a straight face. How am I supposed to survive a game where everyone schemes against each other?
More importantly… can I survive the kind of life that comes with sitting beside the president if everything around him is more complicated than it appears?
Mr. Brandt stands. His serious gaze directed at me.
"I need to leave now. If you agree to my proposal, I expect to see you tomorrow morning. If you refuse, I expect you to leave my house before sunrise."
He doesn't wait for my reply. He just turns and walks away.
He's giving me more time? That's unexpected, especially after the pressure he put on me last night. It almost seems like he really wants to marry me.
The tight knot in my chest loosens a little.
I think Mr. Brandt isn't a bad pick for a temporary husband.
A sound outside draws my attention. I hurry out of the mansion and onto the front steps, just in time to see a helicopter lifting off from the grounds. Its blades cut the air as it rises into the dark sky.
I assume he's needed at the Crown Palace. He'll probably spend the night there, buried in state matters and political firestorms.
I watch the aircraft grow smaller.
I can't go back to prison. I don't want to. That cell felt like a grave with fluorescent lighting. If I want to stay free, I need to make a decision that will change everything.
If I want justice, I need power.
On my own, I have none. My family is gone. The people I called friends have stepped away, as if my misfortune is contagious. I have some money, yes, but money without connections can only do so much.
So I am left with one choice: borrow someone else's power.
That night, before I sleep, I pick up my phone and open our chat.
My fingers hover for a moment, then I type:
[What do you want for breakfast tomorrow morning?]