Three days? He expects a wedding in three days?
No way.
I blink at Mr. Brandt, certain I must have misheard. "You're joking, right? A wedding in three days?"
A laugh slips out of me.
"I am serious."
My mouth hangs open. For several seconds, I'm nothing but stunned silence and poorly functioning neurons.
"No. You couldn't be…"
He nods, his expression giving absolutely no indication that he might be joking.
"It hasn't even been a month since I became a widow. My case is dismissed, yes, but I think it's still too early to announce another marriage!"
I don't just sound horrified. I am horrified. Because somehow this man, this terrifyingly composed political giant, can't seem to grasp the obvious.
If we announce our marriage now, we'll be massacred in the court of public opinion. I'll be crucified online. He'll get dragged by every journalist with a functioning keyboard.
Publicity disaster. Career suicide. A headline you can smell from space.
"There is no law that states a widow cannot remarry shortly after her husband's death," he replies calmly, as if the law is the only lens that matters and not, say, the screaming internet gremlins waiting for a new sacrifice.
"Do you not understand?" My hands fling themselves into the air, gesturing wildly. "We're public figures, sir. People live for scandals. They inhale drama the way they inhale air. If we announce a marriage this soon, it will explode in our faces."
My gaze narrows. He still hasn't explained what kind of publicity he's trying to get.
"You never told me what kind of image you're going for. I already agreed to marry you, so the least you can do is tell me why."
He doesn't speak for a moment, as if weighing whether or not to tell me. My curiosity only grows.
I tap the contract on the table. "Do I really look that untrustworthy? We're bound by legal paperwork."
"You haven't signed it," he reminds me.
I groan internally and extend a hand. "Give me the pen. I'll sign it right now."
He retrieves a pen from his suit pocket and hands it over. I add the two obligations I insisted on earlier, then sign it. He signs after me.
"There," I say. "Now please talk."
He shoots me an annoyed look, clearly not used to people interrogating him.
"If you really must know," he says, voice flat, "I'm pushing a major government project. But my political enemies are trying to block it, and I don't have the public's full trust yet. I just start my term, after all."
I swallow, listening.
"What I need is a massive publicity wave. Something emotional. Something people can cling to." His eyes meet mine. "You were adored as a superstar. Now, you're a scandal the entire country can't stop talking about. To the public, you are a fallen angel. And if people learn you were framed, that turns you into a tragic figure they will root for."
His lips curl slightly. "Your downfall can become a redemption arc with my help. And once we announce our marriage right after your name is cleared, the story practically writes itself. A disgraced superstar proven innocent, saved by the President, then marrying him. Tell me that won't shake the entire nation."
"So you want to be the hero of the story… and use me as your shiny publicity weapon."
"Exactly," he says, without hesitation and with absolutely zero shame. "If everything unfolds as planned, the project gains funding, support, and national attention. You get your redemption."
He looks at me like this is the most rational arrangement in the world.
"Everyone wins," he finishes, "if you cooperate."
My eyes drift to the food on the table as I try to process everything he's just unloaded onto me.
After a moment of silence, I throw out the question that's been nagging at the back of my mind.
"You won't ask me to lie, right? Aside from what we already agreed on. To what extent are you planning to twist my story?"
"There isn't much to change," he replies, unbothered. "So you don't have to worry about that."
His gaze studies me, gauging my reaction.
"All you need to do is stand by my side as the First Lady, answer a few questions from time to time. But I won't force you to do anything that compromises your values."
A breath I didn't realize I was holding slips out. Fine. Good. At least there's a line he won't cross.
"How about the wedding?" I press. "Are you really serious about doing it in three days? I told you, it's not wise."
"Why? Because you were once married?" He smirks, eyes gleaming with dark humor. "Can't you simply tell the public that you never loved your ex-husband and fell for me?"
I frown. "That would make me look disloyal."
"So you loved him?" He raises a brow. "I don't think you did."
My eyes widen, offended. "H-how can you say that? What do you even know about me? About us?"
"I don't know everything," he says calmly. "But I know your marriage was arranged three years ago. I also know you saw each other only a few times a year after that."
A tightness wraps around my chest. Irritation blooms. Hot, prickly, and humiliating.
Yes, he's the President. Yes, he probably had someone dig through every inch of my life. But did he really have to shove my failed marriage into my face like this? Who wants to talk about their flawed, unhappy marriage?
"If you didn't love him, why didn't you get a divorce?"
My lips tremble before I manage to steady them. I keep my face composed even as my stomach coils.
"Do I have to explain that too?" I manage, my voice flat. "I don't think that information is relevant to our agreement, Mr. President."
"It is relevant."
My patience finally snaps. "How is it relevant?"
The frustration slips through before I can stop it, sharp and raw.
Surprise flickers in his eyes when he sees the frustration on my face, as if he hasn't expected me to get worked up when my marriage with Logan is brought up.
"Because if you had tried to get a divorce, you would have learned that your marriage to Mr. Hansley was never registered."