[Yes, I have. Take a look. Is this okay?]
I send a reply along with the picture of me wedding the gown.
I've decided it's better to ask him tonight, just in case he won't be around tomorrow. I don't think I chose a bad gown, but what if he prefers something grander? He's the President, after all.
Maybe he wants a more formal, luxurious image for his wife—his public wife. And since we're using his money in this fake marriage, he gets a say whether I like it or not.
He replies a few minutes later.
[Not bad.]
I stare at my screen and wonder if it's alright to call? I have questions I want to ask, like when I'll be allowed to leave the residence or show myself in public. I want to visit Logan first, and then I'll meet up with Dahlia. I need to manage my contract with my agency.
I send another message.
[Will I see you tomorrow? We need to talk.]
I didn't get a reply.
* * *
I woke up earlier than I wanted to. My alarm dragged me out of sleep like a rude hand on my shoulder—courtesy of Stannis, who warned me last night that today is packed with 'wedding preparations.'
So here I am.
After breakfast, he leads me to the study on the first floor lined with shelves and soft morning light filtering through tall windows. On the desk waits a neat folder.
Stannis gestures to it.
"This is something similar to a manual," he says with a gentle smile, as though manuals are things brides normally receive. "Everything you need to know about the President. You'll be facing the public as First Lady, after all. And what kind of wife doesn't know her husband?"
I open the booklet, and my brain promptly threatens to abandon ship. It's pages and pages of facts.
Mr. Brandt's family background, his academic history, his food preferences, his hobbies, his dislikes, his pet peeves, his favorite cities, even the brand of pen he uses when signing important documents.
It feels like studying for an exam I didn't sign up for.
"Many political enemies would love to spot a single flaw," Stannis explains, placing another sheet in front of me. "It's better to be prepared."
"This is the story the President would like the public to believe."
I read it. Apparently, Mr. Brandt has been a devoted admirer of my music for years. We've supposedly crossed paths multiple times before he became president, and our romance quietly blossomed earlier this year and swiftly escalated into marriage.
I blink. "Did he… write this himself?"
"It's his initial idea. You'll refine the details with him so both of you can present a consistent narrative."
I exhale slowly. I'm not fond of lying, but between truth and survival… well, survival wins by a landslide.
"I'll keep everything in mind," I say, though my confidence is questionable at best.
Stannis places another stack of papers before me. A thick one.
I just stare.
You've got to be kidding me.
"This contains the profiles of individuals working around the President. His allies, his rivals, and the people you must be cautious of. Memorize their names and faces before you meet any of them."
I give a weak laugh. "Feels like I'm studying for a college entrance exam all over again."
If only it were that easy.
The hours crawl. Studying has never been thrilling, but studying under the looming weight of political consequence is… special.
I nibble snacks during short breaks and wage an internal war with my phone, because one accidental scroll and I'll vanish into the abyss of the internet for an hour.
By the time lunch has passed, my eyelids are staging a rebellion. I stand, stretch my arms above my head, and wander a little just to wake myself up. The study is larger than I initially realized.
Then something catches my eye.
At the very back of the study, tucked behind a tall cabinet, is a narrow door. Not hidden exactly, but certainly placed where no one would think to look twice.
My curiosity perks up.
When I twist the doorknob and find it unlocked, I hesitate for half a breath, then curiosity wins, as it always does. I ease the door open.
A smaller room adjoins the study, quiet and softly lit. Shelves line the walls, filled with old volumes and neatly arranged documents. It isn't the main library, I'm sure. That one is on the eastern wing, sprawling and grand.
This room feels… personal. A private retreat rather than a public space.
But what captures my attention sits in the far corner.
A polished piano, its black lacquer gleaming. My heart lifts at the sight of it.
Before I can overthink, I cross the room and sit. I've played many instruments in my life, but the piano is one of my favorites.
My fingers drift across the keys. And then I'm gone, slipping into muscle memory, into melody, into the soft world that exists only when sound blooms in the air.
Eyes closed, breath steady, I lose myself in the bridge of the song.
That is when a voice cuts through the music.
"You've made yourself at home, I see."
I jolt, hands freezing mid-phrase. My head snaps toward the doorway.
Mr. Brandt leans against the frame, sleeves rolled, white shirt crisp, expression unreadable in that way he seems to have perfected. He looks effortlessly composed, while I feel like someone caught stealing cookies.
I jump to my feet. "Sorry. Is this area off-limits?"
He doesn't answer that. Instead, his gaze flicks to the piano.
"That song. It's unfamiliar." His tone is casual, but his eyes are sharp. "One of the tracks from your unreleased album?"
Surprise flutters across my face before I can restrain it. I hadn't expected him to notice.
"It's not supposed to be heard by anyone yet," I admit, smiling shyly. "What do you think?"
He studies me for a moment, as though deciding whether to be brutally honest or politely diplomatic.
I beat him to it.
"You're probably not the type who listens to my music… or the kind of songs I usually write." I give him a light, understanding smile. "It's alright. Everyone has their preferences."