A lawsuit isn’t necessary, I keep telling Mr. Brandt that, but of course he doesn’t listen.
He’s soone who’s used to deciding everything and getting exactly what he wants.
"In just a matter of days, you’ll be known as the First Lady. You can’t let people think I don’t take your matters seriously," he says, sounding almost eager to play the role of my devoted husband.
Fine. Do as you please.
I don’t care enough about Kayla to make a fuss. I just don’t want more trouble. But if he insists, then I’ll let him.
When I get to my room, I peel off the damp gown and change into clean clothes. Then I flop onto the bed with my phone.
The internet is already in full frenzy.
Mr. President Seen at Music Awards With Elyn Hansley
Superstar Accused of Husband’s Murder Spotted With the President
Secret Relationship Between Elyn Hansley and President Brandt?
Of course I expected it would explode this fast.
Still, anxiety crawls through . Now that we’ve been seen together, I know there’s no turning back.
Dahlia’s call interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
I hug my pillow as I answer.
"What on earth is—"
"Calm down," I cut in before she can unleash a storm loud enough to fry my eardrums.
"Calm down? Calm down? Did you see the news?! I thought you’d et backstage. I waited for you! But what happened? The President picked you up! The President!" She says it like the word itself is a teor crashing into her life.
"I’m living in the president’s private residence," I tell her gently.
Silence.
More silence.
"Hello? Dahlia? Are you there?"
Did she collapse? Hit her head? Fall into a laundry basket?
"Hey, are you still alive? Are you breathing? I don’t hear you."
A full minute passes. My worry spikes. Dahlia is famously clumsy when shocked, and I’m ninety percent sure this news just broke her brain.
"What... did you say?" she finally whispers, barely audible.
"I am at the president’s private residence."
"Okay. Okay, I get it. But why are you there? Tell everything. I need you to tell everything, Elyn."
She’s serious, truly serious, and that alone is unsettling, because this tone is rare for her.
"Of course. I planned to tell you anyway. But we need to talk in person. Co here tomorrow morning and we’ll talk."
"Co... there?"
"Yes. To the president’s house. The Brandt residence."
"Oh God."
* * *
Jean, along with the security team introduced to yesterday, is now stationed in the mansion.
She handles most of the communication with, while the n keep their distance. She told that wherever I go, they have to follow, per the president’s rules.
Which is why I’m currently standing at the residence’s main gates, waiting for Dahlia.
I asked the president last night if I could bring her over, and he agreed. He hasn’t shown himself since he picked up. He only left a ssage saying he’d be back for the wedding later this afternoon.
Stannis offered to have Dahlia escorted from the gates to the mansion, but I insisted on greeting her myself. So here I am, with Jean and her team, looking like the world’s most awkward VIP.
It doesn’t take long before a taxi pulls up and Dahlia steps out.
Her jaw practically hits the pavent when she sees .
Well—technically, it’s the people around she’s gawking at.
She joins in the car, and only once the doors close does she finally speak.
"You have a freaking entourage?" she asks, shaking her head as she peers out the window at the long driveway stretching ahead.
"I thought the house was just a few yards away, but you need cars to get there? This place must be enormous."
"It is very vast," I reply, smiling.
Dahlia isn’t my first assistant, but she’s been with for three years now. Only a couple of years older, yet she fusses over like a mother. She has big brown eyes, soft waves of brown hair, and dresses like the most competent mayor’s secretary—pencil skirt, crisp white blouse, always prepared for a crisis.
Three years isn’t that long, but she’s beco like family.
When the cars stop in front of the mansion, Dahlia steps out and imdiately scans the area.
"What is that? Is there a wedding happening?" she asks, staring at the decorated garden where servants are setting things up.
I pull her inside before she can explode.
"Yes, there’s a wedding happening," I tell her once we’re safely in my room.
Dahlia slowly shakes her head.
"Wait. You can’t be telling that..." She trails off, but the words hang between us anyway.
I offer a tight smile.
She throws up a hand and steps back. "Whoa. Whoa. Give a second."
Then she starts pacing, studying like she’s trying to decipher whether an alien replaced my soul overnight.
"First, I find out you’re picked up by the president at the awards night. Then you tell you’re staying in his private residence. And now... please tell I’m wrong, you’re not the one getting married, right? You’re not marrying the president?"
"I’m sorry for not telling you my plans—"
"So you are marrying him?!"
"Yes."
She collapses onto the floor dramatically, palm slapped over her mouth.
"This is insanity."
She points at . "Yes, you are insane, Elyn."
For agreeing to the president’s proposal? Absolutely.
"Did the weeks in that cell damage your brain? It must be the food. The water? Yes, maybe they were contaminated with bacteria that lted your common sense! Or did the depression chew through your neurons? You’re telling you’re marrying the president not even a month after your husband’s death?!"
The shouts are endless.
I sit on the bed and exhale deeply.
"Let explain everything."
She stays on the floor but straightens, fully attentive.
"But promise you won’t tell a soul," I warn. "I won’t kill you if you break it, obviously, I’m not capable of that. But I can’t promise the president will be as rciful."
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