Chapter 1: The President’s Bed

To save my brother, I climbed onto the king’s bed—the massive four-poster reserved for America’s most powerful man.

My palms were slick with sweat, and I had to force myself not to wipe them on the president’s sheets. The mattress felt almost ridiculously plush beneath my knees, the kind of luxury you only see on White House tours or in glossy presidential documentaries. But all I could think about was the way my heart hammered as I steadied myself at the edge, the faint scent of expensive detergent and old wood polish filling my nose.

The young president I once seduced and left behind glanced at me, his face unreadable as he shuffled through briefing folders. He had that news-anchor focus—sharp, unreadable, the kind of guy who could drop a scandal and not blink.

But I could still remember how it melted when we were alone, how those careful brows drew together at my touch.

I decided to go all in and sat right in his lap.

My heartbeat thudded so loud I was sure it echoed off the carved ceiling. The solid warmth of his thighs was a living contradiction to his icy posture, every nerve in my body buzzing with panic and hope.

“In the past, I was the one who hurt you. Tonight, you can do whatever you want to me, as long as you let my brother go.”

The words tumbled out in a shaky whisper, every syllable tasting of desperation and old regret.

He suddenly smiled, long fingers brushing my lips, eyes reflecting the fluttering white curtains—dark and glistening.

The lamplight caught in his eyes, turning them from cold to dangerous, the kind of look that made me forget where I was, who I was supposed to be.

“You show up, get what you want, then dump me. What am I, your family’s lapdog?”

His voice was low, laced with a bitterness that stung more than any headline ever could.

I asked, “Then what do you want?”

Even as the question left my lips, I felt the ghost of all our old arguments swirling between us, all the things we never dared say.

He stared at me, coldly spitting out the words: “Kiss me.”

His tone left no room for misinterpretation, every syllable a dare I knew I would accept.