The Nation's President Picked Me Up From Prison-Chapter 20: Elyn: Not the Show We Planned

"What’s happening?"

"Why is the president here?"

"Is he here for someone?"

The questions come from every direction. Curiosity is a living thing in the room—loud, frantic, impossible to tame. From inside the venue, I can already see security straining to keep their human barricade intact as the press floods against the doors, cameras flashing wildly while the President of the Republic of Verlin strides inside.

I’m stunned myself.

He told me this was a good chance for us to appear together in public, but he said he’d only pick me up outside the hotel.

So why is he here? He definitely has no business being inside the venue.

Kayla is still not herself, and my security looks seconds away from putting her on an actual leash. Thankfully her manager rushes in and drags her back before she makes everything worse.

I look ahead, toward him.

People part instinctively as he walks, stepping back and forming a clear aisle in his path.

And somehow... warmth slips into my chest. Relief too, curling quietly beneath my ribs.

Maybe it’s because the confrontation earlier drained me, or because I’ve been drowning in pretense all night.

But seeing him, coming straight toward me, it feels like everything might finally be steady. Like he’s here to pull me out of this chaos.

When he gets close enough, I catch his expression. Grim. His eyes skim down to my dress, then to the broken glass scattered at my feet.

"Mr. President," someone calls. One of the head organizers, flanked by a few respected industry figures.

"This is unexpected. To what do we owe this pleasure, sir?" another adds.

Nearby, a group of ladies whisper excitedly. I spot Heather and her friends among them, utterly starstruck by the young president.

Mr. Brandt doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even glance at the people speaking to him. He keeps walking, straight to me, pulling every set of eyes with him.

Wonderful.

This is not the show we planned. Why did he change it? This could go very, very wrong.

He stops in front of me.

"Mr. President—"

He doesn’t let me finish. He takes my hand and pulls me out of the hall, leaving everyone frozen and open-mouthed.

"Stay silent," he mutters as we move through the exit.

Reporters swarm around us, but the security team keeps them at bay. Their noise, though, my ears feel like they’re being clawed apart.

"Mr. President, how are you related to Miss Elyn?"

"Are you two friends? What’s your relationship?"

"Were you the one who helped dismiss Elyn’s murder case?"

"What can you say about Elyn’s scandal, Mr. President?"

By the time we get inside the car, I let out a long, shaky breath.

It’s not the car I arrived in but his official vehicle.

"Put that on," Mr. Brandt says, handing me his coat.

Wait. When did he even take it off? I didn’t notice at all.

I guess I’m too nervous and overstimulated.

I slip his coat on without thinking. My dress is still damp from Kayla’s drink, the cold clinging to my skin.

"To the Brandt mansion," he tells the driver, his voice clipped.

I lower my gaze to my intertwined hands on my lap, ready to ask why he suddenly stormed into the event.

"Are you hurt?"

I jolt. His tone is so cold and severe it sends me straight back to that interrogation room—accused, cornered, stripped of any safety.

I look at him.

His midnight-black eyes fix on me like a hawk’s. Predatory, shadowed, a storm churning behind them.

"Um, n-no, I’m not hurt." I glance down at my dress. "It’s just a drink."

But that doesn’t ease anything in his expression. He isn’t moving violently, he doesn’t even twitch, but his eyes alone are enough to make me want to glue myself to the opposite side of the car.

Unfortunately, there’s nowhere to escape.

"Not the drink. The glass."

"Oh!" I nod, then shake my head as the realization kicks in. "No, I don’t think so. The gown is long, so the pieces didn’t reach me."

I pull his coat tighter around my body. It’s warm. And it smells... unfairly good.

"Why did you go inside?" I ask softly. "I mean, you can go wherever you want, obviously, but I thought... we planned to meet outside the hotel after the event?"

He shifts his gaze forward. I keep looking at him anyway, studying the hard line of his jaw. Even his side profile is intimidating.

"I thought it was better to do it that way."

That’s it? No more explanation?

I wait, expecting he’ll add something. He doesn’t.

The silence stretches for minutes. I lean against the window and watch the city lights pass by.

Being out in public again feels nice, freeing even, but the chaos that comes with it... it dulls the shine.

Still, I’m grateful to be out here instead of suffocating in that poorly ventilated cell.

"What do you want to do with that girl?"

His voice startles me back to him.

He’s leaning against the backrest, head straight, eyes closed.

"Girl? You mean the one who spilled my drink and broke my glass?"

"Yes."

"Are you asking if I want to get back at her?" He doesn’t respond, but I assume that’s what he means. "No, I don’t want anything. I’m leaving my agency anyway, so we won’t cross paths as often."

His eyes open and lock on me. My heart trips over itself.

They narrow dangerously, as if I’ve just said something deeply wrong.

"After what she did to you, you’ll just let her off the hook? Are you too stupid to retaliate?"

"I wasn’t seriously hurt—"

"But you could have been seriously hurt."

"But in this case, I wasn’t—"

"She can do worse if you don’t do anything about her attitude. That’s not how you deal with your enemies."

I swallow. I can’t even call Kayla my enemy. I don’t care enough to give her that title. Rival? Maybe.

"She isn’t usually violent. She only talks bad about me. This time she was drunk..."

I trail off, because the look he gives me suggests I’ll be tossed onto the road if I keep defending her.

"So she talks bad about you all the time."

He pulls out his phone and calls someone.

"Rowan, get my legal team ready."