The Nation's President Picked Me Up From Prison-Chapter 36: Elyn: Not a Paperback Fantasy

Then it hits me.

Greg did mention Jean reports everything to him. Which means when she raised her phone earlier? Yeah. That was absolutely her taking a photo of me. Probably forwarded to His Presidential Highness before she even blinked.

I rub my temples.

Wonderful. I didn’t just lose peace and privacy. Apparently, I signed up for live surveillance with push notifications.

I text Greg back, keeping my face blank so Dahlia won’t interrogate me for the next thirty minutes.

Me: Dale isn’t a random lawyer I picked. He’s a rising star and recently got an award. He’s also someone I know from college. He’s reliable.

I place my phone face-down on the coffee table like it offended me personally and turn my attention back to Dale. He’s flipping to the last page of the documents.

Dale Denford is the campus crush of my university days. The guy who topped every class, looked like he retained information through osmosis while asleep, and rarely talked to girls unless it was absolutely necessary. Half the school sighed whenever he walked past, the other half plotted group projects with him like it was a life mission.

And me? I once had a tiny, microscopic crush on him. So tiny it only led to one anonymous appreciation letter after his basketball team won a big game. I doubt he ever found out who sent it. Or maybe he did and simply decided to let the universe keep its mysteries.

Honestly? Perfect. The last thing I need resurfacing right now is mortifying nostalgia from sixteen-year-old me.

I’m happy that we’ve met again. He’s good. Extremely competent. And patient enough to handle my popcorn-powered attention span without looking exhausted.

By the time he finishes explaining everything, the atmosphere finally loosens. Papers are sorted, pens capped, and for once I feel like I might actually survive all this.

"So," Dahlia says, turning toward us with a smile that is 40% curiosity and 60% mischief, subtle enough that only I catch it because she’s my best friend and I know her tells. "Can you tell me again how you two knew each other from college? You never got to elaborate last time."

I narrow my eyes at her. "I told you. He was my senior. We weren’t close. But we did a theater play together, so we knew each other a little more than just ’people who passed each other in hallways.’ That’s all."

Dale chuckles, leaning back like he’s settling into an old memory. "You played the piano beautifully back then. I still remember how focused you were that day. It was obvious music was where you belonged."

I blink, eyebrows rising. "You remember that?"

"Of course," he says simply, as if this is common knowledge and not something that should mildly embarrass me. "You had this look like the rest of the world disappeared. Very rare, even among performers."

Dahlia is staring at me like I’ve been hiding state secrets and she’s seconds away from filing a debriefing report.

I toss another piece of popcorn into my mouth. "Well, that was a long time ago. I’m glad at least one person from college wasn’t traumatized by my theater-phase bangs."

Dale laughs. "The bangs were fine, Elyn."

"Liar," I shoot back.

He only smiles wider, like he remembers far more than he’s letting on.

* * *

A few hours after Dale leaves my apartment, he emails me a document. Thorough, structured, and color-coded, because apparently perfectionism ages like wine.

It contains possible questions for tomorrow’s shareholders’ meeting and suggested answers in case my brain decides to nope out under pressure. He’ll be beside me as my lawyer and advisor, but it’s better if I’m ready.

I text him a thank-you, promising to treat him to a meal.

Then I send Greg a message saying I won’t be returning to the mansion tonight. I’ve missed my apartment and how it makes me feel at home, so I want to sleep here even just for a night.

I’m sure it’s not strange. Married couples can sleep separately. Totally normal.

And especially if one of them happens to be a very busy president with a schedule held together by national crises and coffee.

He doesn’t reply. I don’t wait for his approval.

Dahlia and I move to the kitchen and start making our favorite pie for dinner, something we always do during weekends.

"Dale is so handsome and kind," Dahlia whispers while slicing apples, as if she doesn’t want Jean in the living room to hear any of it. "You look good together."

I can’t help but chuckle at the malicious looks she’s giving me.

"The president is handsome too, but—"

"Hey, shut up." I cut her off, heat blooming in my cheeks. "You know what he and I have. And I don’t think about that."

Her brows rise, slow and dangerous. "So... you’re open to the topic with Dale? Not with the president?"

I snort and shake my head, focusing very intensely on rolling dough.

"This isn’t the time to think about men, Dahlia. I have problems, you see."

"Oh, I know," she says, waving her spoon. "It’s just funny. I’ve read enough contract-marriage tropes to see where this goes."

I pause mid–apple slice. "Where what goes?"

She grins, bright, mischievous, annoyingly smug. "Forced proximity, shared living space..."

I roll my eyes because I know what she’s pointing at.

"That’s fiction," I deadpan. "Real life is very different."

"Mhm. Says every female lead right before she falls for the emotionally unavailable man with a powerful job and unresolved trauma."

I smack her hands away. "Stop talking. I’m already stressed."

She only laughs. "Fine. But just wait. One day you’ll thank me for predicting your love story."

"There is no love story," I insist, turning back to the dough. "This is politics, not a paperback fantasy."

She rolls her eyes. "Anyway, while you’re busy denying your entire emotional existence, can you pass me the cinnamon?"

I hand her the jar a little too aggressively.

She snorts. "God. You’re doomed."

"Dahlia, I swear—"

But the oven timer beeps, cutting me off.

We turn to the counter, ready to check on the pie, and that’s when my phone vibrates.

I grab it distractedly... and freeze. 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

Greg: Can I come over?