Chapter 1: The President’s New Woman

The woman who appeared out of nowhere made her intentions crystal clear: win the President’s heart by summer, take my place as First Lady by fall, and after that, claim his bed every night.

My heart jackhammered in my chest, palms slick with sweat as I thumbed a text under the table:

[How about tonight? I’ll have him sent over. But heads up—he snores like a freight train. Good luck catching any sleep.]

1

When the President returned to the White House, he brought a woman with him.

I was waiting outside the West Wing for an hour at dawn, half-asleep, when my assistant poked my arm, nearly in tears: “Madam First Lady, something terrible has happened!”

The air was sharp, my coffee had gone cold, but her panic jolted me awake. “Don’t tell me the kitchen stopped making pancakes?” My voice was raspy from sleep, but I tried to lighten the mood.

She stomped her foot, exasperated. “There’s a gorgeous woman following the President!” Her voice cracked, panic making her words tumble out as she glanced over her shoulder like she expected the woman to materialize right there.

I was still groggy. “Oh.”

Three seconds later, my brain snapped awake, and I looked up, eyes wide.

She started to cry. “Ma’am, please don’t worry—”

I grabbed her hand, anxious but almost giddy: “Where? Where’s the beauty?”

Assistant: “...”

Just then, a familiar, aggravating voice called out ahead: “First Lady, after a month apart, you must’ve missed me terribly.”

Derek twirled his car keys, those puppy-dog eyes shining with mischief. His tie was crooked as always, like he’d run here and barely remembered to button his coat.

I ignored him completely, heading straight to take the beauty’s hand behind him. “You must be exhausted from the trip. Come on, let’s get you inside and settled.”

Derek: “...”

The beauty really was breathtaking—an oval face, a slim waist. Unlike me, softened by years of state dinners and comfort food, my cheeks a little rounder, my belly not quite flat. I felt the difference between us the way you do when you look at old photos and realize time’s moved on.

I pushed all the fruit and snacks toward her: neatly sliced apples, strawberries, and a plate of banana bread—exactly how I liked it when I first visited as a guest.

She eyed the food warily, like she expected it to bite her.

So I broke a piece of banana bread in half, offering her one and keeping the other. The warmth of the banana bread melted into my palm, cinnamon and butter curling up into my nose—just like home. “It’s my favorite,” I said, taking a bite to prove it wasn’t poisoned.

Seeing me eat so happily, the beauty asked, confused, “The President brought another woman home—aren’t you mad?”

I chewed, thoughtful. “I’m not angry.”

She suddenly got it. “Oh, so you don’t love the President. You’re all about your career.”

I only caught the first part, so I rested my chin on my hands and smiled. “That’s not it. I actually love him very much.”

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Ugh, so you’re one of those wives who’d still bake him cookies if he cheated a hundred times. I just can’t with women like that.”

I couldn’t keep up with her words, just watched her, half amused, half baffled, like she was speaking in riddles.

She leaned in, voice dropping. “To tell you the truth, I’m a transmigrator. My mission’s to win the President and become First Lady within a year. Once I do, I get a hundred million dollar bonus and can just chill.”

I blinked, not sure if she was joking or if I’d missed a memo from the Secret Service. Still, I nodded along, grinning like we were in on the same joke.

She shrugged and muttered, “NPCs can’t even understand what I’m saying. Even an idiot could ace this quest.”

I raised my hand. “Actually, I get it. You want to be First Lady.”

The beauty arched a brow. “Yeah, I’ll compete with you to the end.”

I smiled. “No need to compete. I can help you. You don’t need a year—give me half, I’ll help you win the President’s favor and have him make you First Lady.”

Now it was her turn to be stunned.

“Why would you help me?”

I hugged my heating pad, eyes curving as I spoke softly: “Because I’m going to die soon. The White House doctor says I’ve got at most half a year left.”

The silence pressed in. Outside, the flag atop the White House snapped in the chilly morning wind, and even the far-off hum of city traffic seemed to pause.