Chapter 1: Begging in the Oval Office

After the old dynasty fell, desperate to save what was left of my family, I ended up in the bed of the man who now ran the country—a man who, once upon a time, had been my childhood friend.

That night, want and need tangled between us, hot and reckless. He kept asking for water—seven times before dawn. Was he really thirsty, or was it just another way to mark his victory? I still wonder.

The next morning, the new president signed the order—every last member of the former first family to be executed. The news swept through Washington like wildfire, burning through every room and every memory. I felt numb, as if the world was ending all over again.

I knelt at Ethan Whitmore’s feet, begging until my forehead was slick with blood. I didn’t even feel the pain.

The cold marble floor of the Oval Office bit into my knees, but it didn’t matter. I barely noticed. I would have done anything to save my brother.

Desperate.

My voice shook as I pleaded, the words tumbling out faster than I could breathe. The taste of blood flooded my mouth, metallic and sharp, but I kept going, frantic.

He gripped my chin, pausing to give me a cold, mocking smile. Then he spoke:

“Your father ordered the massacre of my family, the Whitmores. The fact that I’ve spared you and your little brother—that’s already mercy.”

His fingers dug into my jaw, forcing my face up. My heart hammered. There was nothing left in his eyes—no warmth, no forgiveness—just the hard shine of betrayal and power. I thought, The boy I knew is gone. This man holds all the cards now, and my life is in his hands.

“If you’ve got any conscience left, you’ll use your miserable life to repay me, you know?”

The words echoed in my ears, bouncing off the high ceilings and the polished portraits of presidents past. My conscience—he made it sound like a curse, a debt I’d never pay off. Still, I nodded, swallowing my pride and my tears. What choice did I have?

For four years of marriage, Ethan made my life a living hell. Sometimes I wondered how much longer I could last. I remembered flashes—his voice, his anger, the coldness in his eyes.

I put up with everything for my younger brother, the only family I had left.

Sometimes I’d stare out the window at the National Mall, watching the tourists and school buses. I’d wonder if anyone could sense the misery behind these grand walls. Did they see me? Or just the perfect facade? But I stayed. For Andy, I would have endured a thousand lifetimes of hell.

Everything changed the day Ethan’s so-called sworn sister—Savannah, the one he’d made family after she saved him—accused my brother of assaulting her. In a fit of rage, Ethan stabbed Andy straight through the chest.

That was the day my heart finally broke. I remember the taste of the fake-death pills the doctor had given me. I swallowed them, not sure if I wanted to live or die.

Seven days later, longing for you—Andy, my little brother—never to meet again in life or death.

When Ethan brought a takeout box, I had just finished burning the last memorial candle for Andy. My fingers trembled. The room felt too small, the silence too loud.

The flame in the old brass bowl burned hot and wild, like a warning flare—fierce and relentless, not unlike the road I’d been walking for years.

The scent of melting wax and burnt wick filled the small parlor. Shadows flickered against the faded wallpaper, and I could almost hear Andy’s laugh echoing in the corners. The ache in my chest sharpened with every breath.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

“You haven’t eaten or drunk anything in days. For the sake of the baby, just eat a little.”

Ethan set down a plate of red velvet cupcakes. The sweet, sugary scent drifted up, thick and cloying.

When I was young, exiled to that freezing attic in the governor’s mansion—cold, hungry, forgotten—the housekeepers would steal my food. Ethan used to bake red velvet cupcakes and have someone sneak them up to me. Back then, it felt like hope.

I used to love them. Now, just looking at them made my stomach turn.

The bright red crumbs and creamy frosting looked almost grotesque in the dim light. My stomach twisted. The memory of Ethan’s kindness was like a cruel joke now, a ghost that wouldn’t leave me alone.

“Take it away. I won’t eat.”

Ethan’s face went hard. He smashed the cupcake into my face, gripping my neck, his voice sharp and bitter: “Lila, who are you trying to impress with this act?”

His grip was iron, his eyes wild and desperate. The sugary frosting smeared across my cheek, mixing with the sting of humiliation. I could barely catch my breath.

“If your brother hadn’t drugged and attacked Savannah, would I have killed him? How long are you going to blame me for this?”

My cheeks, pale from hunger, flushed as I struggled to breathe. Tears slipped down before I could stop them.

The day before, the family doctor had told me I was pregnant.

For once, Ethan—usually so cold—was excited. He hugged me and promised to let go of the past and start over.

Andy was happy, too. He pressed a caramel candy into my palm, saying he wanted to give all his sweets to his little nephew. The warmth of his tiny hand lingered long after.