The heavy double doors closed behind them with a soft thud, and the sound echoed down the long corridor. Tess didn’t slow her pace as she stomped forward, arms still folded like a sassy queen in satin and lace. Martin followed calmly, adjusting his cufflinks as if they were walking a red carpet.

“You know,” he began casually, “you could’ve at least let her plead a little longer. It was just getting good.”

Tess scoffed. “She thought a rooftop dinner with a scandal-hungry audience and her clingy ex was a breakup.”

Martin chuckled. “Technically, she did break it off.”

“Technically,” Tess muttered, rolling her eyes. “Technically doesn’t undo three news articles, two fan blogs, and one radio station already calling her and Cressida the Crimson the new royal couple.”

They turned the corner into a quieter wing of the estate, the plush carpet muffling their footsteps.

“She looked like a puppy,” Martin teased. “A very naked, very apologetic puppy.”

Tess snorted, but it was brief. She suddenly stopped in front of a large arched window, the moonlight spilling across her like spotlight on a stage.

“You know what hurts?” she asked, her tone softer now, almost reflective.

Martin leaned against the wall beside her. “What?”

“She wanted to keep me a secret. Even now, she still does. Like I’m something shameful. I’m not even mad about the dinner, I’m mad that when Cressida showed up, she hid me like I was an affair.”

Martin was quiet for a moment, then said, “You’re not shameful, Tess. You’re just dangerous.”

She turned to him, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

He smirked. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever seen fluster her. You walk into a room, and the President of the Republic forgets she has a cabinet meeting.”

Tess gave a half-laugh, folding her arms again but this time less angrily. “Well, I did look good tonight.”

“‘Looked’? You still do. That lingerie might be responsible for future diplomatic incidents.”

She raised a brow. “You checking me out, Mr. Secretary?”

Martin threw his hands up playfully. “Strictly professional admiration. Plus, I have a man waiting for me back at base who’d shoot me if I dared.”

Tess leaned against the window frame and sighed. “I want her to fight for me, you know? Not just apologise. I want to feel like… I’m not optional.”

Martin looked at her for a long second before nodding. “Then make her work for it. You’re the storm now, Tess. If she wants you, let her chase the lightning.”

Tess smirked. “That’s poetic, Martin.”

“I’ve had wine.”

They both laughed softly before walking again.

*

It was well past midnight when the door to Martin’s room creaked open again. The light from the hallway spilled in for just a second before Adeline stepped inside, barefoot, dressed in a silk camisole and shorts, and holding a single pillow under her arm. The only sound was the low hum of the estate at rest and the quiet breathing of someone already half-asleep.

Tess stirred slightly, her body cocooned under the covers, but her eyes didn’t open until she felt the mattress dip behind her.

An arm slid around her waist.

A warm body pressed up against her back.

Then the gentle brush of lips against her neck.

Tess’s breath caught slightly, but her lips curved as she leaned into the touch. She didn’t need to look, she knew that scent, that touch, that heat.

“I thought I left you in time out,” she murmured sleepily, voice teasing and low.

Adeline scoffed softly, her nose brushing behind Tess’s ear. She pressed another kiss there, slow and fond. “Last night I didn’t know you were here,” she whispered, “but tonight… I’m not sleeping without you.”

Tess hummed in response, her fingers finding Adeline’s hand and lacing them together against her stomach. “You’re so full of drama,” she mumbled. “But I like it.”

Adeline smiled into her neck, holding her close, as Tess’s breathing deepened and sleep tugged her under.

Across the room, Martin who had been half-dozing on the couch, arms crossed over his chest finally sat up with a sigh. He stood, stretched, and quietly left the room, not sparing the couple a second glance.

A few moments later, he stepped into the Presidential Suite, now silent and empty. He set his phone on the nightstand, pulled the covers back on Adeline’s empty bed, and climbed in without hesitation.

His head hit the pillow.

He didn’t even blink at the absurdity of his life anymore.

“If someone walks in tomorrow, I’ll just say I’m protecting her mattress policy,” he muttered to himself and fell fast asleep.

Presidential Estate, Conference Room — 9:45 AM

The large room was cloaked in sunlight streaming through tall windows, casting reflections off the polished mahogany table. Seats were filled by some of the nation’s most powerful men and women, yet two chairs remained glaringly empty.

At the head of the table, General Octavian Rourke, Commander of the National Armed Forces, cleared his throat gruffly. His crisp uniform was adorned with medals, and he wore an expression that was between confusion and rising irritation.

To his left sat Admiral Linnea Carrington, Head of Naval Intelligence and the one overseeing the oceanic border conflicts. She tapped a pen against her tablet, eyes scanning the room before settling on the empty chair meant for Martin.

“This is highly irregular,” she muttered. “The Secretary of Communications is never late.”

Major General Elias Thorn, Chief of Military Operations and head liaison for defense intelligence, folded his hands. His voice was calm, but tight with suspicion. “First the president is unreachable, now Martin doesn’t show either? Something’s off.”

“Could it be related to the classified operation in the eastern quadrant?” asked Minister Julian Faulkner, who handled Foreign Affairs and was responsible for smoothing over diplomatic tensions with the other kingdoms. His sharp suit was wrinkled from a long night preparing for the backlash after the naval incident.

“Unlikely,” General Rourke said, setting his jaw. “We’d have been briefed if it were that level of emergency.”

Colonel Seraphine Doyle, Director of Citizen Relations and Civil Response, leaned forward. Her voice was steely. “The public is restless. Our approval numbers dropped 8% after the oceanic deployment. They’re calling for answers. If Madam President doesn’t show soon, this could spiral.”

The murmurs grew, uncomfortable tension thickening the air.

Admiral Carrington checked her watch. “She’s never missed a high-stakes debrief. And Martin hasn’t even messaged. I suggest we initiate a discreet internal check.”

General Rourke nodded. “I want a status report on their whereabouts in ten minutes. If neither shows within the hour, I’m alerting the Internal Oversight Board.”

*

Presidential Wing…

The marble floors of the west wing echoed with purposeful footsteps. General Octavian Rourke’s jaw tightened with every stride as something heavy tugged at his gut, a soldier’s instinct that something wasn’t right. Behind him followed Admiral Carrington, Major General Thorn, Minister Faulkner, and Colonel Doyle, all now unsettled by the unexplained silence and missing leadership.

As they approached the presidential suite corridor, they spotted the butler, Mr. Havers, standing rigid at the grand double doors, his tray of emergency coffee untouched, trembling slightly in his gloved hands.

“Mr. Havers?” General Rourke narrowed his eyes. “Report.”

But the man didn’t speak. His wide eyes were fixed past the open door into the lounging area.

Admiral Carrington, impatient, stepped forward then stopped just as suddenly.

Inside, the early sunlight flooded the space in soft gold. The breakfast table was being neatly set by two startled maids, but they weren’t the focus of attention.

There, in the middle of the luxurious room, stood Tess, brushing out her loose hair in a soft silk robe—short, slightly sheer, and very much not approved diplomatic attire. Her bare legs glistened under the morning light, and her expression shifted from innocent nonchalance to frozen terror as she realised a crowd was watching her.

A startled gasp came from one of the aides.

Tess slowly turned to face the doorway.

Her voice cracked in horror, “Oh my soul—!”

Screaming.

Maids gasped. Admiral Carrington blinked rapidly. Minister Faulkner instinctively turned away, ears going red. General Rourke just… stared.

Into the chaos walked Martin, looking groggy and still buttoning his shirt, emerging from the passage that led directly to the president’s bedroom.

He rubbed his temple. “You cannot be that damn loud so early—”

Then he saw them. The whole panel of top government officials standing frozen in the doorway.

Martin sighed and scratched his brow. “Oh right. We have a meeting to attend to.”

Tess’s scream still echoed faintly through the hall when Adeline burst into the lounging area. Her hair was tousled, clearly from having run all the way there, and she was still in her pajama’s that left very little to the imagination. Her expression was all business… until it wasn’t.

“What the hell happened, why is she—” she skidded to a halt.

There stood Tess, mortified and shielding herself behind her arms like a scandalised duchess. Adeline followed her line of sight and turned—

To find General Rourke, Admiral Carrington, Major General Thorn, Minister Faulkner, Colonel Doyle, and a few trembling junior aides all standing in the doorway… staring.

Adeline’s hands immediately went to her hips, her chin high, eyes fierce. Unbothered. Unashamed.

“Who gave you permission to enter here?!” she barked.

The officials flinched as if the President had just fired live ammunition at them. General Rourke’s mouth parted slightly in disbelief. Admiral Carrington blinked rapidly, unsure whether to salute or run.

“Get out before I strip you of your titles!” Adeline snapped, her voice ringing through the vaulted ceilings like thunder.

Martin, who had just taken a sip of his coffee, chuckled and added smoothly, “Or... why don’t we conduct the meeting here?”

He strolled to the centre of the room with all the composure of a man unbothered by chaos. Gesturing at the maids, he instructed casually, “Please prepare more breakfast for everyone here. And help the President change into something less… bedtime politics.”

Then he turned his eyes on Tess, amused. “Miss Wells, I think you might want to change into something diplomatically appropriate.”

Tess, still beet red, groaned behind her hands. “No. I think I’ll just take breakfast in the bedroom, thanks.”

Martin nodded graciously, “As you wish.”

The maids began quietly ushering Tess away as she tiptoed back into the suite’s private wing like a scandalised princess.

Martin then turned to the stunned officials, clapping his hands once. “Gentlemen, ladies—have a seat. I must apologise on behalf of the President. We had a very late night.”

Adeline huffed, crossing her arms tightly under her chest. “This was supposed to be my day off.”

Martin just smirked over his shoulder. “Welcome to leadership, Madam President.”