Mafia Queen to First Lady: A Reborn Pact with the President

The moment his palm met silk-smooth skin, Leland froze—just a fraction of a second, yet long enough for the shock to ripple through him.

The woman in his arms was nearly bare—her clothes in shreds.

His gaze dropped instinctively, dragged downward by shock and curiosity alike, and the sight struck the breath straight out of him.

Her skin stretched before his eyes, luminous beneath the light. Then, slowly, his gaze lifted and collided with hers. Tear-filled eyes stared back at him, wide and glistening, brimming with desire.

Valerie had slammed into him—quite literally—after leaping through the upstairs window.

The solid heat of his body pressed into hers, and a violent shiver ripped down her spine. She snapped her head up in shock, breath catching as her eyes locked onto his.

Instinct took over. Her hand snapped up, fingers locking tight around his throat. "Don't move," she hissed, her voice low, sharp as a blade. "Or I'll kill you."

Fear never came. Instead, Leland felt a strange, jolting pull. Her eyes were cold, ruthless—yet they glinted with a lethal beauty that rooted him in place.

Her torn clothing clung uselessly to her body. There were scars etched across her cheek.

Compared to the polished girls of influence who smiled too brightly and offered themselves too easily, she was chaos in human form—raw, feral, unfiltered.

The contrast struck him like flame meeting oxygen. For the first time in years, Leland felt something close to fascination.

He didn't resist her grip. Instead, he slid an arm around her slender waist, steady and deliberate.

"So, you're the woman my mother arranged for me," he said quietly, his tone infuriatingly calm, threaded with faint amusement. "For once, she actually chose well."

Arranged?

Which fool thought they could "arrange" her—the mercenary queen?

Clearly, this man had gotten the wrong idea.

Valerie's brow tightened as her mind raced. She was already calculating the cleanest way to knock him unconscious, but her body betrayed her.

Heat surged violently through her veins, the aphrodisiac igniting like fuel dumped onto smoldering embers. Strength drained from her limbs, muscles weakening as something reckless and unfamiliar clawed its way up from the depths of her control.

And as if fate were mocking her, she was trapped in the arms of a man who was infuriatingly—unfairly—handsome.

She clenched her jaw, fighting the pull that threatened to drag her under.

"Stay away from me," she snapped, shoving him back with what strength she could muster. "I've been drugged. If I end up fucking you, that's not my responsibility. And if you try anything, I promise you'll regret it."

Leland let out a slow breath, half laugh, half disbelief curling through it.

No one had ever spoken to him like that. Not without consequences.

Before he could respond, Valerie spun on her heel and strode into the bathroom.

Steam clung thickly to the air, curling lazily along the ceiling. The bathtub was already filled, water drawn and waiting—clearly prepared for him.

Without hesitation, she stepped straight in. The warmth wrapped around her legs—and pain flared instantly. The cut on her right wrist burned sharply as blood spilled free, blooming into dark crimson ribbons that twisted and unfurled through the bathwater.

Leland saw it immediately. He followed her inside, caught her bleeding hand, and spoke in a voice low but unyielding. "Your wrist. That's serious. Get out. I'll take care of it."

He never finished the sentence. Valerie's fingers surged upward again, this time hooking firmly behind his neck. In one swift, fluid motion, she dragged him down and crushed her mouth against his.

Leland stiffened for half a heartbeat. Then the restraint snapped. His arm locked around her waist as he kissed her back, deep and forceful, claiming the moment before it could splinter apart.

Valerie's hand slid inside the front of his robe, pressing against the solid planes of his abdomen.

Her movements were frantic, unrestrained, driven by desperation rather than desire. Fresh blood welled from her wrist.

"Don't move that hand," Leland muttered against her lips, his voice roughened by heat and urgency.

He caught her wrist and pinned it against the wall, holding her there with effortless strength.

Valerie scowled, irritation flashing hot and sharp at being overpowered. She shifted her weight, drove her knee hard into his thigh, twisted sharply and dragged him down into the tub with her.

In one seamless roll, she straddled his hips, pinning him beneath her.

Steam swallowed the room whole. Their breaths tangled, hot and uneven, the narrow space between them vibrating with tension, hunger, and the threat of complete collapse.

They hovered on the edge of losing everything when a phone rang outside the door.

The sound shattered the moment. Valerie slid off him and staggered back, bracing herself against the edge of the tub as she fought for breath.

Damn it. She was the best—the top mercenary. How had one dose of aphrodisiac stripped her of all control?

Leland wasn't done. He leaned toward her again, intent on pulling her back into another kiss.

Valerie's gaze turned icy. Without hesitation, she dug the nails of her left hand into the wound on her right wrist, tearing it open. Fresh blood streamed down, hot and vivid against the water. The pain sliced through the haze like a blade.

Leland halted mid-motion, watching her hurt herself just to regain control. His brow furrowed. Then he climbed out of the tub and lifted her into his arms.

Valerie trembled against him—drawn helplessly to his warmth, revolted by how completely she'd unraveled.

"You touch me and I will kill you!" she snarled through clenched teeth.

Leland pressed a small vial to her lips. The taste told her everything. A rare antidote—one designed to neutralize aphrodisiacs.

She drank without resistance. The fire receded, the grip loosening until darkness finally claimed her.

Leland wrapped her in a blanket and then summoned his personal doctor.

Valerie's cheeks were flushed, damp hair clinging to her temples in tangled strands that somehow made her look fragile. Yet the scars covering half her face twisted that impression into something unsettling.

Leland's gaze darkened. He brushed wet hair away from her face and remained beside her, pressing firmly against her wrist to stem the bleeding.

Five minutes later, the door opened.

Outside, Leland's mother had already been escorted away by the presidential security.

A striking woman in a white lab coat entered, heels clicking crisply. Her eyes widened when she saw Valerie unconscious. "Holy hell—she's been drugged, isn't she? Mr. President, you really went all in!"

"Do you have a death wish?" Leland's voice was pure ice.

Emma Patel snapped her mouth shut and bent to examine Valerie's wrist, her brows pulling tight.

"The cut's deep. Another few minutes and she would've bled out. She needs stitches—now. We should take her to a hospital."

"Take her upstairs—to my medical room," Leland retorted.

Emma froze, staring at him. "But that room is exclusive to you. If you bring her there, people will assume she's your woman. Mr. President, you may want to reconsider."

Leland didn't spare her a glance. He bent, lifted Valerie into his arms, and headed for the door.

The hotel corridor had already been cleared. No guests remained—only staff and his security detail, standing rigid in two precise lines.

Leland stepped out, cradling Valerie, her face hidden from view.

The corridor fell into stunned silence.

Only the measured rhythm of his footsteps echoed through the space, each one heavy enough to make every witness hold their breath.