The Nation's President Picked Me Up From Prison-Chapter 17: Elyn: Red Carpet

Where the hell did he get this?

I stare at my reflection, stunned. The dark blue gown clings beautifully, its detailing shimmering as if it were woven with starlight.

After breakfast, Stannis handed me a big box. He said it came from the president, and when I opened it this gown was inside.

A small note rested on top:

Wear this tonight. I’ll meet you after the event.

I’m surprised.

It wasn’t necessary. I could have asked Dahlia to buy a gown and leave it somewhere the security could pick it up. But I suppose this is easier. And with how closely the press is watching her movements, trying to track my whereabouts, maybe it’s safer too. The public still can’t know I’m staying in the president’s private residence.

"This gown is gorgeous," I whisper, smiling at myself in the mirror.

Did he choose it himself?

Probably not. He barely has time to breathe. He likely had his chief of staff or someone from his team handle it.

Either way, I should thank him. So I send a brief, courteous message:

[Thanks for the gown. I like it.]

* * *

When I step out of the Brandt mansion, three black cars wait outside. None of them have flags or an official seal.

Beside one stands a familiar face. The president’s driver on the night he picked me up from prison.

"Good evening, Miss Elyn. I’m Riff," he says formally. "I am the president’s personal driver, and I’ll be driving you today."

He looks exactly the same as before: crisp black suit, black tie, an ear-piece, silver-rimmed glasses. Mid-forties, tall and broad-shouldered, with the posture of a man who’s one command away from action.

From the other two cars, people start emerging. Eight men and one woman, all dressed in black suits.

The woman steps forward to stand beside Riff. She’s tall, almost as tall as he is, with a soldier’s stance.

"I’m Jean, the head of your security, Miss Elyn," she says.

Head... of my security?

"These people are members of the security team as well. We’ll be accompanying you wherever you go from now on." She proceeds to introduce the eight men.

Okay.

What’s happening?

Why do I suddenly need this many guards?

I don’t know much about a president’s life or that of his wife, but does the First Lady really need a whole unit? Wouldn’t two or three guards be enough? This feels excessive. Unnecessary.

"Is this the president’s instruction?" I ask.

It was too late to take the question back. It was dumb anyway. Obviously this was the president’s instruction. Why else would they mobilize an entire unit for me?

Still, the culture shock hits hard.

This is what my life will look like for the next six months. I never really thought about the details before. In my head, this arrangement was just a little game we were playing.

But seeing this now... it feels less like a game and more like a high-stakes performance I can’t afford to mess up.

I don’t ask anything further. These people don’t look like they’re in the mood for small talk, and I don’t have time to waste. I slip into the car as Riff takes the driver’s seat and Jean settles beside him. I’m alone in the back, thankfully.

My car rides between the other two vehicles flanking us. It feels strange. Even at the peak of my career, I was never guarded like this. I usually just rode a van with my manager, driver, and assistant.

This... this feels like I’m being transported to a classified operation.

I try to calm my nerves. It’s been a while since I’ve shown my face in public. The scandal wrecked me more than I like to admit, and now I’m about to walk into a venue filled with people I know—people who saw everything.

The event is held in a big hotel. When I step out, Jean and the rest of the security close in around me as we move toward the red carpet.

A wall of press waits at the barricades, cameras already raised. The moment they spot me, the flashes explode.

"Is that you, Elyn?"

"We’re happy you’re back! How does it feel that your case was dismissed?"

"Please pose, Elyn!"

I pause where celebrities usually stop to pose. Others were here before me, but now every pair of eyes and every camera is pointed at me, as if they’ve been starving for the story I refuse to give them. Like I’m a ticking gossip bomb and they’re waiting for the blast.

I let them take their pictures. That’s partly why I came. To show everyone I’m standing again, not crawling in the ruins of that stupid scandal.

"How’s your relationship with JZ Entertainment?" someone shouts.

"There are rumors you’re leaving your agency. Is that true?"

"Yes, I’m currently handling my contract with them," I answer, keeping my smile steady despite the fireworks of camera flashes.

"So will your album still be released?"

"That’s something I can’t say for now."

"Now that your husband is dead and your in-laws are behind bars, will you manage the Hansley business?"

My lips part for a second, just long enough for the question to hit, but I close them again.

I don’t answer. I simply move to the next question.

After responding to one last question, I turn away and head inside the venue.

My smile fades as the shadows swallow my face.