The Nation's President Picked Me Up From Prison-Chapter 26: Elyn: The Newlyweds
"No, you can’t."
He looks so serious when he says it, like he truly has no intention of ever letting me go.
It unsettles me in some way but I don’t let it show on my face.
"I won’t, alright." I let out a small laugh. "I’d be a beggar in the streets with the compensation you’ll demand if I breach the contract. Besides, I don’t leave debts unpaid. I won’t run away, Mr. President, I promise you."
His eyes narrow, as if something in my answer rubs him the wrong way.
"What? You’re not convinced?" I ask.
"Stop addressing me as Mr. President. That’s not how you call your husband."
Oh. Right. 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂
I bite my lower lip, my gaze flicking briefly to his chest before I force myself to look at his face again, smiling.
He watches me closely, too closely, his eyes drifting to my mouth, or maybe to my smile.
"What should I call you, then? We should have an endearment," I suggest brightly. "Honey? Darling? Sweetheart?"
He doesn’t react, at least not outwardly. aside from the way his eyes darken. I can’t tell if that means annoyance, disgust, or maybe both.
"Call me by my name," he says.
"You mean..." I hesitate, feeling an unexpected heaviness in my shoulders, as if speaking his name is forbidden. "G–Gregory?"
Even his name sounds so intimidating.
"Just Greg."
"Okay." I swallow, nodding. "Greg. I’ll call you... Greg."
His gaze glints with approval.
"No endearments, right?" I ask, just to be sure. It makes me curious. "You don’t like them?"
He tilts his head slightly, studying me with that quiet, unreadable intensity.
"You want an endearment?"
That’s not a question I’ve expected.
"Well, don’t most couples have them?"
"Did you have an endearment with him?"
I instantly know who is the ’him’ he’s talking about.
My eyes drop to his chest again, shame tightening my throat. I don’t know why talking about it makes me feel so small, but maybe it’s because that part of my life feels like a failure. I agreed to marry not out of love, but to satisfy my parents, and after three years, I learned it wasn’t even a legal marriage.
"No. Of course we didn’t," I say quietly, bitterness slipping into my voice. "You know it was an arranged marriage."
"Reasonable."
The celebration doesn’t stretch late into the night like most wedding receptions. We eat with the staff and the security team, share a few drinks, and call it a night.
Lewinsky leaves after congratulating us again, even when he’s fully aware of the truth behind this ordeal. Dahlia leaves soon after, promising to call me if I need her. I remind her to contact the agency since I’ll be meeting with them the day after tomorrow.
Finally, I retreat to my room to take off my wedding gown.
Before Dahlia left, I asked Greg if I could go out sometime this week to meet with my agency.
He said I can always go out as long as my security team is with me, and that I don’t need to ask for approval every time because Jean reports everything to him. As long as Jean is with me, I’m free to go wherever I want.
Though he did note that once the public knows we’re married, he’ll need to know my schedule because he’ll need me for appearances.
I don’t mind. I’m planning to take a break after ending my contract with JZ anyway, so I’ll have plenty of free time.
I’m sitting in front of the vanity table, putting lotion on my arms, when a knock sounds at the door.
It opens and Greg steps inside.
He’s in a plain black shirt and pants now, his hair damp like he’s just taken a shower. He walks in and closes the door behind him.
Why is he here?
It’s our first night as newlyweds. Could it be...
No. No.
Of course not. There’s a rule in our contract stating neither of us can demand intimacy in private. And he doesn’t seem interested in me in any way, so he wouldn’t ask me for that.
It’s the first time he’s ever come to my room, so I can’t help but wonder what he wants.
"Do you need anything?" I turn my chair toward him, my pulse a bit faster than normal.
He stands a few feet from the door, keeping his distance.
"We’re married now," he says, and I keep looking at him, waiting for whatever that statement is supposed to imply.
"Yes, that’s right."
"That’s why we should share a bedroom."
My lips part an inch.
Why haven’t I thought about that?
He watches my expression, lips moving slightly like he’s about to speak, but then he shuts them again, as if unsure how to phrase whatever he’s thinking. His face is grim, and I can’t shake the feeling that something about this annoys him, though he’s trying not to be rude.
"Are you against—"
"Sure, we can do that. I can share a bed with you," I say quickly, casually.
It’s not a big deal. I’m just surprised I didn’t anticipate this part. I’m sure sharing his space isn’t something he’s used to. I’m not used to it either, but I can live with it.
He looks dangerous, but he doesn’t seem like someone who would violate a woman’s rights. He looks like he only has eyes for paperwork, politics, and economic reports.
"Are you certain it’s okay? If you don’t want to share a bed, I can sleep on the floor. I can bring my—"
"We will share my bed," he cuts me off sharply, as if the alternative never crossed in his mind.
"Well," I nod, "I guess that’s for the better. Only Stannis knows our deal, and if the staff finds out you’re keeping an extra mattress and quilt in your room, they’ll think one of us isn’t sleeping on the bed, which would be odd, especially for newlyweds."
It will be an awkward six months, no doubt. But it’s something I can live with.
