Before Domenic's hand could even cross Elba's shoulder, the First Lady moved.

Elba brought her arm back and swung with every ounce of strength in her body.

Crack.

The slap sounded like a gunshot in the enclosed room. Elba's palm connected with Domenic's freezing, pale cheek with devastating force.

Domenic's head whipped to the side. He stumbled backward, his heavy boots tangling in the thermal blanket. He clutched his rapidly swelling face, his eyes wide with absolute shock.

The room fell dead silent. Even the Secret Service agents lowered their eyes, refusing to look at the First Lady's wrath.

"You stupid, pathetic animal," Elba hissed, her voice vibrating with disgust. "You tried to murder the Stanton family's daughter over some cheap piece of trash?!"

Domenic's brain was misfiring from the cold and the blow. The sheer injustice of it made him see red.

"She's lying!" he bellowed, spit flying from his lips. "She kicked me! Look at her, she's faking it!"

Behind Elba, Hester let out a pathetic, trembling whimper, shrinking smaller into the cushions.

Elba sneered. She grabbed the physician by the sleeve and yanked him forward, then pointed a rigid finger at Hester's exposed wounds. "Doctor. Show him."

The physician, visibly rattled, held up his digital camera and scrolled through the raw images on the screen. The high-resolution shots of Hester's bruised wrists and bleeding shoulder flickered past, one by one, the fresh contusions rendered in brutal, undeniable detail.

"She kicked you?" Elba mocked, her voice dripping with venom. "A ninety-pound girl kicked a grown man into a pool? Are these bruises fake? Did she tear her own skin open just to frame you?!"

Domenic stared at the images on the camera screen. His mind spun. He had only tried to slap her. Where did those marks come from?

Before he could open his mouth to argue, raised voices erupted from the corridor. One of the agents stationed outside cracked the door and leaned in, his expression tight. "Madam First Lady, the intern coordinator is demanding access. She claims she has urgent information regarding your son."

Elba's eyes flickered with cold suspicion. "Let her in."

The door swung open. Jayleen Brooks, the senior White House staffer and intern coordinator, rushed into the room, her heels clicking frantically against the floor. Alex had radioed for medical support minutes earlier, and in the commotion of the physician's arrival, fragments of rumor had leaked through the residential staff channels—enough for Jayleen to piece together that Domenic was in serious trouble.

Jayleen took one look at Domenic—soaking wet, shivering, with a massive red handprint on his face—and let out a gasp of pure horror.

She completely ignored protocol. She threw herself in front of Domenic, shielding him with her body. She grabbed a dry towel from a nearby chair and began frantically drying his hair, her hands shaking.

Then, Jayleen did the unthinkable. She threw herself onto her knees in front of the First Lady of the United States, her face pale and streaked with terrified tears. "Madam First Lady, please, I beg of you, stop!" Jayleen pleaded, her voice trembling with a desperate, agonizing panic that crossed all professional boundaries. "He is just a boy, and he's freezing! He's going to catch pneumonia! You must let him get warm!"

Elba's eyes narrowed into dangerous, lethal slits. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Excuse me?" Elba said softly. "Since when does a staffer dictate how I discipline my son?"

From her safe spot behind Elba, Hester saw the golden opportunity. She let out a shaky breath and spoke up, her voice trembling.

"Aunt Elba... in the sitting room, Domenic said Tricia was his true love. And Tricia is Ms. Brooks's niece... they were working together."

The words acted like gasoline on a fire.

Elba's mind connected the dots instantly. This aging staffer was helping her niece seduce the President's son, trying to manipulate her way into the First Family.

"Get this insolent woman out of my sight," Elba ordered the agents, her voice absolute zero. "She is fired. Escort her off the grounds immediately."

Two agents stepped forward. They grabbed Jayleen by the arms and pulled her firmly to her feet, beginning to march her toward the door.

"No! You can't do this!" Jayleen shrieked, struggling wildly against the trained men.

Seeing Jayleen being forcibly removed snapped the last thread of Domenic's sanity.

With a guttural roar, Domenic lunged forward. He threw a wild, desperate punch at the jaw of the agent holding Jayleen's right arm.

The agent instinctively dodged and shifted his weight to grapple Domenic. In the sudden chaotic movement, the agent's grip on Jayleen loosened.

The sudden release of tension sent Jayleen stumbling sideways. Her heel caught on the rug.

She fell hard. Her forehead slammed directly into the sharp, carved wooden corner of the coffee table.

A sickening thud echoed in the room. Jayleen screamed. Blood instantly gushed from a deep gash above her eyebrow, pouring down her face.

"Jayleen!" Domenic screamed.

He wrenched against the remaining agent and dropped to his knees beside her. He pressed his hands to her bleeding head. He looked up at his mother, his eyes completely bloodshot and feral.

"You are a cold-blooded machine!" Domenic roared at Elba, his voice tearing his throat. "You don't deserve to be a mother! If she dies, I will never forgive you!"

The words struck Elba like a physical knife to the chest.

Her own son. The boy she had raised, protected, and groomed for power. He was cursing her, telling her she wasn't a mother, all for the sake of a staffer who was pimping out her niece.

Elba's face turned the color of ash.

Hester watched the First Lady sway slightly on her feet. A cold, dark thrill shot through Hester's veins. In her past life, Elba had bled herself dry for this ungrateful bastard. Now, the illusion was shattered forever.

Elba closed her eyes. She took a slow, deep breath. When she opened them, the motherly warmth was entirely gone, replaced by the ruthless calculation of a politician.

She turned to her Chief of Staff.

"Alex," Elba said, her voice dead. "Go to the Oval Office. Tell the President to come here immediately."

The heavy doors to the quarters swung open. This time, there was no shouting.

Four members of the Presidential Protective Division entered first, fanning out with terrifying precision to secure the four corners of the room.

Then, President Christian Harrison walked in.

He wore a dark navy suit, the American flag pin gleaming on his lapel. His presence sucked the oxygen out of the room. He didn't yell. He didn't rush. He simply walked to the center of the chaos and stopped.

His sharp, predatory eyes scanned the scene: his son soaking wet on the floor, a bleeding staffer, his wife looking like she wanted to commit murder, and the Stanton heiress cowering on the sofa.

Christian slowly unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down in a single armchair. He crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knee.

"Would someone care to explain," Christian said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, "why the East Wing currently resembles a dive bar brawl?"

Domenic saw his father and scrambled to his feet, desperate for an ally.

"Dad! It was her!" Domenic pointed a shaking finger at Hester. "She kicked me into the pool! She's trying to frame me!"

Christian frowned. He looked at his pathetic, shivering son, and then his eyes shifted to Hester. He noted the torn silk, the red scrape on her shoulder, and the terrified tears on her face. A dark, calculating light flickered in his eyes.

He ignored Domenic completely. He looked at Elba, his tone laced with mild reprimand.

"Elba, is this the kind of discipline the Stanton family teaches their daughters?"

It was a masterclass in political deflection. He was trying to shift the focus from attempted murder to a teenager's lack of manners.

Elba let out a harsh, bitter laugh. She didn't back down an inch. She picked up the bloody medical photos and slammed them down on the table right in front of Christian.

"Your son," Elba spat, "tried to drown Hester in the South Pool because she refused to break the engagement so he could sleep with a staffer's niece. Is that the Harrison family's standard of behavior?"

Christian glanced at the photos. His pupils contracted slightly, but his face remained an impenetrable mask. He tapped his index finger against his knee.

He shifted his gaze to Jayleen, who was still bleeding on the floor. For a fraction of a second, a deeply hidden, complex emotion flashed in the President's eyes. Then it was gone.

"Take Ms. Brooks to the infirmary," Christian ordered the agents coldly. "No one speaks to her without my direct authorization."

Two agents hauled Jayleen to her feet. As she was dragged past Christian's chair, she looked down at him. Her eyes were wide, filled with desperate, silent pleading. Christian didn't even blink.

Once the room was cleared of the bleeding staffer, Christian stood up.

He walked over to Domenic. Without a single word of warning, Christian raised his hand and struck his son across the face.

The blow was vicious. It was twice as hard as Elba's.

Domenic collapsed to the floor, a fresh cut opening on his lip. He lay there, completely stunned, too terrified to even breathe.

"You absolute idiot," Christian hissed, looking down at him with pure disgust. "I don't care what happened between you two. You caused a scandal in the White House a year before the election. Do you want to lose everything?"

Hester watched from the shadows of the sofa. She felt a cold knot of disgust in her stomach. The President didn't care that his son had tried to kill her. He only cared that Domenic had been sloppy.

Christian turned away from his son. His face instantly transformed. The cold dictator vanished, replaced by the warm, paternal leader of the free world.

He walked over to Hester and actually bent forward slightly, his voice dripping with synthetic sympathy.

"Hester, I am so sorry," Christian said softly. "The boy has been spoiled. I assure you, he will be severely punished for treating you this way."

Elba cut through the bullshit like a knife.

"The only acceptable punishment is the immediate cancellation of this engagement," Elba stated firmly. "The Stanton family will not subject our daughter to this humiliation."

The words cancellation of this engagement made Christian's jaw tighten. He could not afford to lose the Stanton family's grip on the military. Not now.

His warm mask slipped, revealing the ruthless politician underneath.

"Elba, marriage is not a game," Christian said, his voice hardening. "We are twelve months from an election. Do you have any idea the political earthquake a broken engagement would cause?"

"I care about her life!" Elba fired back. "If he tries to kill her today, he'll sell out the country tomorrow!"

The tension in the room was suffocating. The President and the First Lady were locked in a standoff that could tear the administration apart.

Then, Hester moved.

She slowly stood up from behind Elba. Her legs trembled. She kept her head bowed, her voice weak but incredibly clear.

"Aunt Elba... the President is right."

Elba whipped her head around, staring at her niece in absolute shock.

Hester kept her eyes glued to the floor, playing the role of the broken, dutiful pawn. "We can't let my personal feelings ruin the alliance. The family comes first."

Christian's eyes lit up with predatory satisfaction. He looked at Hester and saw exactly what he wanted to see: a weak, easily manipulated little girl who was too scared to fight back.

But beneath her lowered lashes, Hester's blue eyes were burning with a terrifying, toxic hatred.

She wasn't going to break the engagement. She was going to use the title of "Future Daughter-in-Law" as a shield, and she was going to gut the Harrison family from the inside out.

Before the President could finalize his victory, the heavy doors opened one more time.

Two Secret Service agents dragged Tricia into the room. She was crying hysterically, her makeup running down her face in ugly black streaks.

Tricia took one look at Domenic bleeding on the floor and the President standing over him with a face like thunder. Her knees gave out. She collapsed onto the expensive Persian rug.

"I didn't do anything!" Tricia wailed, burying her face in her hands. "I don't know what happened!"

Domenic saw his true love crying on the floor. Like a complete fool, he tried to crawl toward her to protect her. The agent behind him slammed a hand onto his shoulder, pinning him to the ground.

Hester stepped out from behind Elba. She looked down at Tricia. The corners of Hester's mouth twitched. It was time to finish the job.

Hester's voice was frail, but it carried across the silent room.

"Tricia... in the sitting room, Domenic said you were his true love. He said he was doing this for you. Is that true?"

It was a lethal question. If Tricia said yes, she was admitting to seducing the President's son and destroying a vital political alliance. If she said no, she was throwing Domenic under the bus.

Tricia looked up. She met the President's cold, dead eyes. She knew instantly that if she claimed Domenic, Christian would have her erased from Washington by morning.

Survival instinct took over.

Tricia shook her head violently. "No! No, it's not true!" she screamed, pointing a shaking finger at Domenic. "I only see him as a friend! He's the one who keeps harassing me! I was too scared to say no to the President's son!"

Domenic froze. The blood drained from his face. He stared at the woman he had just ruined his life for, his mouth hanging open in pure agony.

"Tricia?" Domenic whispered, his voice breaking. "What are you saying? You said you loved me."

"You forced me!" Tricia shrieked, playing the victim with sickening ease.

A wave of disgust washed over the room. Even Christian looked repulsed by the blatant betrayal.

Hester smiled inwardly. Pathetic.

She didn't let up. She took a step closer to Tricia. "If he forced you, then why were you helping him try to make me sign the annulment?"

Tricia choked on her tears. She had no answer. Her eyes darted wildly around the room, looking for an escape. When she found none, she resorted to her ultimate weapon.

"If none of you believe me," Tricia screamed, her voice reaching a hysterical pitch, "then I'll just die to prove my innocence!"

She scrambled to her feet and sprinted headfirst toward the massive, solid marble Roman pillar in the corner of the room.

It was a classic manipulation tactic. Everyone in the room froze, shocked by the sudden escalation. Elba gasped and covered her mouth.

But Hester knew Tricia better than anyone. She knew Tricia was a coward. She knew Tricia would slow down at the last second and fake the impact.

Hester lunged forward.

"No! Don't do it!" Hester screamed, reaching her hands out as if to catch the running girl.

Tricia reached the pillar. Just as Hester predicted, Tricia's feet stuttered, her body bracing to fake the fall.

In that exact fraction of a second, Hester's hands hit the center of Tricia's back.

Hester didn't pull her back. She shoved her forward with a vicious, concentrated burst of force.

The push destroyed Tricia's attempt to slow down.

THUD.

The sound of Tricia's skull impacting the solid marble was sickeningly loud. There was no fake fall. There was no slowing down.

Tricia didn't even scream. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and her body dropped to the floor like a sack of wet cement. She lay completely motionless. A thick stream of dark blood began to pool on the carpet near her hairline.

Staring down at the gruesome, spreading crimson, a sudden, violent wave of nausea hit the back of Hester's throat. Her fingers trembled involuntarily at the sheer brutality of what she had just done. But as she looked at Tricia's face-the face of the woman who had laughed over her broken body in her past life-the nausea evaporated, instantly incinerated by a cold, absolute hatred. This was the cost of war. They owed her a debt of blood, and she was going to collect every single drop.

The room was paralyzed for two seconds.

Hester immediately dropped to her knees beside the unconscious girl. "Doctor! Get the doctor!" Hester cried out, her hands hovering over Tricia in perfect, panicked horror. "She actually hit it!"

Domenic screamed, thrashing wildly against the agent holding him down, but a swift punch to his gut left him gasping for air on the floor.

Christian's face was a mask of absolute fury. "Get this garbage out of my quarters," he barked at the agents. "Take her to the infirmary and keep her out of my sight."

Elba rushed forward, pulling Hester away from the bleeding girl. "Hester, stop. Don't touch her. You tried to save her, that's enough."

Hester buried her face in Elba's shoulder, letting her body shake with "shock."

But if anyone had looked at Hester's face, they would have seen her blue eyes shining with cold, terrifying delight.