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

Everyone froze in place. Had their eyes betrayed them? The President, who always stayed away from women, was walking forward with a woman cradled securely in his arms. Five full seconds passed after the elevator doors slid shut behind him. Five seconds of absolute stillness, as though the hallway itself had been sealed in ice. The hotel executives and security detail exchanged glances that said everything they dared not voice. Their backs were straight, hands folded neatly at their sides, expressions carved into perfect masks of professionalism. Yet beneath that composure, shock and disbelief churned like a rising tide. The incident was suppressed swiftly, sealed behind layers of authority and silence. Still, truth had a way of leaking through the smallest cracks. That very night, in a private online group reserved exclusively for the city's most powerful figures, a single blurry photograph appeared. The image was poor, distorted by motion and bad lighting—but unmistakable. The broad shoulders. The sharp profile. The unmistakable bearing of authority. It was the President. And in his arms, held tightly against him, was a woman. The chat erupted. "Am I hallucinating? Is that our ascetic President?" "Oh my God! Wasn't it common knowledge that Mr. President was allergic to women?" "Place your bets. Who's the mystery girl he's holding?" Meanwhile, several women from the most elite families—the ones who had long envisioned themselves as the future First Lady—lost their composure all at once. Crystal wine glasses shattered in their clenched hands, red liquid spilling across marble floors. ... Valerie shifted slightly in Leland's arms, a faint and troubled sound escaping her throat. Leland lifted a hand and rested it against her back, patting gently until her breathing evened out again and she sank back into sleep. Beside them, Terry Simpson, head of the presidential security detail, swallowed hard. In five years of unwavering service, he had never seen the President show this kind of attentiveness to any woman. Unable to suppress his curiosity, Terry slowed his pace, falling half a step behind. He leaned toward Emma, who walked close by, and whispered, "What's going on? I've never seen the President treat a woman like this. Who is she?" Emma's lips curved slightly, her smile measured and unreadable. "Maybe the President will soon have a girlfriend." Just moments earlier, as Leland stepped into the elevator, Sarah, finally freed from the invisible barrier of security, emerged from around the corner. The moment she saw the woman in her son's arms, she could barely contain her smile. Thank God. Her son had finally taken an interest in a woman. An hour later, Emma exited Leland's private medical room after finishing treatment on Valerie's wound. She approached him to give her report. Leland was in the middle of a high-level video conference. At the sight of Emma, he gestured for his staff to wrap it up. "What's her condition?" he asked. Watching him dismiss an entire conference for the sake of one woman, Emma instinctively reassessed Valerie's importance. She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Based on the depth and direction of the cut, the wound appears to have been self-inflicted." Leland's expression darkened instantly. He remembered it clearly—how Valerie had torn the wound open to fight the effects of the drug. For such an iron-willed woman, taking her own life wasn't an option. He found himself intrigued—far more than he was comfortable admitting. Still, interest did not entitle him to intrusion. If she had no wish to know him, he would not force fate's hand. They could remain nothing more than strangers whose paths had brushed briefly in passing. "Send her to the hospital," he said after a moment. "Have her cared for until she wakes. And make sure she doesn't learn who I am." With that, Leland turned and walked away. ... Valerie was lost in a dream soaked in gunfire. She stood alone, dressed in tactical gear, the ground beneath her shaking as bullets tore through the air. Enemies advanced in formation—members of a rival mercenary group—surrounding her like wolves closing in on wounded prey. "Phantom!" the enemy commander roared. "Surrender now. I'll make it quick!" Her reply was a single, merciless shot. His head snapped back, his body dropping before the echo faded. Valerie moved like a force of nature. Her shots were cold, precise, relentless. One by one, they fell, until the battlefield was silent. But her blood soaked into the dirt. With the last of her strength, she transmitted her coordinates. Before long, a truck slammed into her. Valerie jolted awake, sitting bolt upright, her eyes burning red. There had been a traitor. She would find them. And when she did, there would be no mercy. Her gaze shifted to the IV drip beside the bed. Without hesitation, she pulled the needle from her arm and rose, heading straight for the bathroom. The mirror greeted her with a cruel truth. Half her face was smooth, flawless. The other half was ruined—jagged red scars twisting across her skin, angry and uneven, destroying all symmetry. She lifted a hand and traced the scarred side slowly, her brow tightening. Back when Valerie had been Phantom, her name alone carried weight in the underworld—dangerous, beautiful, lethal, a combination whispered with awe and fear. She had been obsessively meticulous about herself. Appearance was not vanity to her; it was discipline. Even in the middle of missions soaked in blood and gunpowder, she never allowed a single detail to slip into disorder. The scars on this face, however, were wrong. They weren't the natural result of injury or battle. They carried the ugly signature of chemicals—ragged, uneven, the unmistakable aftermath of a drug forced into the body. The original owner of this body had lived beneath those scars like a curse. As a legitimate daughter of the Todd family, she had never once dared to compete with their adopted daughter for anything. Someone had ruined her face deliberately, turning her into what others cruelly called an ugly freak. Detoxifying the substance would have been effortless for Valerie. But the moment she did it, her true identity would surface, dragging danger straight to her doorstep. Now was not the time. She had to wait. As fragments of the original owner's memories surfaced—being pushed aside, watching opportunities stolen, affection handed freely to someone else, enduring relentless bullying and humiliation—a chill spread through Valerie's veins. Her gaze hardened. "Rest easy, Valerie," she murmured softly to the reflection staring back at her. "I'm here now. I'll make every one of your enemies pay in blood." She returned to the Todd Manor by taxi. The moment she stepped out of the car, a sharp-eyed servant noticed her. Lucy George moved quickly, positioning herself squarely in Valerie's path. "Valerie, how dare you stay out all night! You're not allowed inside." Valerie didn't even glance at her. She kept walking. Lucy's temper flared. She reached out and grabbed Valerie's arm. "I'm talking to you! Are you deaf or..." Valerie's eyes turned glacial. In one smooth motion, she caught Lucy's wrist and twisted—hard. A sharp crack split the air. Lucy screamed and crumpled to the ground, clutching her hand as pain tore through her. Valerie looked down at her, lips curved into a faint, unsettling smile. "Who gave you permission to speak to me like that?" The other servants froze where they stood. The timid, obedient girl they had bullied for years was gone—replaced by someone terrifyingly calm. Lucy, shaking with pain and rage, spat through clenched teeth, "You backwoods brat, you think you can—" Valerie cut her off with a slap. The slap landed with brutal force, knocking out several teeth. Lucy collapsed, convulsing on the ground. Valerie lifted her gaze and swept it across the staff like a drawn blade. "Listen carefully, I am the rightful heiress of this family. Paulina has been standing where she doesn't belong. If any of you dare disrespect me again, I'll make sure you regret it." Her presence alone was enough to crush resistance. The servants trembled, nodding frantically, fear written plainly across their faces. No one dared to stop her as she walked into the house. Inside, the Todd family was seated comfortably at the dinner table. Kayden Harper, her fiance, was carefully cutting a piece of steak for Paulina Todd, the adopted daughter. To any outsider, it would have looked like they were the engaged couple. Valerie smiled faintly. "Well, everyone's eating. Yet no one thought to ask whether I've eaten too?" The laughter died on the spot. Every face turned toward her in shock, as though they were seeing someone who shouldn't exist. To the Todds, Valerie had always been invisible. Whether she ate or starved, lived or died... it had never mattered. In this house, even Paulina's pampered little poodle held a higher place than Valerie did. Valerie's lips curved into a faint, mocking smile. Ignoring their stunned stares, she pulled out a chair and sat down with unbothered ease. She reached across the table, picked up a piece of steak, and tossed it onto Paulina's plate. "Cut it for me," she said coolly. "I'm hungry."