The Nation's President Picked Me Up From Prison-Chapter 3: Elyn: A New Husband?

Husband?

For a moment, my brain stutters. My husband is dead. I’m a widow. So how on earth do I suddenly have a new husband waiting for me outside?

Is the officer pranking me? Honestly, that would make more sense. People nowadays seem to treat other people’s misery like entertainment.

But when he unlocks the cell with a click that feels far too real, I know this isn’t a joke.

My case... dismissed?

How? Candice and her mother practically built an entire museum of forged evidence against me.

Questions claw at my throat, but the stoic officer doesn’t seem to be someone who would entertain a single one. He simply leads me through the dim corridors of the station and out the front door without a word.

Outside, the night is thick and unnervingly quiet. Parked directly in front of the station is a sleek, black limousine. Luxury with menace wrapped around it like a ribbon.

A man in a black suit stands rigidly by the door.

He gestures for me.

...Me?

I glance around, hoping there’s another wrongly accused woman being picked up by a mysterious man in a limousine, but the street is empty. The officer has already disappeared back inside, abandoning me to the cold air and this stranger.

A cold spike of fear lances through my spine.

Did Candice and Cora change their minds? Did they decide that killing me would be faster than destroying me in court?

My pulse pounds in my ears. After what happened to Logan, nothing feels impossible anymore.

God, I hate them.

"Please get in, Miss Elyn," the man says when I stay frozen on the sidewalk like a misplaced statue.

My brows furrow. "Who are you? And how do you know me?"

Immediately, I wince inside. The second question was stupid. I’ve been on every news site and gossip feed for weeks. Anyone with access to the internet probably knows my name and face.

The man doesn’t answer. He simply gestures again, polite but firm. But I can’t walk blindly into a stranger’s car, no matter how shiny it is.

I edge closer, trying to peer through the limousine’s windows, but the tint is so dark I can’t see a silhouette, not even a shadow. Only my own worried reflection staring back at me.

"You will get answers once you get in," the man says. "My master has granted you freedom, so we would appreciate your cooperation."

My eyebrows knit. "Why don’t you tell me who you are first? You can’t expect a girl to get into a car with a stranger in the middle of the night."

Maybe it’s exhaustion, or hunger, or the days of sleeping on a mattress that feels like it’s made of rock, but my brain is absolutely not firing correctly.

What I do know is that this situation screams danger.

So I do the only logical thing left.

I run.

Yes, I sprint straight past the limousine, away from the station, into the night.

Did they think I would just stroll into that shady car like a mouse walking into a trap for free cheese? Absolutely not. I may be confused, hungry, and recently accused of murder, but I’m not stupid.

Thank God I’m wearing flats. Running in heels would have ended with me face-planting on the pavement and getting kidnapped anyway.

Headlights swing toward me.

Heavens, please—

The limousine is following.

My heart feels like it’s going to rip straight out of my ribs. I have no phone. I have nowhere to go. I came straight out of police custody with nothing. No bag, no wallet, no plan.

Just fear. Raw and rising.

I trip and nearly give the pavement a kiss it absolutely did not consent to. By some miracle, I regain my footing, but before I can sprint again, the limousine swerves ahead of me, cutting me off with a dramatic slant across the street.

Damn, damn, NO!

The tinted window glides halfway down. Even in the dim streetlight, I can see a pair of dark eyes watching me. Calm, sharp, and holding an unsettling amount of authority.

"If you run like that, people will think I’m a kidnapper," he says, voice cool enough to give me chills. "That won’t help much for either of our reputations, Miss Elyn Merrit."

Elyn Merrit. My maiden name. No one calls me that anymore. Everyone knows me as Elyn Hansley.

A warning bell goes off in my head.

"Get inside before I lose my patience and decide to run over you."

I blink.

Did he just—

Is this what threats sound like when you wrap them in velvet? Because that definitely felt like one.

Who is this man? Could he be someone working for Candice and Cora? Their hired killer? But no... the voice is too polished, too effortless, like someone who grew up ordering the world around, not someone paid to lurk in dark corners.

The car, the driver in suit, the atmosphere, nothing about this setup screams low-level criminal.

This feels more like the kind of power Logan used to brush shoulders with at charity galas.

Old money, old influence, old danger.

Maybe this is the new trend for assassins. Limousines, polite threats, and a driver.

Classy murder.

"I’ll count to three," he says lazily. "If you’re not inside by three, I’ll consider you dead. Three-"

"Fine! Fine!" I squeak, pure panic tightening my throat.

The driver steps out and opens the door for me.

I scramble inside like an obedient hostage and immediately sit on the seat farthest from the mysterious man. Thankfully, the limo’s layout has the benches facing each other. I’d die of stress if I had to sit beside him after he threatened vehicular manslaughter.

I settle. I breathe.

Then I finally look up.

The dim interior lights cast just enough glow to define his face.

My jaw drops so hard it might bruise my dignity.

"P-President?"

Because sitting across from me, composed and chillingly unreadable, is none other than the nation’s president.

Why...

Why is the president picking me up from jail in the middle of the night?

What universe did I just get dropped into?