The Nation's President Picked Me Up From Prison-Chapter 37: Elyn: Speaking of the Devil

Speaking of the devil...

Why does he want to come over?

Seeing me glued to my phone, Dahlia drifts to my side like a nosy spirit. She catches Greg’s text before I can even flip the phone face-down.

"Some privacy, please!" I half-yelp, hugging the phone to my chest.

My heart is hammering like I’ve been caught sexting instead of... reading a seven-word message.

Dahlia only chuckles, zero remorse, maximum mischief.

Why am I suddenly so nervous about a simple text? What if he does come? What then? Yes, technically, we’re married. Also technically, we’re business partners. So it’s perfectly normal for us to meet and talk.

...Right?

God, it must be Dahlia’s nonsense earlier infecting my brain. I shouldn’t be thinking about anything except how to fix the mess I’m drowning in.

"You’re overthinking just because of a one-liner text?" Dahlia smirks like she’s already won a bet I don’t remember agreeing to.

"I’m not overthinking," I snap. "I’m just wondering why he wants to meet me tonight. And in my apartment."

"Well, who knows? He probably misses you..."

My eyes fly wide open like she’s just accused me of treason.

"Get out of my kitchen. Don’t eat my pie. Leave now!"

"Oh wow," she presses a hand to her chest dramatically. "You want me gone because your husband is coming over? We’ve known each other longer, though."

I glare so hard my eyeballs threaten to combust.

She backs away, waving both hands in surrender. "Okay, okay! I’m leaving so you two can have your little dinner date. Make sure the pie is perfect."

I want to tell her she can stay... but if Greg really does show up, having Dahlia here would make the air so painfully awkward it might become a new form of torture.

Once she’s out of the kitchen, I exhale sharply and turn my phone back on.

Is there something you want to talk about? Sure, you can come.

I hit send before I can get self-conscious, then return to my pie like it’s a life raft.

* * *

Greg arrives right as I’m setting out the plates. Jean opens the door for him and slips out with a polite bow, leaving the apartment strangely quiet.

Too late I realize I’m still wearing my pink apron. And not the cute aesthetic kind. The functional, flour-dusted, definitely-not-meant-for-husband-visits kind. Add my cotton pants and simple blouse and I look like a suburban mother of three prepping for bake sale day.

And then there’s Greg. Tall. Crisp. Poised.

And staring straight at the dining table, specifically, at the whole pie sitting in the center like a sacrificial offering.

"Do you like pies?" I blurt, smiling too brightly in an attempt to chase the tension out of the air.

His presence always shifts the energy of a room, like someone dimmed the lights and turned on a spotlight I never asked for.

"I’m not a very good cook most days," I add, smoothing my apron like that’ll undo it being on me in the first place. "But I make decent pies."

He doesn’t answer. His gaze flicks from the pie, to the plates, to me, like he’s cataloging the scene, fitting pieces into a puzzle only he can see.

His eyes lift to mine.

And the faintest, barely-there warmth shifts beneath his dark gaze.

"If you don’t eat pie, we can order takeout," I offer, trying for casual.

It comes out a little too hopeful, like I’m trying to rescue us both from... whatever this thick, oddly charged silence is.

Greg doesn’t answer. He simply loosens his tie with one hand and the sound it makes sliding free of his collar feels embarrassingly loud in my apartment. His suit jacket is already gone, draped somewhere in the living room.

He pulls out a chair and sits.

I bite the inside of my lower lip and take my seat as well.

I slice a piece of pie onto his plate, then mine. He watches the whole time. Not the pie. Me.

"Will you be returning to the Crown Palace tonight?" I ask.

The silence presses back at me, and Dahlia’s absence suddenly feels like a tactical mistake.

"I’ve wrapped it up today."

I nod quickly. "Well, that’s good! You can have a good rest. I don’t think you often have time for that."

He lifts his fork. "How did your meeting with the lawyer go?" he asks, then takes a bite.

I watch him, waiting for a twitch of disgust or a polite swallow. Nothing. His expression is unreadable, typical Greg, which somehow makes me even more desperate to interpret the blankness.

"Is it good?" I blurt. "I-I’m not asking for praise, I know you have a refined palate. I just want to know if it’s decent enough for you to eat. I can buy you a proper meal—"

"It’s decent," he says, meeting my eyes.

Decent.

Okay. Could be worse. Could be catastrophic.

I take a bite of my own. It tastes exactly the same as the countless pies Dahlia and I have made. Warm, buttery, good enough that strangers have told us to open a bakery. But apparently a president’s praise requires near-miraculous achievement.

"It tastes better than most pies I’ve tasted," Greg says quietly, almost like a correction.

My gaze snaps up. His eyes are on me, steady, and the corner of his mouth lifts.

Something flickers behind his eyes when he notices my reaction. Amusement?

"You’re not..." I narrow my eyes at him. "Mocking me, are you?"

His brow inches up, subtle and challenging, as if he’s giving me the floor to make whatever accusation I dare. I end up shrugging it off with a huff.

He sets his fork down lightly. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

"About your lawyer," he begins, tone shifting into that familiar authoritative calm, "I did a background check on him. He’s a rising star in the law industry, yes, but he doesn’t have much experience. I suggest you take a more seasoned one."

"He’s really good," I insist. "No need to get me a new one."

His eyes narrow, something darkening at the edges.

"How did you know each other?" he asks, his deep voice dragging insects across the inside of my stomach.

"I know you’re from the same university," he continues, "but you weren’t enrolled in the same program. And not in the same year."