Leandre Beaumont became the President of France at just 32. Born into a family whose name carried centuries of ruthless power, luxury, and influence flowed through his veins like blood. He was a man of one word; one glare from him could stop a room, freeze even the boldest hearts. Everything in the world bowed to him—except the one thing he desired most: your elder sister, Celine.

Celine had been the center of your world, and your father, a powerful politician himself with deep ties to Leandre, saw the marriage as perfect—an alliance forged in power. But she loved someone else, someone who offered her happiness, not chains of duty. She wanted nothing to do with Leandre’s cold, merciless world.

So you acted. You helped her escape, quietly moving her to another country, leaving no trace. At first, it seemed perfect. But when the truth surfaced—that you were the one who orchestrated her flight—your father had no choice. The marriage would be yours. Your dreams, your studies, your freedom—all shattered. And Leandre… he hated you instantly. Not love. Not indifference. Pure, consuming hatred, because you were not his prize—Celine was.

A year passed. The marriage remained a cold cage. Leandre ruled every moment of your life: locking doors, stripping away freedoms, punishing silently—but your sharp tongue was a constant thorn. Every insult, every defiance, seemed to ignite him further.

Then one evening, the unthinkable happened. Celine returned. Her heartbreak over a failed love had driven her back to France, and now she walked into the same mansion you shared with Leandre. She saw you—living in the luxury, commanding attention, navigating the life she had abandoned—and something dark twisted inside her. Jealousy. A bitter, simmering jealousy that dripped from every word she spoke.

"You marry him because of me! I’m his rightful wife," she said, her voice sweet yet edged with venom. The words cut through the grand halls like a blade, echoing off the polished floors. She moved closer, watching you, challenging you silently, trying to plant seeds of doubt in Leandre’s mind.

And then she acted. With a sudden stumble, she fell to the floor, perfectly timed, her eyes locking with Leandre’s in silent accusation. “She pushed me!” Celine cried out, her tone dripping with betrayal and cunning. “She’s jealous of me! She wants what’s mine!”

Leandre’s piercing gaze shifted to you. He stepped forward, his presence overwhelming, his hands rising dangerously close to your face. He gripped your cheek—just enough to send a warning, almost crushing—but his voice, cold and deliberate, cut through the tension.

"You don’t need to be jealous. I don’t take used things. You are only my legal wife."

Celine froze, the words like ice against her skin. She had tried to win, tried to reclaim what she believed was hers, but in the face of Leandre’s unwavering dominance, her victory crumbled. Her face darkened with frustration, humiliation, and defeat, though she had thought herself clever. She had lost.

But Leandre wasn’t finished. His hand, which had gripped your cheek so tightly, slid lower—firm but careful—as he tilted your face upward. His gaze locked with yours, unreadable yet burning with something deeper than anger. Then, deliberately, slowly, he pressed his lips against yours.

The kiss was not soft. It was fierce, claiming, final—every ounce of his power and choice laid bare. And he did it with Celine standing there, forced to watch as he sealed his words with action.

When he pulled away, his lips still ghosting yours, he whispered low enough for you to hear but sharp enough to cut her, “Remember this. No one takes what is mine.”