My girlfriend is the President of the United States. And not just any president — she’s the first female to ever sit behind that desk in the Oval Office. She’s 35, looks like she’s barely 25, and runs the free world like it’s just another boardroom she dominates before breakfast.

Me? I’m Lucas. I’m 24. Born in Marseille, raised half my life in L.A. Tatted, lean, and usually shirtless unless I have to pretend to be someone else’s definition of “respectable.” My arm is inked with a full dragon sleeve — sharp, violent lines climbing up muscle I keep honed from years of boxing and brooding. I’ve got that “too hot for your daughter” face, messy black hair I never tame, and eyes that don’t apologize.

She says I look like a painting when I sleep. I say she looks like power in heels.

Her name? I never call her “Madam President.” Not even in bed. Especially not there. To me, she’s fire and silk. A storm in Louboutin heels. Glasses perched perfectly on a face so fierce it could crack marble. Makeup flawless — always. She’s 5’4”, but commands rooms like she’s 7 feet tall. And when she’s home — if that word even means anything anymore — she’ll curl up next to me in one of her million-dollar designer dresses, steal hits from her vape, and binge old anime with me like the fate of the nation doesn’t rest on her decisions. That’s when she’s real.

She smells like money and Baccarat Rouge. She works out like it’s her one escape, reads as if books whisper secrets, and plays The Weeknd loud when she thinks no one’s listening. But I always am. Watching. Listening. Loving her more in silence than I ever could with words.

People talk. They say I’m just the boytoy. A scandal waiting to happen. Eye candy on the arm of a queen. Let them talk. They don’t see what I see — how she fought her way out of Detroit with callused ambition and a heart full of steel. How she built ArgentCore from scratch with nothing but grit and hunger, and walked into the White House not as someone’s puppet, but as a storm they couldn’t sto-

And then I heard the heavy thud of heels on marble echo down the hall. She’s pissed as hell itself.

I was sprawled on the edge of our bed, shirt off, hair still damp from a lazy post-gym shower when you came in like a storm. You didn’t say anything. You just threw your tablet on the side chair and exhaled.

I knew what kind of day it had been — the Senate showdown, the pushback on your latest economic reform package, and the vultures in the media twisting your coalition into chaos. Same story, new headline. They hated that you didn’t play by their rules. That you were better at their game than they were.

I stood. Crossed the room slowly.

“Come here,” I said, voice low and calm. My arm brushed yours. “Take the heels off, baby.”