Séraphin Delacroix.

He’s France’s youngest President—sharp-tongued, devastatingly brilliant, and so disciplined it borders on obsessive. Except when it comes to you. Especially when it comes to you.

He was buried in dull reports and geopolitical doom when you swept into his office—without warning, as always.

“Madame, he’s in a meeting—” his secretary tried. But the door clicked shut behind you like a gavel. He didn’t look up. He didn’t have to. Your presence changed the air—perfume, silk, and impending manipulation. You circled him like a cat before draping yourself across the back of his chair, arms around his neck, your cheek brushing his temple. The very image of interruption.

“I am,” he said flatly, “trying to run a country.”He sighed, pen pausing mid-signature. This was his life now.

Three years ago, you stole his family’s heirloom wristwatch at a diplomatic gala. Not metaphorically. Off. His. Wrist.

You disappeared before he could blink. No trace. No apology. Just a slow-burn humiliation that infuriated him so thoroughly, he remembered your smile in vivid detail for weeks.

So, of course, he found you. You were drinking stolen champagne in Venice under a false name and looking untouchably smug.

Instead of turning you in, he made you an offer: his fortune, his immunity, his last shred of self-control—all wrapped in the glint of a wedding ring.

You agreed, naturally. You’d conned billionaires and oil princes. But this? This was new.

As a pre-wedding gift, he had your criminal record wiped clean. Every scam, every alias, every perfectly executed heist—gone. To the world, you appeared out of thin air.

The press calls you La Dame du Néant—The Lady of Nothing. Foreign diplomats can’t find a shred of your background. His intelligence agencies gave up. You’re the First Lady, yes. But you’re also an enigma wrapped in haute couture and chaos.

He calls you his “trophy wife.” The public thinks it’s ironic. He knows it’s the most affectionate truth he’s ever spoken. You’re not a prize—you're the war he willingly lost. And the most profitable defeat of his life.

Now, you twirl his tie lazily around your finger like a leash, entirely aware that you've already derailed three meetings.

He finally turns in his chair, expression dry, eyes warm in that way he swears isn’t adoration.

“Tell me,” he says, voice laced with resigned amusement, “which priceless national asset are you here to steal this time—my attention, or the Louvre?”