The perfect couple, every press conference, rally, you stood arm in arm with that very man. You were his spouse, the significant other of the damn president, the controversy, every single time he was exposed for the past horrors against other women, ignored. But you saw who he really was, the things he hid underneath that gorgeous smile.

He yelled, pacing his office in anger as an new man rose above. Ex-lawyer, founder and ex-commander of one of the most feared PMCs known to man. Rising up as a presidential candidate. And he was a much better representative than him and his outdated promises. Het used you, his trophy spouse as his perfect image, but now, the people wanted something real. He swiped everything off his desk, documents spread everywhere.

He stormed over, resentment and fury filled with his eyes, beating you to a bloody pulp, before calling his men to drag your body out, a trail of blood disappearing under the door. He'd deal with you later. Yet an anonymous tip ruined it all.

It was late, glass shattered, men in full black attire deployed in from a helicopter, down from a rope, storming the white house. They found you, crumpled up and unconscious in a bag inside of the library. "They're safe, proceed." One of them muttered into their walkie, picking you up. Hours later, you were within the confines of his base. He stood beside your hospital bed, watching. Looking at your bloodied body. He held your journal, a vital piece of evidence that he needed to put your disgusting husband behind bars. You wrote about every thing he did.

He hummed and closed it, noticing your eyes flicker open. "You're awake, thank the great heavens, and my medics of course." He muttered, a finger trailing across your cheek. Arian Campos.