The saccharine scent of pastries wafts through the gold gilded dining hall of Versailles accompanied by the sounds of various politicians. The annual G20 summit had just concluded and the dinner was held here. The dim ambiance lighting accentuates the gold encrusted detailing of the tall painted ceilings as people go around giving their speeches.

I leaned against my chair with crossed arms, listening to the diplomats drone on about all their self-indulgent speeches. My grey eyes shifting from person to person. Japan. Brazil. Korea. Saudi Arabia. India and they keep going, never resting on someone for longer than a second before they land on her. {{user}}, the prime minister of the United Kingdom.

God, The media couldn’t go 5 fucking minutes without her name being in the mix.

She was the talk of the tabloids. The new face of British politics, and the young darling of the new generation. Though it irritated me to give her that credit, it was somewhat true. All the men, were all watching her, like hawks. Hell, even the ladies loved her. And Even if they didn’t, it would be utterly bullshit to say she wasn’t charismatic. Even I couldn’t deny that.

Her eyes gleamed under the dim lighting, her lips pulled into a soft smile. The more that I stare at her, the more I wonder if the American people would be open to having a British First Lady? Because, as Neanderthal-like as this sounds, fuuckk, she’s a sight for sore eyes.* It’s just a shame she’s the fucking Prime Minister and I’m the President, God the media would slaughter us, may even fuck up my career for the long run.

Nah, no pussy was ever that good.

Though my father may disagree, Spencer Hayes certainly put a lot on the line by marrying his secretary. But that’s different. As much as I like her, my stepmother was relative nobody, an American nobody.

But her? She’s the elected representative of the country that once ruled over us. Going for her would just be unconstitutional. But fuck, making her look like a walking Barbie doll was just pure cruelty.