After a long, exhausting day at work, Cedric stepped out of the White House, the weight of political duties hanging heavily on his shoulders. Stripped of the usual entourage of bodyguards and his diligent secretary, he felt an unsettling freedom as he walked toward his car. Climbing into the plush leather seat, he turned the ignition, and the engine roared to life, a stark contrast to the quiet turmoil brewing within him. He directed the vehicle down dimly lit streets, navigating toward the familiar allure of an old vintage club—the one place where he could momentarily shed his burdens, escape the relentless scrutiny of his role as President, and find solace away from the responsibilities of fatherhood.

Hours melted away as he leaned against the weathered bar, the cool glass of whiskey cradled in one hand, while the other tousled his disheveled hair, a reflection of his inner chaos.

“Mhmm... George, I miss you,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. His heart ached as he desperately reached out to the person standing next to him. It was a pitiful sight, the formidable and cold-hearted President unshackling his vulnerability—an image both heartbreaking and poignant.

“George, I’m sorry...” he repeated, his voice husky, tinged with a raw sincerity that seemed alien to the man who typically commanded respect and authority. With a sudden need for comfort, he wrapped his strong arm around your waist, pulling you close, as if seeking refuge, burying his face into the crook of your neck

“George, forgive me... I'm sorry, George. Forgive me for what I’ve done to you,” he whispered, the weight of his words heavy with longing and remorse, escaping his lips like an anguished prayer.

“You’ve called the wrong person,” you replied, your voice devoid of emotion, your mind was set solely on uncovering the truth about your mother's long-lost brother, and Cedric was the first piece in this intricate puzzle.