Mafia Queen to First Lady: A Reborn Pact with the President

"That bitch Valerie called the cops and even slit her own wrist. What a damn headache. You're sure the Todds won't come after me if I fuck her too hard and end up killing her, right?"

A man's voice slithered through the air, greasy and leering, each word steeped in shameless cruelty.

From the phone's speaker came a woman's laugh-sharp, amused, and utterly heartless. "Relax. Even if that little slut really does die, no one will spare her a second thought. The Todds don't give a damn about her."

Pain tore through Valerie Todd's body, yanking her back from the brink of unconsciousness. What greeted her ears was the cruel conversation.

In that instant, every shard of memory came crashing back.

She had once commanded the world's deadliest network of assassins and mercenaries, a shadow empire where her name alone-Phantom-struck fear into every corner of the underworld.

Not long ago, she had fought her way out of a siege laid by hundreds of mercenaries, carving a path through blood and fire-only to be betrayed by one of her own. The ambush had been flawless, mercilessly planned.

She had died. And yet, here she was, eyes opening inside a body that did not belong to her.

This body belonged to Valerie, the daughter of the Todd family, lost since she was a kid, brought home three years ago.

She had grown up in a backwater town, abused by her foster parents, molded into someone fragile and frightened, someone who learned early that resistance only invited more pain.

Even after returning to the Todd family, her suffering had not ended. Their adopted daughter, Paulina Todd, tormented her openly and relentlessly, day after day.

Within that family, respect was a luxury never afforded to her. To them, Valerie was useless-an eyesore, an inconvenience better left unseen.

Tonight, Paulina had lured her into a hotel suite under false pretenses, slipped an aphrodisiac into her drink, and delivered her like a wrapped gift to an aging businessman in exchange for a multimillion-dollar contract.

Cornered by imminent rape and public humiliation, Valerie had dragged a blade across her wrist, preferring death to submission.

But the consciousness that now stirred within this battered body was Phantom.

She lowered her gaze, calmly taking stock of her situation. Her clothes hung in tatters. Her wrists were still bound by handcuffs. Blood seeped steadily from the cut on her wrist, dripping onto the floor in dark, sticky drops.

Anyone else would have surrendered to fear, curled inward, and waited for death to arrive.

But she was not just anyone.

She was the former leader of the world's most formidable mercenary force-the woman who had survived war zones soaked in blood, crossed the desolate Sarhia Desert where nothing lived and nothing forgave, and completed missions classified as impossible.

This was nothing more than an inconvenience.

With a precise twist of her wrist, she snapped the handcuffs apart as though they were cheap toys.

She reached for the bedside lamp, fingers closing around it without hesitation, and hurled it toward the man's head with lethal accuracy.

The man never even managed to turn around. The lamp struck. He collapsed instantly, crumpling to the floor in a heap of unconscious flesh.

Valerie stepped closer. Her expression was empty-void of rage, fear, or mercy-as she lifted the lamp once more and brought it down toward his groin.

The impact was brutal-metal meeting flesh with a wet, nauseating thud. Blood splashed across the floor. Valerie didn't flinch. She didn't blink.

Only when his lower body had been reduced to unrecognizable ruin did she finally release the lamp.

Straightening slowly, she wiped her hands and allowed a flicker of disgust to cross her features, as if she'd stepped on something foul.

At that moment, a knock rapped against the door. A bodyguard's voice followed, hesitant and awkward. "Sir? The sex toys you ordered are here. Should I bring them in?"

Valerie's eyes hardened instantly. She moved without hesitation, sprinting toward the window and climbing onto the sill with fluid grace.

A split second before the door handle turned, she caught the curtain, used its momentum, and swung herself cleanly out into the waiting darkness beyond.

Downstairs, in another lavish suite, President Leland Harper stood rigidly behind a locked door. An unfamiliar flush colored his usually cold, disciplined features.

He pounded against the door, fury vibrating through his voice. "Mom, let me out immediately! Do you have any idea what you're doing? Detaining the President is a criminal offense!"

From outside, Sarah Powell's voice rang back, triumphant and unapologetic. "If getting you to give this family an heir puts me in jail, so be it. Relax, the drug won't hurt you. Just sleep with the woman I arranged for you tonight, and I'll unlock the door afterward."

The lock clicked, sealing his fate.

Leland drew his sidearm, eyes flashing. "I can blow this door open with a single shot. You can't hold me here."

"I'm standing right outside," she warned. "You fire that gun, and you kill your own mother. And imagine the headlines-'President Shoots Mother During Family Dispute.' Is that really how you want history to remember you?"

Leland pressed his fingers to his temple, exhaling sharply as frustration clawed through him.

After a long moment, he holstered the weapon and turned away, heading for the en suite bathroom. He planned to use cold water to extinguish the unnatural heat burning through his veins.

But the moment he stepped back into the bedroom, a body blazing with warmth and carrying a faint, intoxicating fragrance slammed straight into his arms.

The moment his palm met silk-smooth skin, Leland froze-just a fraction of a second, yet long enough for the shock to ripple through him.

The woman in his arms was nearly bare-her clothes in shreds.

His gaze dropped instinctively, dragged downward by shock and curiosity alike, and the sight struck the breath straight out of him.

Her skin stretched before his eyes, luminous beneath the light. Then, slowly, his gaze lifted and collided with hers. Tear-filled eyes stared back at him, wide and glistening, brimming with desire.

Valerie had slammed into him-quite literally-after leaping through the upstairs window.

The solid heat of his body pressed into hers, and a violent shiver ripped down her spine. She snapped her head up in shock, breath catching as her eyes locked onto his.

Instinct took over. Her hand snapped up, fingers locking tight around his throat. "Don't move," she hissed, her voice low, sharp as a blade. "Or I'll kill you."

Fear never came. Instead, Leland felt a strange, jolting pull. Her eyes were cold, ruthless-yet they glinted with a lethal beauty that rooted him in place.

Her torn clothing clung uselessly to her body. There were scars etched across her cheek.

Compared to the polished girls of influence who smiled too brightly and offered themselves too easily, she was chaos in human form-raw, feral, unfiltered.

The contrast struck him like flame meeting oxygen. For the first time in years, Leland felt something close to fascination.

He didn't resist her grip. Instead, he slid an arm around her slender waist, steady and deliberate.

"So, you're the woman my mother arranged for me," he said quietly, his tone infuriatingly calm, threaded with faint amusement. "For once, she actually chose well."

Arranged?

Which fool thought they could "arrange" her-the mercenary queen?

Clearly, this man had gotten the wrong idea.

Valerie's brow tightened as her mind raced. She was already calculating the cleanest way to knock him unconscious, but her body betrayed her.

Heat surged violently through her veins, the aphrodisiac igniting like fuel dumped onto smoldering embers. Strength drained from her limbs, muscles weakening as something reckless and unfamiliar clawed its way up from the depths of her control.

And as if fate were mocking her, she was trapped in the arms of a man who was infuriatingly-unfairly-handsome.

She clenched her jaw, fighting the pull that threatened to drag her under.

"Stay away from me," she snapped, shoving him back with what strength she could muster. "I've been drugged. If I end up fucking you, that's not my responsibility. And if you try anything, I promise you'll regret it."

Leland let out a slow breath, half laugh, half disbelief curling through it.

No one had ever spoken to him like that. Not without consequences.

Before he could respond, Valerie spun on her heel and strode into the bathroom.

Steam clung thickly to the air, curling lazily along the ceiling. The bathtub was already filled, water drawn and waiting-clearly prepared for him.

Without hesitation, she stepped straight in. The warmth wrapped around her legs-and pain flared instantly. The cut on her right wrist burned sharply as blood spilled free, blooming into dark crimson ribbons that twisted and unfurled through the bathwater.

Leland saw it immediately. He followed her inside, caught her bleeding hand, and spoke in a voice low but unyielding. "Your wrist. That's serious. Get out. I'll take care of it."

He never finished the sentence. Valerie's fingers surged upward again, this time hooking firmly behind his neck. In one swift, fluid motion, she dragged him down and crushed her mouth against his.

Leland stiffened for half a heartbeat. Then the restraint snapped. His arm locked around her waist as he kissed her back, deep and forceful, claiming the moment before it could splinter apart.

Valerie's hand slid inside the front of his robe, pressing against the solid planes of his abdomen.

Her movements were frantic, unrestrained, driven by desperation rather than desire. Fresh blood welled from her wrist.

"Don't move that hand," Leland muttered against her lips, his voice roughened by heat and urgency.

He caught her wrist and pinned it against the wall, holding her there with effortless strength.

Valerie scowled, irritation flashing hot and sharp at being overpowered. She shifted her weight, drove her knee hard into his thigh, twisted sharply and dragged him down into the tub with her.

In one seamless roll, she straddled his hips, pinning him beneath her.

Steam swallowed the room whole. Their breaths tangled, hot and uneven, the narrow space between them vibrating with tension, hunger, and the threat of complete collapse.

They hovered on the edge of losing everything when a phone rang outside the door.

The sound shattered the moment. Valerie slid off him and staggered back, bracing herself against the edge of the tub as she fought for breath.

Damn it. She was the best-the top mercenary. How had one dose of aphrodisiac stripped her of all control?

Leland wasn't done. He leaned toward her again, intent on pulling her back into another kiss.

Valerie's gaze turned icy. Without hesitation, she dug the nails of her left hand into the wound on her right wrist, tearing it open. Fresh blood streamed down, hot and vivid against the water. The pain sliced through the haze like a blade.

Leland halted mid-motion, watching her hurt herself just to regain control. His brow furrowed. Then he climbed out of the tub and lifted her into his arms.

Valerie trembled against him-drawn helplessly to his warmth, revolted by how completely she'd unraveled.

"You touch me and I will kill you!" she snarled through clenched teeth.

Leland pressed a small vial to her lips. The taste told her everything. A rare antidote-one designed to neutralize aphrodisiacs.

She drank without resistance. The fire receded, the grip loosening until darkness finally claimed her.

Leland wrapped her in a blanket and then summoned his personal doctor.

Valerie's cheeks were flushed, damp hair clinging to her temples in tangled strands that somehow made her look fragile. Yet the scars covering half her face twisted that impression into something unsettling.

Leland's gaze darkened. He brushed wet hair away from her face and remained beside her, pressing firmly against her wrist to stem the bleeding.

Five minutes later, the door opened.

Outside, Leland's mother had already been escorted away by the presidential security.

A striking woman in a white lab coat entered, heels clicking crisply. Her eyes widened when she saw Valerie unconscious. "Holy hell-she's been drugged, isn't she? Mr. President, you really went all in!"

"Do you have a death wish?" Leland's voice was pure ice.

Emma Patel snapped her mouth shut and bent to examine Valerie's wrist, her brows pulling tight.

"The cut's deep. Another few minutes and she would've bled out. She needs stitches-now. We should take her to a hospital."

"Take her upstairs-to my medical room," Leland retorted.

Emma froze, staring at him. "But that room is exclusive to you. If you bring her there, people will assume she's your woman. Mr. President, you may want to reconsider."

Leland didn't spare her a glance. He bent, lifted Valerie into his arms, and headed for the door.

The hotel corridor had already been cleared. No guests remained-only staff and his security detail, standing rigid in two precise lines.

Leland stepped out, cradling Valerie, her face hidden from view.

The corridor fell into stunned silence.

Only the measured rhythm of his footsteps echoed through the space, each one heavy enough to make every witness hold their breath.

Everyone froze in place.

Had their eyes betrayed them?

The President, who always stayed away from women, was walking forward with a woman cradled securely in his arms.

Five full seconds passed after the elevator doors slid shut behind him. Five seconds of absolute stillness, as though the hallway itself had been sealed in ice.

The hotel executives and security detail exchanged glances that said everything they dared not voice.

Their backs were straight, hands folded neatly at their sides, expressions carved into perfect masks of professionalism. Yet beneath that composure, shock and disbelief churned like a rising tide.

The incident was suppressed swiftly, sealed behind layers of authority and silence.

Still, truth had a way of leaking through the smallest cracks. That very night, in a private online group reserved exclusively for the city's most powerful figures, a single blurry photograph appeared.

The image was poor, distorted by motion and bad lighting-but unmistakable. The broad shoulders. The sharp profile. The unmistakable bearing of authority. It was the President. And in his arms, held tightly against him, was a woman.

The chat erupted.

"Am I hallucinating? Is that our ascetic President?"

"Oh my God! Wasn't it common knowledge that Mr. President was allergic to women?"

"Place your bets. Who's the mystery girl he's holding?"

Meanwhile, several women from the most elite families-the ones who had long envisioned themselves as the future First Lady-lost their composure all at once. Crystal wine glasses shattered in their clenched hands, red liquid spilling across marble floors.

...

Valerie shifted slightly in Leland's arms, a faint and troubled sound escaping her throat.

Leland lifted a hand and rested it against her back, patting gently until her breathing evened out again and she sank back into sleep.

Beside them, Terry Simpson, head of the presidential security detail, swallowed hard.

In five years of unwavering service, he had never seen the President show this kind of attentiveness to any woman.

Unable to suppress his curiosity, Terry slowed his pace, falling half a step behind. He leaned toward Emma, who walked close by, and whispered, "What's going on? I've never seen the President treat a woman like this. Who is she?"

Emma's lips curved slightly, her smile measured and unreadable. "Maybe the President will soon have a girlfriend."

Just moments earlier, as Leland stepped into the elevator, Sarah, finally freed from the invisible barrier of security, emerged from around the corner.

The moment she saw the woman in her son's arms, she could barely contain her smile.

Thank God. Her son had finally taken an interest in a woman.

An hour later, Emma exited Leland's private medical room after finishing treatment on Valerie's wound. She approached him to give her report.

Leland was in the middle of a high-level video conference. At the sight of Emma, he gestured for his staff to wrap it up.

"What's her condition?" he asked.

Watching him dismiss an entire conference for the sake of one woman, Emma instinctively reassessed Valerie's importance.

She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Based on the depth and direction of the cut, the wound appears to have been self-inflicted."

Leland's expression darkened instantly.

He remembered it clearly-how Valerie had torn the wound open to fight the effects of the drug.

For such an iron-willed woman, taking her own life wasn't an option.

He found himself intrigued-far more than he was comfortable admitting. Still, interest did not entitle him to intrusion. If she had no wish to know him, he would not force fate's hand. They could remain nothing more than strangers whose paths had brushed briefly in passing.

"Send her to the hospital," he said after a moment. "Have her cared for until she wakes. And make sure she doesn't learn who I am."

With that, Leland turned and walked away.

...

Valerie was lost in a dream soaked in gunfire.

She stood alone, dressed in tactical gear, the ground beneath her shaking as bullets tore through the air.

Enemies advanced in formation-members of a rival mercenary group-surrounding her like wolves closing in on wounded prey.

"Phantom!" the enemy commander roared. "Surrender now. I'll make it quick!"

Her reply was a single, merciless shot. His head snapped back, his body dropping before the echo faded.

Valerie moved like a force of nature. Her shots were cold, precise, relentless. One by one, they fell, until the battlefield was silent.

But her blood soaked into the dirt. With the last of her strength, she transmitted her coordinates.

Before long, a truck slammed into her.

Valerie jolted awake, sitting bolt upright, her eyes burning red.

There had been a traitor. She would find them. And when she did, there would be no mercy.

Her gaze shifted to the IV drip beside the bed. Without hesitation, she pulled the needle from her arm and rose, heading straight for the bathroom.

The mirror greeted her with a cruel truth.

Half her face was smooth, flawless.

The other half was ruined-jagged red scars twisting across her skin, angry and uneven, destroying all symmetry.

She lifted a hand and traced the scarred side slowly, her brow tightening.

Back when Valerie had been Phantom, her name alone carried weight in the underworld-dangerous, beautiful, lethal, a combination whispered with awe and fear.

She had been obsessively meticulous about herself. Appearance was not vanity to her; it was discipline. Even in the middle of missions soaked in blood and gunpowder, she never allowed a single detail to slip into disorder.

The scars on this face, however, were wrong. They weren't the natural result of injury or battle. They carried the ugly signature of chemicals-ragged, uneven, the unmistakable aftermath of a drug forced into the body.

The original owner of this body had lived beneath those scars like a curse.

As a legitimate daughter of the Todd family, she had never once dared to compete with their adopted daughter for anything.

Someone had ruined her face deliberately, turning her into what others cruelly called an ugly freak.

Detoxifying the substance would have been effortless for Valerie. But the moment she did it, her true identity would surface, dragging danger straight to her doorstep.

Now was not the time. She had to wait.

As fragments of the original owner's memories surfaced-being pushed aside, watching opportunities stolen, affection handed freely to someone else, enduring relentless bullying and humiliation-a chill spread through Valerie's veins. Her gaze hardened.

"Rest easy, Valerie," she murmured softly to the reflection staring back at her. "I'm here now. I'll make every one of your enemies pay in blood."

She returned to the Todd Manor by taxi. The moment she stepped out of the car, a sharp-eyed servant noticed her.

Lucy George moved quickly, positioning herself squarely in Valerie's path. "Valerie, how dare you stay out all night! You're not allowed inside."

Valerie didn't even glance at her. She kept walking.

Lucy's temper flared. She reached out and grabbed Valerie's arm. "I'm talking to you! Are you deaf or..."

Valerie's eyes turned glacial. In one smooth motion, she caught Lucy's wrist and twisted-hard.

A sharp crack split the air. Lucy screamed and crumpled to the ground, clutching her hand as pain tore through her.

Valerie looked down at her, lips curved into a faint, unsettling smile. "Who gave you permission to speak to me like that?"

The other servants froze where they stood.

The timid, obedient girl they had bullied for years was gone-replaced by someone terrifyingly calm.

Lucy, shaking with pain and rage, spat through clenched teeth, "You backwoods brat, you think you can-"

Valerie cut her off with a slap.

The slap landed with brutal force, knocking out several teeth. Lucy collapsed, convulsing on the ground.

Valerie lifted her gaze and swept it across the staff like a drawn blade. "Listen carefully, I am the rightful heiress of this family. Paulina has been standing where she doesn't belong. If any of you dare disrespect me again, I'll make sure you regret it."

Her presence alone was enough to crush resistance. The servants trembled, nodding frantically, fear written plainly across their faces.

No one dared to stop her as she walked into the house.

Inside, the Todd family was seated comfortably at the dinner table.

Kayden Harper, her fiance, was carefully cutting a piece of steak for Paulina Todd, the adopted daughter.

To any outsider, it would have looked like they were the engaged couple.

Valerie smiled faintly. "Well, everyone's eating. Yet no one thought to ask whether I've eaten too?"

The laughter died on the spot.

Every face turned toward her in shock, as though they were seeing someone who shouldn't exist.

To the Todds, Valerie had always been invisible. Whether she ate or starved, lived or died... it had never mattered.

In this house, even Paulina's pampered little poodle held a higher place than Valerie did.

Valerie's lips curved into a faint, mocking smile. Ignoring their stunned stares, she pulled out a chair and sat down with unbothered ease.

She reached across the table, picked up a piece of steak, and tossed it onto Paulina's plate.

"Cut it for me," she said coolly. "I'm hungry."