Chapter 1

Every time the President brought another beautiful woman into his court, he'd send his wife a gift.

From rare blood—red pearls to secret treasures from snowy peaks, she accepted them all without a word.

Until one day, he brought home her own sister and gifted her a vintage blue peacock feather set.

For the first time, the First Lady cried.

He'd forgotten blue peacocks had haunted her since childhood.

Her father had once favored a mistress so much, he threw her mother into the peacock garden just to entertain her.

So on the day she agreed to marry him, she said:"If the day comes you no longer love me,

don't say a word.

Just send me a blue peacock, and I'll understand."

Now he had.

And she wouldn't hold on anymore.

---

The moment I saw Victor Lancaster walking hand—in—hand with my little sister, everything snapped into place.

Seven years of love?

Just smoke and mirrors.

A beautiful dream I should've woken up from long ago.

Now… it's time to wake up.

My eyes swept across the Private Chapel, each polished plaque glowing dully under the candlelight.

Then I closed my eyes and bowed for the nine hundred and ninety—ninth time.

"I, Madison Lancaster, have failed as wife and partner.

I ask our ancestors' blessing—to leave this marriage in peace."

My forehead hit the ground, and blood bloomed beneath me.

The curtains rustled.

The former First Lady entered, her steps careful, supported by her aide.

"You're sure about this?" she asked softly.

I turned to face her, blood streaking my forehead, lips curled in a broken smile.

"I'm sure. Please… let me go."

She let out a sigh—deep, weary, as if something in her finally broke too.

"Alright. The papers will be signed in seven days.

Prepare yourself."

I bowed to her, and with help from my assistant, limped out of the family chapel.

Seven years ago, I walked in here beside Victor, hand in hand, promising forever in front of everyone who mattered.

Now I stood alone, asking to be released.

People change.

Love fades.

Even the most sacred promises can crack.

Back in my room, the birthday gift Victor gave me still sat unopened on the dresser.

Beside it, a half—finished hand—embroidered baby bib.

Three days ago was my birthday.

And for the first time in seven years Victor showed up late.

I waited from sunrise to sundown.

He staggered in after midnight, drunk, tossed a velvet box onto my lap.

"Here. Birthday present."

He sounded like he was checking off a chore.

I hesitated, hopeful despite everything, and opened the box.

And the moment I saw what was inside, the color drained from my face.

In seven years of marriage, Victor had showered me with everything from rare gems to designer art pieces.

But nothing, nothing—cut deeper than what he gave me that night.

Blue. Peacock. Feathers.

He'd remembered.

And still gave them to me.

He really meant it.

I was frozen, staring into that box, when Victor frowned.

"What, you don't like it?"

I opened my mouth.

My throat burned.

"…I love it."

Seven years of marriage, and this was the moment I'd been dreading.

He saw through my forced smile and scoffed.

"Unbelievable. I give you a damn gift, and this is how you act?"

"Whatever. I'm out of here."

He turned to leave.

But right before he crossed the doorway,

I called out—voice barely holding together.

"Victor… do you remember what I said on our wedding night?"

He stopped.

His eyes sharpened.

"What did you just call me?" he said coldly.

His voice was no longer the man I married—but the man who ruled the empire.

That's when I finally understood.

The Victor who held my hand through fire and storm… was gone.

This man wasn't my partner.

He was the President.

I set the box down and knelt.

"My apologies, Mr. President.

I spoke out of turn.

Please punish me as you see fit."

He gave a curt snort.

Apparently, that was enough.

"Don't let it happen again."

I stayed kneeling on the cold floor, the chill seeping deep into my bones.

There won't be a next time.

Victor, you said all you needed to without saying a word.

I won't be your First Lady anymore.

And you'll never again be my husband.

The countdown begins.

Seven days left.

Chapter 2

I let out a long breath and picked up the tiny onesie I hadn't finished sewing.

It was barely palm—sized, stitched with a classic American folk pattern—five—point stars and protective sigils—meant to keep a newborn safe and strong.

Every thread held a mother's prayer.

A week ago, Dr. Hollins sat me down in her office.

"Mrs. Lancaster," she said with a small smile, "You're about ten weeks along."

The second I heard it, I broke down in tears.

Eight years ago, political infighting nearly tore the White House apart.

Victor Lancaster was still just a forgotten, low—priority son of the president.

That winter, someone tried to kill him on the campaign trail.

He was alone in the snow, unarmed, terrified.

And I threw myself in front of him took a bullet meant for his heart.

That wound nearly killed me.

And it stole my chance to ever become a mother.

I remember him crying, his hands shaking as he held me on the freezing ground.

He whispered,

"Eleanor… I swear, I'll never forget what you did for me."

I've carried that promise in my heart for eight years.

And the pain of that promise— for just as long.

So when I found out I was pregnant,

I cried like I never had before.

In front of the staff. In front of the guards.

I didn't care.

I was going to surprise him on his birthday.

But he beat me to it.

With a surprise of his own.

Pushing the hurt aside, I went back to sewing, fingers trembling.

I didn't get far.

Samuel Greene, Victor's chief of staff and longtime right—hand man,

walked in with two aides behind him.

"The President has issued a directive," Samuel said, "Given your… condition, he believes it best you step back from official duties.

He's asked that you relinquish your authority over the First Lady's Office."

Samuel had known us from the beginning— from the day I stood beside Victor, fighting for every inch of power he has today.

He looked at me, eyes darting, clearly hoping I'd do the usual—play nice, say nothing, give in.

Every time Victor got mad, he'd dangle that power over me, use it to put me in my place.

It had become our unspoken ritual.

Only this time…

I didn't want to play.

I didn't even look up.

Just nodded at my assistant to hand him the seal.

Samuel hesitated, visibly shaken.

"Mrs. Lancaster…"

I cut him off before he could say more.

"Please let the President know—I appreciate his concern."

He left in silence.

Later, my assistant asked, "Ma'am… why didn't you ask him to reconsider? Like you always do?"

I kept stitching, but my eyes stung.

"I'm done asking. From now on… I won't beg for anything."

When I met Victor, he was nobody.

Everyone in that political dynasty looked down on him.

It was me—I pulled strings, used my family's influence, brokered alliances, opened doors.

It was me who risked everything.

Who schemed behind closed doors, who stood by him through scandal and bloodshed.

I believed love that survived hardship was unshakable.

But I forgot even the truest heart can change.

Just like Victor did.

Eight years of love.

And he gave my own sister a seat beside him.

Even though he knew— I despised Isabella.

She was the daughter of the woman who loved blue peacocks.

The woman who broke my mother.

The woman who taught me what betrayal feels like.

Chapter 3

The next few days were ice cold.

Victor didn't speak to me.

Didn't see me.

Didn't even look in my direction.

Instead, he stayed in Isabella's First Lady's Office suite—three straight nights.

And the gossip?

It spread like wildfire.

Everyone whispered that the First Lady had fallen from grace.

Staff scrambled to cozy up to Isabella, tripping over themselves to earn her favor.

The once—bustling Oval Office—my wing—was now a ghost town.

I thought I could just ride it out.

Wait for the divorce papers.

But power doesn't rest quietly.

Three days before the separation was to be finalized,

the former First Lady summoned me.

"As long as you wear that ring," she said, "you're still the First Lady.

And you will fulfill your duties."

"No favoritism in the First Lady's Office. Not under my watch."

So I had no choice.

I got in the car, sat up straight, and headed for Isabella's suite at the far end of the residence.

It was late.

Past midnight.

I didn't want to cause a scene, so I told the Secret Service to stand down and walked in quietly.

Just as I raised my hand to knock, I heard Isabella's breathless voice.

"Victor… you've been staying with me every night.

Aren't you worried Eleanor's upset?"

There was a pause.

Then Victor's voice, sharp and impatient: "So what if she is?

She can't have children.

What's the point of keeping her around?"

One sentence.

And my world cracked open.

It was like standing in that snowstorm again,

eight years ago, bleeding for him.

So he'd been blaming me all this time.

For something I never chose.

Something I suffered—for him.

I never once stopped him from seeing other women.

Never demanded he stay faithful.

And he still resented me.

My tears fell fast, but the wind outside dried them before they hit my cheeks.

I remembered the day he named me First Lady.

Congress, family, the press—everyone said no.

"She can't have children," they said.

"She's not fit to be First Lady."

Victor stood there, eyes red with rage.

He kicked over chairs, glared at every dissenting voice.

And declared for the world to hear: "I don't care if she bears me children or not—Eleanor Sterling is my wife. Now and forever."

But promises…they only live as long as the moment they're spoken.

I raised a hand to my hair, felt only the sting of cold metal.

Victor…we've come to the end.

I didn't knock.

Didn't scream.

Just turned around and left.

The snowstorm was brutal that night, but not half as cold as the hollow in my chest.

Back in the Oval Office, the garden was frozen.

Even the strongest branches had snapped under the ice.

I sat on the couch, took the tiny onesie I'd made, and threw it into the fireplace.

As the flames rose, I could still hear their voices—the gasps, the moans—burning louder than the fire.

Right as the onesie turned to ash, a gust of wind burst through the door.

Victor stood there, shirt half—buttoned, eyes frantic, staring straight at the fire.

"What the hell are you burning?"

Two days left.