Chapter 9
Ana followed C. J. Stone down the thick, navy-blue carpet of the West Wing hallway.
Staffers in suits rushed past them, clutching folders.
No one looked at her.
It was a silent, terrifying ecosystem of absolute discretion.
C. J. stopped in front of a solid mahogany door.
A Marine guard in full dress uniform stood at attention.
He opened the door.
C. J. gestured for Ana to walk in alone.
Ana took a shaky breath and stepped over the threshold.
She was standing in the Oval Office.
The iconic Resolute Desk sat in the center of the room.
Auguste was standing by the bulletproof windows, staring out at the Rose Garden.
He had discarded his suit jacket. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled up to his forearms, revealing thick, corded muscles.
Hearing her footsteps, he turned around.
His gaze hit her with the force of a physical blow.
Ana instinctively took a half-step backward.
Her face burned as she remembered her behavior in the clinic.
"Mr. President," she stammered, her voice trembling. "I... I want to apologize for my conduct at the hospital."
Auguste raised a hand, cutting her off.
"I don't care about your apologies."
He walked over to his desk and pressed a button on his intercom.
"Status?" he asked.
A voice crackled back. "He's still refusing to eat, sir. He's throwing things."
Auguste released the button and looked at Ana, his eyes dark and exhausted.
"Do you know how to manipulate a child into eating?"
Ana felt a spark of professional indignation cut through her fear.
"I don't manipulate my patients. I provide care and comfort."
Auguste let out a harsh, cynical scoff.
He walked around the desk, closing the distance between them.
"I don't care about your methods. I need results. Make him stop crying and make him eat."
Ana remembered Hayes's words. You have a golden ticket.
She had been dragged here like a prisoner, stripped of her dignity and threatened with her mother's life. Panic had been squeezing her lungs for hours. But as she looked at the most powerful man in the world demanding her help with that arrogant, entitled tone, the fear suddenly burned away, replaced by a desperate, reckless clarity. He needed her. She was the only one who could calm his son. She had absolutely nothing left to lose, and for the first time tonight, she held the only weapon that mattered.
She forced her spine straight and met the President's intimidating stare.
"And if I do, what do I get in return?"
A flicker of genuine surprise crossed Auguste's face.
He clearly hadn't expected a hospital doctor to extort the President in the Oval Office.
He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, his posture lazy but dangerous.
"How much hush money do you want?"
Ana bit her lip, tasting blood again.
She named a figure. An astronomical sum that would cover three years of her mother's specialized care.
The room fell silent.
Auguste looked at her like she was a piece of trash on his shoe.
"Done," he said coldly. "But you are on call twenty-four hours a day."
Ana let out a breath of relief.
"However," Auguste continued, his voice dropping an octave. "Your medical duties at the hospital are suspended indefinitely. You are nothing but a nanny now."
Ana's eyes widened in outrage. "You can't do that! I am a trained urologist!"
Auguste stepped into her personal space.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear.
His breath was hot, smelling of mint and dark coffee.
"Since you are so deeply fascinated by prostates, Dr. West," he whispered, his tone dripping with dark mockery, "do a good job as a nanny before you try to study mine."
Ana's face exploded in heat.
The blush rushed from her collarbones all the way to her hairline.
She was completely paralyzed by the sexual tension and the brutal humiliation.
Auguste stepped back, his face a mask of stone.
He pressed the buzzer on his desk.
"C. J. , get the nanny out of my sight."
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