Trapped By The President's Dangerous Secret
I was just a urologist trying to survive my first solo VIP consult. The patient was an arrogant, terrifying man who refused a basic exam.
But an hour later, I was in the ER, watching his seven-year-old son bleed out on the operating table.
The boy had the rarest blood type in the world—Rh-null. And so did I.
I gave my blood to save the kid, thinking that would be the end of it. I was completely wrong.
The terrifying VIP was Auguste Raymond, the President of the United States.
Because the traumatized First Son woke up crying for me, the White House didn't just thank me. They took me.
My own mentor blackmailed me with my mother's nursing home fees, threatening to cut off her medical funding if I didn't comply.
The Secret Service shoved me into a black SUV, confiscated my phone, and forced me to sign a strict NDA.
I was stripped of my medical career and locked inside the West Wing. I gave my blood to save his only son, and in return, the President made me his prisoner.
Standing in the Oval Office, facing the most powerful man in the free world, I realized my normal life was over.
"Your medical duties are suspended indefinitely. You are nothing but a nanny now," he ordered coldly.
I looked at the encrypted burner phone they handed me, typed a single text, and accepted my golden cage.
"I'm in."
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Chapter 2
Ana pushed through the double doors of the Emergency Department.
The sharp, metallic smell of fresh blood mixed with bleach hit the back of her throat, making her gag.
A handful of sharp-eyed men in dark suits and earpieces had quietly secured the area. They didn't draw weapons, but their tactical positioning effectively isolated the entire emergency wing, denying entry to anyone without raising a public alarm.
Ana rushed toward Trauma Room One, but a thick arm slammed across her chest, stopping her in her tracks.
She held up her hospital ID badge, her voice shaking with adrenaline.
"I am a doctor! Let me through to assist!"
The agent didn't even blink, standing like a brick wall.
Through the gap between the agent's arm and torso, Ana saw inside the trauma room.
Auguste was standing there.
His expensive trench coat was gone, and his crisp white shirt was soaked in bright red blood.
He was screaming at the ER director.
Ana followed his gaze to the operating table.
A young boy, maybe seven years old, lay there covered in blood.
When Ana saw the boy's pale, lifeless face, a violent spasm ripped through her chest.
Her lungs seized.
It was a bizarre, physical ache of familiarity that made no sense.
The ER director ran out of the room, sweating through his scrubs, screaming into his radio for the blood bank.
A hematologist sprinted down the hall, his voice cracking in panic.
"The boy's blood type is Rh-null!"
Auguste grabbed the hematologist by the collar of his lab coat, lifting him onto his toes.
"Get it from the national registry! Now!"
The doctor choked out a sob.
"There are less than ten registered donors in the entire country! We don't have time!"
The heart monitor next to the boy's bed let out a rapid, terrifying beep.
His blood pressure was crashing.
The edges of Auguste's eyes turned a raw, weeping red.
The absolute despair of a powerful man breaking down was visceral.
Ana heard the words 'Rh-null', and a loud ringing erupted in her ears.
She remembered her own medical file.
She shoved her weight against the agent blocking her path, forcing her way into the perimeter.
Two agents instantly closed the distance, moving with terrifying speed. One grabbed her arm and wrenched it behind her back, while the other used his body weight to pin her shoulder hard against the wall. "Do not move another inch!"
Ana threw her hands in the air, her chest heaving.
"I have Rh-null blood!"
The entire trauma room went dead silent.
The only sound was the mechanical hiss of the ventilator.
Auguste's head snapped toward her.
The despair in his eyes hardened into sharp, cutting daggers.
The ER director lunged for the computer terminal, typing in Ana's employee ID number.
A green match icon flashed on the screen.
"She's telling the truth!" the director yelled.
Auguste closed the distance between them in three massive strides.
His shadow swallowed her completely.
"Get on the chair," he ordered, his voice a low, gravelly threat.
Ana looked at his demanding face, remembering the humiliation in her clinic just ten minutes ago.
She took one step back, avoiding his physical space.
She locked her eyes onto his.
"Blood donation is voluntary. I don't feel like cooperating with an arrogant jerk who disrespects doctors."
The nurses gasped.
The agents stepped closer, drawing their weapons and leveling them at her head.
Auguste's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek.
"What do you want?"
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8.4
I worked three double shifts at the garage just to buy a velvet-boxed cake for my wealthy girlfriend, Arleen.
But when I pushed open the VIP room door, I saw her lover kissing her bare leg.
She didn't push him away. Instead, she laughed and swirled her martini.
"I only forgot Finn because I knew he would stay. He is a poor boy from Queens who follows me around like a loyal dog."
Later that night, her lover intentionally crashed a Porsche to scare me, sending a piece of jagged metal into my skull.
Lying in a growing pool of my own blood, I watched Arleen crawl out of the wreckage.
She didn't even look at me. She threw herself at her uninjured lover, screaming for a medic.
"He just got scraped by a piece of plastic. He is faking it. Deal with Jaquez first!"
When I woke up, I wasn't free. Arleen had locked me in a private hospital wing with 24-hour security, planning to isolate me and keep me as her broken, captive toy forever.
My blind, pathetic devotion finally froze into absolute disgust.
I looked at the heart monitor next to my bed and grabbed an IV needle.
I severed the sensor wire to trigger a flatline, slipped out the fire stairs while the nurses panicked, and burned my identity to ashes.
This time, I was going to disappear to London, build my own empire, and watch hers burn.
7.6
Dumped by her fiancé just days before their wedding, only to watch him marry someone else-what would you do? Cry yourself to sleep, or dress to kill for revenge?
That was Elaina's reality. She's no Cinderella, yet she lost a shoe while recklessly crashing her ex's wedding. Her revenge plan went up in flames, but fate had other ideas, throwing her into the path of Alister-a man who is handsome, charismatic, and dangerous... and ironically, the person closest to her ex-fiancé.
Amidst heartbreak and vendettas, Alister paints her world in new colors, turning Elaina into a modern-day Cinderella. But will this story end in "happily ever after," or is Alister merely leading her into a much more dangerous game?
9.5
Alina was the eldest daughter of the prestigious Padilla family, but everyone mocked her as a defective dud who couldn't cast a single spell.
The moment she woke up, her father and younger sister Karina barged into her room, demanding she sign a transfer agreement to the Aethelgard Order-the most brutal faction on the continent.
It wasn't just a transfer; it was a legal disownment. In her past life, Alina didn't realize Karina was also reborn. She had dropped to her knees and begged to stay. Her reward? Her magic was violently drained from her veins by her own family. Her fiancé drove a blade through her chest, and her sister stood over her bleeding body, smiling. She had ruined her hands making potions for them, only to be discarded like trash.
The phantom pain of her chest being ripped open still burned behind her ribs. Looking at the hypocritical family waiting for her tears, she felt nothing but exhausting disgust. Why should she ever be their stepping stone again?
"For the honor of the family, you leave today."
Her father sneered as she calmly bit her thumb and pressed her bloody fingerprint onto the contract. This time, Alina didn't cry. She packed a single bag and walked out the door, heading straight for the deadly Aethelgard Order to show them what a true monster looked like.
7.3
Clara came home from a fourteen-hour board meeting to the sound of a piercing scream in the playroom.
When she rushed in, she found her husband, Chadwick, kneeling on the floor in a panic.
But he wasn't looking at their five-year-old son, Leo, who had a massive bleeding welt on his forehead.
Instead, Chadwick was trembling as he held the nanny's daughter, Autumn, who barely had a microscopic scratch.
"She needs ice. And antibacterial ointment," Chadwick snapped, carrying the nanny's daughter away and leaving his bleeding son behind.
From that moment, the nightmare only escalated.
Chadwick ordered Clara to cook a three-hour meal for the nanny's kid, threw away Leo's favorite toys because Autumn sneezed, and even secretly took the nanny and her daughter on Leo's promised Disney trip.
The final humiliation came at the Met Gala.
Right before their sponsor speech, Chadwick received a frantic call from the nanny claiming Autumn was having a panic attack.
He abandoned Clara in front of hundreds of flashing cameras, sprinting out of the ballroom.
Clara stood completely alone, the humiliation eating through her veins like acid.
She couldn't understand how a father could call the nanny's kid his "little princess" while watching his own son cry.
Why was he treating his own flesh and blood like garbage just to play savior to another woman's child?
Suddenly, the blinding camera flashes were blocked by a massive shadow.
Erasmo Chase, the heir to New York's largest financial dynasty, stepped out of the darkness and shielded her.
"A man like that is unworthy of your grief, Ms. Best," he whispered, pressing a silk handkerchief into her trembling hand.
Looking at the sharp profile of the powerful man beside her, Clara's shock hardened into a lethal, cold fury.
She was going to dump her family's shares, crash the board, and make Chadwick lose absolutely everything.
8.2
For three years, I scrubbed tables as a "wolfless runt," hiding my identity as the Lycan King's daughter.
It was a test for my fiancé, Alpha Connor. I wanted to see if he loved the girl, or just the crown.
He failed spectacularly tonight.
His mistress, Jaden, deliberately knocked a tray of drinks onto me during the dinner rush.
The liquid wasn't alcohol. It was concentrated silver.
My flesh hissed and bubbled as the poison ate through my skin, blocking any ability to heal.
I fell to the floor, clutching my melting hand, while Jaden faked tears and claimed I attacked her.
When Connor finally answered the video call, he saw my mangled hand. He smelled the burning flesh. He knew it was silver.
But he didn't help me.
He looked at his watch, annoyed that I was interrupting his business meeting with investors.
"Apologize to Jaden," he ordered, using his Alpha Command to crush me into submission.
"On your knees. Now."
The pain was blinding, but the betrayal cut deeper. He was forcing his Fated Mate to bow to the woman who tried to maim her.
My knees bent under the pressure, but my Royal blood refused to break.
I looked straight into the camera lens.
"No," I whispered.
I reached into my apron, bypassing the notepad, and pulled out a black satellite phone I hadn't touched in years.
"Code Black," I said to the King on the other end. "Send the Guard."
Connor thought he was disciplining a waitress.
He didn't know he just declared war on the Royal Family.
9.2
Chelsi was down to her last fourteen dollars. After a humiliating job rejection for being "too low-class," the threat of eviction forced her to try live-streaming. Terrified of her exhausted, tear-stained face, she cranked the AR beauty filter to the max, morphing into a bizarre plastic alien.
She was immediately dragged into a forced streaming battle with Kamron, the platform's most arrogant top streamer. Seeing her distorted filter, Kamron sneered, unleashing fifty thousand fans to flood her chat with toxic insults.
Kamron set a ruthless penalty for her inevitable loss.
"You're going to take a bar of soap, scrub your face completely clean, and shove your bare face right into the camera."
Desperate to keep the fifty dollars she had just earned for rent, Chelsi begged for a different punishment, but Kamron coldly refused. With her heart pounding, she walked to the freezing bathroom, her hands shaking as she scrubbed her skin raw, bracing for the cyberbullying.
She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling utterly humiliated by the cruelty of the internet. Why did she have to be stripped of her dignity just to survive? She clicked off the filter, waiting for the tidal wave of disgust to destroy her.
But the insults never came. The high-definition camera revealed a breathtakingly delicate, flawless face that no algorithm could ever replicate. The chat went dead silent, Kamron was so stunned he dropped a ten-thousand-dollar virtual yacht, and a silent war between two mysterious billionaires was about to begin.