RE: Perverted Sugar Daddy System

If we had left London right after dealing with Bettany and Mike, this entire situation could've been avoided. But for the same reason, I now stood in a tight black suit among a crowd behind a massive aircraft, Denise had convinced me to stay three more days.

Dressed formally, I stood just a step ahead of her, among several people who had been vetted and cleared to pay their respects as John's body was moved to a plane that would take him back to America.

Most of those in attendance were British government officials, though Denise made a point of subtly whispering each one's identity and relevance into my ear. We numbered several dozen, split into two groups on either side of a wide path. Everyone radiated that air of high-class restraint — chins up, eyes straight, no talking unless you were important.

The whole process that got me here had been handled by Denise. She nudged me gently when the mechanics of the aircraft ramp started to hum. The noise drew the attention of the crowd, and a solemn melody began to drift in from the far end of the tarmac.

Four men in black suits and dark shades emerged, walking slowly. Behind them, six soldiers in pristine blue uniforms and white caps carried a coffin wrapped in the American flag.

They moved like they were underwater — slow, reverent, dramatic. And I couldn't have been more bored. I mean, I was the one who killed the geezer in the box. It was hard to care. But unfortunately, I had to act the part.

With top-tier security and high-ranking figures from both the UK and US present, you never knew who was who, or what kind of danger they could pose. I didn't see ninja momma, but I kept my Pison sealed tight in my head regardless. That might've been why Denise nudged me again and leaned in with a whisper.

"The First Lady."

"Huh?"

Her words hit like a bolt. I snapped my head from the right — where the procession was approaching — to the left, where a second ramp had quietly lowered.

Four people stood at the top. Three of them were men with tight, unreadable faces. But it was the fourth that made time slow for me. A woman, tall and composed, wearing a thick black fur coat that hugged her frame like armor.

She had long red hair cascading down her back and vanishing into the fur. Beneath the coat, a black blouse and skirt peeked out. Her lips were a rich cherry red, and her presence felt like some kind of mythical ambassador of peace.

Breathtaking.

I shook it off fast. She was beautiful, yes, but there was something off. While the entire gathering remained locked onto the coffin procession, only Denise and I seemed to notice her arrival.

"Jennifer Clove," Denise said softly. "Second wife of the President."

I gave a small nod, eyes glued to the woman I'd seen on newspaper covers one too many times. She descended the ramp with slow grace and waited patiently on the ground for the soldiers to approach.

It took a few seconds for the rest of the crowd to catch on. When they did, murmurs erupted like sparks.

They called her graceful. Some praised her beauty. Others complimented the President's taste. All of these drifted to my ears like background noise. I just watched.

Once John's coffin was inside the aircraft, I exhaled. It was finally over. I could start preparing to leave England.

As people began to disperse, I turned to go, but Denise stopped me with a hard stare.

"What?" I asked.

"You want to leave, just like that?"

"Am I supposed to say a prayer or something?" I glanced around. No one else was praying.

"No," she said flatly. "You're supposed to interact. Build connections."

"Isn't that what I have you for?"

Before she could answer, a small commotion broke out to the side. Murmurs grew louder, and I turned in time to see Jennifer Clove — yes, the First Lady — walking directly toward us.

No way. I didn't do anything. I kept my face calm while scanning the sea of Psion in my head.

She stopped in front of me, her guards forming a loose perimeter. I braced for anything — a question, an accusation, maybe a handshake I didn't want to take.

"Please move," she said, her voice smooth. "I'd like to speak with the woman behind you."

That caught me completely off guard.

Still, I stepped aside without hesitation, backing off a few paces as her security tightened the space between us. I watched her converse with Denise — the First Lady of the United States, talking to my handler.

I couldn't hear what they said, but it wasn't a long exchange. When she finally turned and walked away, I watched her figure vanish with a small flicker of bitterness.

"The one time I get to see that legendary ass in person, and she's wearing a damn thick beige coat. What a waste."

I turned to call Denise so we could leave — only to find her in a new conversation with some man I didn't recognize. A moment later, another person joined in. Both of them had a strange curiosity in their eyes as they stared at her.

I looked around. Others were watching her too.

Sigh. Just great. Denise is the new hotcake.

"Excuse me, handsome," a woman's voice purred beside me. "Who's your boss?"

I turned and found a tall, mature brunette smiling at me. I hesitated, wondering if her compliment was sincere or just bait.

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"She's the head of ML Law Firm," I said, "and an executive at Ford Motors."

"Oh wow. Must be a thrill working for her."

"It has its moments."

"Well, your boss seems... very busy. Why don't we talk for a while? Get to know each other."

I wasn't in the mood to socialize, but I took a step back and gave her a once-over. She was attractive — curves in the right places, sharp eyes, confident smile.

"You just checked me out," she teased.

"You've got an incredible bust," I replied without hesitation.

"So does your boss. Ever told her that?"

"Only when she can't hear me."

"How daring. I'm Margeret... but you can call me Kitty."