Chapter 1: The Presidential Curse

They say I’m cursed—three husbands, three funerals, and now the President himself wants to weaponize my bad luck. Not just any men, either. The kind who had it all: a tech prodigy, a political up-and-comer, and an Olympic hopeful. All wiped out within six months of marrying me.

So when my father—the President—called me into the Oval Office on a random Tuesday, coffee in hand, eyes twinkling with that campaign mischief, I braced myself.

"Sweetheart, it’s time you took your talents up north. Let’s see if you can jinx that stubborn governor before he jinxes you." He pointed at a map like he was calling a play in the Super Bowl.

My hands clung to my coffee mug for dear life. Rumor had it the Northern State’s governor was just as doomed—prophesied to bring bad juju to wives. Three dead wives in five years. They called him "The Widowmaker." Lucky me.

Dad paced behind the desk, fired up like it was debate night. "Go on—bring your bad luck to him! Let’s see whose curse wins out!" He slapped the desk so hard the presidential seal paperweight nearly took flight.

Chapter 1

Rolling up to the Northern State’s governor’s mansion, my godmother in tow, the diplomatic motorcade had all the pageantry of a royal wedding. Secret Service in mirrored shades, local news crews camped out like it was the Super Bowl, and vendors hawking "Widowmaker Wedding" T-shirts. The sidewalk crowd filmed every move, probably hoping for a viral disaster.

Supposedly, Marcus Thornton had gone all out for his diplomatic bride—me—by sticking me in Liberty House. It was so far from his private quarters, I needed a golf cart and three security checks just to visit. Ten minutes across the estate, minimum.

Was he worried I’d curse him, or vice versa? Probably both. The only thing thicker than the tension was the estate’s security detail.

Oh, and did I mention? My godmother is a gentle sheep. She wore a pink ribbon and eyed the Secret Service with the suspicion of someone who’d seen too many petting zoos. Her name’s Dolly. Yes, really.

The day I was born, my first wail shattered a crystal glass—reduced it to dust, like a Marvel origin story gone wrong. The family’s spiritual advisor, flown in from Tibet after the third nanny quit, declared my luck’s a wreck and only a gentle animal could offset it. Dolly had wandered in from a petting zoo fundraiser, trailing sheep pellets and confusion. The advisor lit up: "That one." So, Dolly became my godmother. We did the paperwork—only in America could a sheep have legal standing.

While the staff offered champagne and canapés, and Dolly munched the ornamental grass, a sharp voice rang out: "The Governor arrives!"

Marcus Thornton strode in, black and gold suit sharp enough to cut glass, chin high, eyes colder than a January morning. He looked like the villain in a Netflix political thriller.

He fixed those steel-gray eyes on me—and then, wham. He slipped on a fresh pile of Dolly’s droppings. One minute, gubernatorial dignity; the next, he hit the marble like a tree in a windstorm.

I gasped, pastry wedged in my throat—a mini quiche, gourmet and lethal. My luck really was undefeated.

"Help, help, help…" I wheezed, clutching my throat.

Instant chaos. Reporters elbowed past velvet ropes, the sharp scent of antiseptic mixing with the faint tang of sheep. Somewhere, a phone rang with the Law & Order theme. Secret Service barked orders, staff scrambled, and Marcus’s chief of staff looked ready to faint.

People surrounded Marcus, others patted my back, someone botched the Heimlich. Still more ran for doctors. "EMTs to Liberty House! Code Blue!—Just send everyone!"

Usually, slipping on sheep droppings meant bruised pride, not a trip to the ER. But Marcus was out cold, carried off by six aides, his designer suit now sporting grass stains and more. Meanwhile, I was suffocating on pastry, face turning red and vision going starry.

For a second, I swear I saw the Grim Reaper—one for me, one for Marcus, both checking their phones like they were coordinating a carpool. Was the universe really about to take us both out, first day on the job?

A squad of doctors stormed in. A young doctor in Nikes slid across the marble, baseball-style, and barked, "Hang on, Miss Madison!" before channeling his inner ER hero.

He lunged at me and—slap, slap, slap—three precision hits. Later, I’d learn he mixed Harvard med school with pressure-point kung fu.

Suddenly, a surge of air shot up from my gut—like Old Faithful about to blow. "Poof—" Out popped a cupcake (where’d the quiche go?), bouncing across the floor. My curse was already messing with reality.

I’d survived. Barely.

Turning to Marcus, I saw him motionless, acupuncture needles everywhere, looking like a designer pincushion. The doctors hovered, sweating bullets. I couldn’t help but feel a little smug. Score one for Team Madison.

When bad juju meets bad juju, mine’s still undefeated.

Go die! (Not literally, just… lose the cosmic showdown.)

That night, Emma and I held up a lamp while I dictated an email—my face too swollen to see straight. "Dad, hope you’re well: Your daughter achieved great victory today—brought misfortune to the Northern State’s governor in one strike!" I cackled, Emma typing and glancing at me like I’d lost my mind.

"Hehehehehe!" My laughter echoed like a Disney villain after a win.

Emma tugged my sleeve, warning, "Miss Madison, the walls here are probably bugged—national security and all that." She shot a glance at the smoke detector, like she expected it to sprout a microphone.

I just laughed harder, arms wide, feeling like I’d finally mastered the dark arts. Then I pulled at the sore corner of my mouth and yelped. "Ow, ow, ow!"

Figures. If there’s a cosmic customer service line, I’m still on hold.

At midnight, an assistant tiptoed in, nearly drowned out by my victory playlist. "The Governor has awakened!"

Marcus was fine, of course. My curse never makes it easy.

Pouting, I dragged myself to visit the patient. Political theater waits for no one.

Northern State: where winters last eight months, and mosquitoes are the size of hummingbirds. I entered the main house, my face ballooned, Marcus stuck full of needles, both of us glaring. We looked like a bad plastic surgery ad.

"Miss Madison truly lives up to her reputation," Marcus croaked, still sounding annoyingly smug.

"You’re not bad yourself," I shot back. "But your landing could use work."

The lamplight hit his face, half in shadow, still infuriatingly handsome.

I sneered. This was going to be one hell of a marriage.