Chapter 1: The Dynasty's Fall

I am the son of the Sloane family—Washington’s last true political dynasty, with a portrait in every West Wing hallway.

Back in my prime, I humiliated the current White House Chief of Staff, Lucas Ford. I stepped right over his broken reputation, mocking him for never having real power.

But after I lost everything, Lucas toyed with me until I was nothing but wreckage.

"So what if I’m not the whole package? Trust me, I know a hundred ways to get under your skin, Your Highness."

"So what if I’m not a real man? There’s plenty to amuse someone like me."

---

I sprawled across Lucas’s lap, limp as a ragdoll.

The faint hum of the vent mixed with the distant beep of a microwave down the hall—just another night in a house where secrets never slept. Lucas bent over me, studying my empty stare, his long fingers shining as he slowly wiped my waist clean with a warm washcloth. The way he moved—methodical, almost clinical—made my skin crawl.

I’d already cried once, my limbs weak and completely drained.

A salty trail still streaked my face, drying against my cheeks. I tried to wipe it away, but my hand shook, betraying me. My chest rose and fell, every inhale scraping my throat with the memory of what I’d just endured. Even then, the ache in my bones felt secondary to the humiliation burning under my skin.

I’d never realized before—guys like him, they always have their ways.

Their methods of torment far surpass those of ordinary men.

There was something chilling about how Lucas wielded his power: not with brute force, but with that calm, unflinching precision only the most dangerous men seemed to possess in this city. The kind who could ruin you with a memo or a smirk.

I remembered when I used to laugh at him in the Rose Garden, back when I thought I’d always be on top. Now, the once-proud son of the Sloane family had shown such disgrace before a man I once called a servant—letting him do as he pleased.

God, I hated him. Hated myself even more.

Bitterness clogged my throat. I raised my hand and slapped Lucas, making sure my Yale ring left a mark—a reminder that I was still somebody, even if only in name. The ring reddened his fair, beautiful face and left a fine line of blood.

Grinding my teeth, I cursed him.

"You smug son of a bitch."

Earlier, I had cried and cursed, but not a trace of pity appeared in Lucas’s eyes.

He savored my helplessness, my inability to escape, his gaze wild, pupils slightly dilated—utterly exhilarated.

I was pinned beneath him like a fish on a cutting board, gutted again and again.

He didn’t flinch, just wiped the blood and smirked, like he’d been waiting for it. "That was my fault."

My breath caught—he sounded like he was reading off a script.

He had no intention of repenting.

He was clearly unsatisfied, and would dare to do it again.

With his current status, why should he humble himself before me?

No matter how I lost my temper, nothing good would come of it.

It was just me being foolish.

I lay exhausted on Lucas’s lap, spinning the ring on my finger. The metal felt cold, grounding me while everything else spun out. I asked, "How’s my mother?"

"Thanks to you, Mrs. Sloane’s illness is much improved."

Lucas’s words came with the clipped tone he reserved for official business, as if delivering a briefing to the Situation Room. Still, for a second, something softer flickered in his eyes—a glimpse, maybe, of the boy I’d once known.

It should be.

She’d been sick all winter.

If I hadn’t begged Lucas, stripped myself bare, and let him have his way with me—

She might have died.

Chief of Staff, Chief of Staff.

That wretched man is now the right hand of the President, the most powerful staffer in the country.

Yet I, once a true blueblood, have become a defeated dog, living in fear each day.

Ever since I failed in the race for the White House and the new President was sworn in, I was no longer the esteemed golden boy.

Even the best doctors wouldn’t answer my calls.

The new President refused to see me. Every avenue was blocked.

So, on the day of the first snow, I went to beg the person I least wished to face.

Snow still clung to my shoes, melting into puddles on the polished oak floor. There was a space heater humming in Lucas’s office, melting the snow in my hair and on my brows. The warmth made me want to cry.

The room smelled faintly of black coffee and expensive cologne—Lucas’s trademark. He wore a sharp red suit with a gold tie pin, lounging on the couch and absentmindedly petting the cat in his arms. "You know as well as I do—the President’s made up his mind about your mom. Nobody’s gonna cross him."

Lucas spoke the truth.

Otherwise, I would never have come to beg him.

He was the only one who could speak before the new President.

After all, it was Lucas who, against all odds, had supported the new President’s rise.

I clenched my fists and bowed my head. "For old times’ sake, I’m begging you..."

"Old times?" Lucas sneered, looking up at me. "Is there really any sentiment left between us?"

There used to be.

But not anymore.

During the campaign, Lucas had chosen Henry’s side.

He hurt me, and I humiliated him.

Whatever feelings there once were, now only hatred remained.

I was silent.

"If you’re begging, you should at least look like it."

"If I save your mother, what will you give me in return?"

In return for what?

I had nothing left.

"What do you want?"

Lucas paused, set the cat aside, wiped his hands with a napkin, and said, "Take it off."

My mind went blank, both shocked and furious. "What did you say?"

The flickering lamp cast shadows across Lucas’s face, making him look almost devilish in his beauty.

He repeated calmly, "Take off your clothes."

"I want to see you."

He tossed the napkin into the trash, warming his slender, pale hand over the heater. "The cleaner you strip, the sooner your mother will recover."

---

That day, I shattered all my pride, removing my clothes layer by layer.

The silence between us was thick, broken only by the distant wail of sirens outside and the muffled sound of wind against the windows. Each garment that fell away made my skin prickle with shame, the memory of my family's legacy heavy on my shoulders.

My hands fumbled at the buttons, each one heavier than the last. With each layer, I stripped away the dignity of my family name.

I let Lucas press me across his lap, inside and out, playing with me as he pleased.

When I couldn’t bear it, I bit his arm and wept. When I was moved, I called his name.

But Lucas always remained indifferent, as if no beauty could stir even the slightest interest in him.

Not because he lacked that part, but because he simply wasn’t interested in me.

Even as a man who couldn’t feel, he had no interest in me.

Lucas did not love me, but he knew exactly how to humiliate me.

He only wanted to use this method to take revenge.

To pay me back for the humiliation I once inflicted on him.

The white cat crouched at his feet, looking up at me with curiosity and meowing softly.

Lucas toyed with me as if I were a cat.

He truly humiliated me to the core.

I bit his arm until it bled.

Lucas pinched my cheek, touched my teeth, and laughed. "Such sharp teeth."

With my face streaked with tears, I trembled on his lap.

Lucas’s eyes darkened. He released me, but his words showed no mercy.

"Can’t take it? You’re more delicate than a marshmallow."

His voice dripped with sarcasm, calling to mind my childhood nickname among my prep school friends—soft, pampered, out of my depth. I remembered the kids at St. Paul’s calling me that—soft, spoiled, breakable.

Comparing me to a cat.

I immediately shut my mouth and bit his finger.

Lucas didn’t move, letting me bite until blood dripped.

With his free hand, he even stroked my hair lazily.

"Always biting people. One day I’ll knock out those sharp teeth of yours."

His words hung in the air, teasing but edged with something darker—a warning. The kind of threat only whispered behind closed doors in houses like ours.