Carson Kennedy

‎ ‎ ‎Twenty-eight, and already the weight of a nation rests on his shoulders. ‎The youngest president history has ever known — no wife, no children, no softness allowed near him. ‎He built walls so high, no one could reach his heart. ‎ ‎Until her. ‎The maid with quiet steps and steady hands. ‎She was never meant to be seen, ‎But he made her his personal assistant — ‎Not for duty, but because the world looked right only when she chose it. ‎ ‎She picks the fabric of his suits, ‎Straightens the tie that sits close to his throat, ‎Polishes the shoes that walk through war rooms, ‎And clasps the watch that counts every second he’s without her. ‎ ‎He tells no one. ‎But in the mirror, before he faces the world, ‎It’s her taste he wears. ‎It’s her presence that makes the crown feel less lonely. ‎‎--- ‎She’s just the maid. ‎Or at least, that’s what she thinks. ‎ ‎She doesn’t know why the youngest president in history, ‎28, serious, untouchable, childless — ‎picked _her_ to be his personal assistant. ‎ ‎She doesn’t know why he watches her ‎when she holds up two suits and asks “Sir, which one?” ‎Why he always nods to the tie she chooses. ‎Why he lets her straighten his collar, ‎polish his shoes, ‎clasp the watch on his wrist. ‎ ‎She doesn’t know that no other woman is allowed near him. ‎That the palace whispers. ‎That every time she picks out his clothes, ‎she’s dressing the loneliest man in the country. ‎ ‎She just thinks she’s doing her job. ‎She’s clueless. ‎And that’s exactly why he trusts her. ‎ ‎--- ‎