I Became The President Obsession

Zhuifeng Takes the Order for You

The blue taxi stopped steadily in front of the Marriott International Building. The glass curtain wall reflected the bright lights, making the four gilded characters of "Marriott International" seem to float in the night sky.

Rachel's fingertips trembled as she held the phone. The deep voice from the other end seemed to be soaked in ice, tightening her neck instinctively.

In the passenger seat, 5-year-old Cora was curled up into a small ball, the blanket sliding to her waist, revealing her little arms like tender lotus roots. After Rachel drove for a customer at three in the morning, she hadn't wanted to wake her daughter, so she let her spend the night in the car.

The moment the car door opened, a blast of cold air with a faint cedar scent rushed inside.

The man stepped out—dark handmade suit, shoulders straight and sharp as a blade. The sound of his leather shoes striking the marble floor carried a restrained arrogance.

Rachel hurriedly got out to open the back door. When she looked up, she met a pair of cold black eyes, and her throat tightened. His features looked sculpted from ice by masterful hands—sharp brows, thin pressed lips, and even the shadows cast by his lashes carried an aura that warned people to keep their distance.

"Go to RK Bar."

Kellan sat down with the elegance of someone born noble. But when he caught a glimpse of the little girl in the passenger seat, his eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly.

Cora's little face looked as if it were soaked in milk, her eyelashes casting butterfly-like shadows beneath her eyes. There were still dried milk stains at the corner of her lips. Bandari's *Dream of Snow* floated through the stereo, the clear piano notes merging seamlessly into the melody of that rainy night five years ago—when he'd been drunk in the presidential suite and, in a daze, caught the warm body that stumbled in. When he woke up, the only thing left was a faint cold scent.

The taxi started smoothly. Rachel's fingertips unconsciously rubbed the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror, she saw Kellan closing his eyes to rest. The cufflinks on his sleeves gleamed faintly, but they couldn't hide the thin calluses on his knuckles—the kind formed from holding guns for many years.

She suddenly remembered a wealthy customer she drove last night pointing at a financial magazine and saying, "This is Kellan from the Elliott Group, the most difficult person to mess with in the whole of Blackwood City."

Soon, they arrived at RK Bar.

"Sir, you're here." Rachel spoke softly, as if afraid to disturb a dream.

Kellan opened his eyes and realized he had fallen asleep—without sleeping pills—for the first time in five years. His gaze landed on the short-haired woman in the driver's seat. When she turned her head, the red mole on her neck stood out like a drop of blood falling onto snow, making his heartbeat stumble for a moment.

"You slept soundly," Rachel said with a faint dimple under the streetlight. "You should take care of yourself even if you're busy."

Kellan glanced at her ID as he got out. Rachel Allen. The name shone under the streetlight.

Did the woman who disappeared five years ago… also have such clear eyes?

He suddenly regretted not looking at her more that morning—so much that even his memory of her had blurred into nothing more than a shadow.

**Five years ago.**

The neon lights of the Blues Bar twisted into strange spots of light in the rainy night. When Rachel was dragged across the dance floor by Nora, her high heels almost sprained her ankle. In the deafening music, her cousin's voice was sweet and sticky: "Sister, just have a drink to celebrate your admission to university."

The cocktail handed to her was pink and seductive under the light, but she didn't see the glances Nora exchanged with the man next to her when she turned around.

After the third drink, the world began to spin. Rachel walked towards the bathroom, holding onto the wall, and heard a low voice coming from the cubicle: "Room 1201, the person is already drunk, hurry up."

Cold water splashed on her face did not sober her up, and she stumbled into the emergency passage. The voice-activated lights in the stairwell flickered, illuminating the camera that the man had taken out at the corner.

"Help!"

She instinctively pushed open the nearest door and bumped into a hard chest in the dark. The man's body temperature came through his shirt, mixed with the crisp smell of cedar, which was very similar to the sandalwood in her grandfather's study when she was a child. Before she lost consciousness, she heard herself mumbling: "Water... I'm so thirsty..."

When she woke up again, the sun was coming in through the gaps in the heavy curtains, casting golden lines on the snow-white sheets. Rachel felt sore all over, and saw the labels of high-end custom-made clothes on the scattered clothes. There was a half-full glass of ice water on the bedside, and water droplets were condensed on the wall of the glass—it turned out that the "cool thing" she touched last night was the glass of water he handed her.

She didn't dare look back at the man on the bed. She put on her clothes hastily and ran out, her high heels tapping out a panic rhythm in the corridor. It was not until she got into the taxi that she found a red mark on her neck, like a mark of someone biting her gently. In the rearview mirror, the hotel logo gradually blurred in the morning mist, just like the man's face, which would eventually become a secret hidden in her heart.

Present day.

Five years later, Cora's childish voice brought her back to reality: "Mommy, that uncle looks like Dad."

Rachel looked at the tall figure gradually receding in the rearview mirror, and thought of the blank column of "Father unknown" on Cora's birth certificate. The freckles on the tip of her daughter's nose sparkled under the streetlight, just like the diamonds on Kellan's cufflinks last night—if the man knew that he had a daughter who would chase luxury cars and shout "Dad," what would his expression be?