He moved through his morning routine like a man possessed, his anger rising with every splash of cold water against his face. The dream felt like a stain he couldn't wash off. By the time he reached the White House, he was wound tighter than a watch spring.The breakfast room was already a hive of tense energy. The President was there, flanked by the Prime Minister and his daughter, Beatrice. Elara sat opposite them, her posture rigid, her eyes flashing with that familiar, defiant gold."—I could let you organize something for omega single mothers who were abandoned, but that's it! Do not push that narrative any further, Elara!" The President’s voice was a low roar, the kind he used when his patience had finally evaporated."Father, it isn't a narrative, it's a crisis—""You're here, Calvin," the President announced, cutting his daughter off with a sharp gesture. He looked relieved to see his protégé, desperate for a distraction from Elara’s relentless, "baseless" arguments that were
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