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mjonthetrack · 17 days ago

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still you: the legacy of emmad

Chapter 164: “Homecoming at 1600”

The national coverage began before sunrise.

Every major outlet had a camera crew on the South Lawn. CNN, MSNBC, BET, Essence, even ESPN showed up. Helicopter drones panned the horizon. The air was thick with drums and laughter. Folks had been tailgating outside the White House gates since 4 a.m., grilling, blasting Frankie Beverly, and tuning up tubas and snares. This wasn’t a state event—it was a return.

By the time the official live broadcast began, the anchors could barely contain their awe.

“...I’m standing on the South Lawn of the White House,” said Angela Rye, adjusting her mic as a brass band erupted behind her. “And what you’re witnessing is unprecedented—no suits, no silence, no stiff podiums. This is the culture—alive and invited.”

The cameras cut to the crowd—hundreds of thousands deep and still growing. Alumni in every lettered color from Alpha to Iota, sororities lined in polished jackets and stiletto boots, D9 flags waving like battle standards in the wind. The lawn had become the yard.

Then came the gasp.

There she was.

First Lady Daisy René Emmad, dressed in her bold red Delta Sigma Theta blazer, white silk slacks, and pearls, standing tall at the center stage on the South Lawn. Her crimson stiletto boots made a statement as sharp as her voice when she opened the celebration. Her DST sash read: “President, Delta Chapter — Howard University”

The roar from the crowd was deafening.

“We didn’t come to decorate the White House,” Daisy said into the mic, voice clear and proud. “We came to redefine it.”

Not to be outdone, President Damion Rashaad Emmad stepped out next in full Omega Psi Phi regalia: gold and purple varsity jacket with the President's patch from his Omega chapter at Howard sewn on the sleeve. He dap-walked to the mic to roaring cheers and barked:

“Y’all know what time it is!”

The crowd howled with thunderous barks as his frat brothers across the lawn fell into synchronized step. But the camera stayed on Damion a beat longer—because everyone saw the tears brimming behind his aviators.

“We were bred in the belly of Howard,” he said, voice trembling. “And we never forgot who made us. This is for every Black and Brown student who was told they’d never belong. Now we run the White House. Literally.”

As if on cue, Vice President Elijah Osei Walker emerged from the side, clean-cut in Alpha Phi Alpha gold and black. His line brothers were already deep in formation, arms locked, shoulders rolling in quiet pride. His voice boomed:

“We are not tokens. We are not guests. We are the manifestation of every ancestor’s prayer. This lawn don’t belong to just them anymore. It belongs to us too.”

The crowd was still catching its breath when Press Secretary Nyla appeared in shimmering Zeta Phi Beta blue and white, her long braids flowing, arms raised.

“Zetas, y’all ready?!”

A powerful Zeta call split through the air, followed by the rhythmic step of sorors in rows, heels hitting the pavement like thunder. TikTok was already ten videos deep in real-time edits of Nyla’s strut down the White House stairs.

Then came Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, Nia Washington—her Alpha Kappa Alpha pink and green cardigan catching the wind as she waved. She blew a kiss to the crowd and lifted her hand over her heart.

“This—” she said softly, “—is what legacy looks like.”

From the stage, Daisy beamed. “This is your house now. This is your lawn. So stroll like your freedom depends on it—because in some ways, it always has.”

And with that, the Divine Nine erupted.

Band lines stormed the lawn. Step teams clapped in perfect rhythm. Fraternities strolled past the Oval Office. Sororities moved in poetry across the portico.

The media coverage was electric.

CNN ran a chyron that read: “THE YARD AT 1600: D9 CULTURE TAKES THE WHITE HOUSE”

BET titled their feature: “BLACK JOY MADE LAW: HOMECOMING AT THE PEOPLE’S HOUSE”

TikTok exploded with videos from every angle: —Grandmas stepping with their sorority lines. —Little Black boys mimicking the Omega hop. —Elder AKAs crying as they touched the gates of a house they never thought they’d be welcomed into.

Everywhere, people said the same thing:

“We’ve never seen anything like this.”

Because they hadn’t. Because it had never been allowed to happen.

And for the first time in American history, the highest office in the land felt like the Blackest block on campus.

And the world watched in awe.

Chapter 165: “The Shelter Act”

It was an unusually crisp morning in D.C., the kind that made the wind feel like truth—cold, sharp, and undeniable.

From the East Room of the White House, the cameras rolled as President Damion Rashaad Emmad stepped up to the podium, flanked by the statuesque presence of Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, Nia Washington. She wore no pearls today, no blazer—just a soft green turtleneck, a clipboard, and a face that looked like she hadn’t slept in 36 hours. She had been in the streets. Literally. And that was the point.

Damion glanced at her with brotherly pride before turning to the nation.

“We told y’all this administration wasn’t just here for the shiny stages or the applause,” he began, voice calm, steady. “We came to do what should’ve been done a long time ago—make this country liveable for everyone,not just the privileged. Not just the comfortable. But the forgotten.”

He held up a single document.

“Today, I signed into law The Shelter Act. Effective immediately, every state in this country will begin the process of reclaiming its abandoned buildings, factories, and offices—most of them in our inner cities—and reconstructing them into free, accessible housing units for homeless individuals and families.”

The room was silent.

“That’s not all. These new sites—these communities—will include on-site health clinics and daily, free food services. You won’t need ID. You won’t need to ‘qualify.’ You will not be criminalized for being poor. If you need shelter, it’s yours.”

The cameras cut to Nia. She stepped up, her tone direct, maternal, with steel beneath her words.

“This isn’t charity. This is restitution. We live in a country that let capitalism leave bodies on the sidewalk in the dead of winter. That normalized folks sleeping under train stations while condos went up empty just blocks away.”

“That ends today.”

She clicked a remote and behind them appeared a map of the U.S.—state by state, each with glowing dots where pilot cities would begin within the month: Chicago. Baltimore. Detroit. Philly. Atlanta. Houston. Oakland. New Orleans. Miami. Memphis. D.C. And many more.

One by one, the screens showed previews: —An old post office in South Side Chicago, gutted and reimagined into a warm, garden-filled complex. —A factory in Detroit with murals of Black and Brown faces and a rooftop garden. —A church-turned-clinic in Baltimore with a welcome center that read: “YOU ARE NOT A BURDEN. YOU BELONG.”

CNN flashed to anchors stunned in studio.

MSNBC’s Joy Reid leaned forward with emotion:

“This is the largest-scale government-led housing equity bill in U.S. history. They didn’t just put band-aids on homelessness. They’re dismantling it.”

Fox News—visibly scrambling—called it “dangerously radical” and “utopian,” but even their guest veterans and ex-police leaders were reluctantly admitting the cost of homelessness outweighed the cost of housing.

Back on the streets, the people had their say.

In a viral clip from Oakland, a Black elder named Miss Carol, who’d lived in a tent for three years, clutched her ID and sobbed into the camera.

“I thought I’d die cold. That I’d be forgotten. But he saw me. They saw me.”

On TikTok, thousands of youth from unhoused backgrounds began posting reactions with the hashtag: #ShelterActSavedMe #FromSidewalkToSanctuary #DamnRightWeDeserveIt

And across the country, a quiet miracle began unfolding—construction crews being met with applause. Volunteers showing up with blankets and welcome baskets. People hugging in the shadows of buildings they once feared would be their tombs.

And somewhere in a corner office of HUD, Nia Washington watched it all, misty-eyed, as Damion walked in with two cups of coffee.

“You did that, Sis,” he said, handing her one.

“We did it,” she replied. “But we’re just getting started.”

The President leaned against the wall, watching the footage on her screen.

“Let ‘em call it radical,” he said. “I call it human.”

And in every corner of the nation, the abandoned became home.

Chapter 166: “Where Is Daisy?”

It was supposed to be a celebration. A revival of womanhood and power, a thunderous kick-off to the First Lady’s historic “She Rises” Tour—a multi-state gathering of women and girls from all walks of life, meant to amplify voices, share stories, and spark liberation across generations.

The first stop was Florida. Tampa was blazing with sunshine and anticipation. Hundreds of thousands of women had flooded the city in crimson and cream, golds and greens, pinks and pearls. There were high schoolers and elders, doulas and scholars, women in hijabs, afros, box braids, and wheelchairs. It was joy incarnate. Unity incarnate.

Daisy R. Emmad had just stepped off the stage after delivering a fierce, affirming speech to an electrified crowd. She had worn an ivory power suit with shoulder pads sharp enough to slice through history and hoop earrings that kissed her jaw every time she turned her head. She was glowing, radiant with purpose.

And then—it happened.

The distraction was minor at first. A sudden surge of noise at the far end of the event plaza. Loud yelling. Two protestors had allegedly breached the perimeter, and while security was dispatched, Daisy was quietly whisked into a secondary route to her transport vehicle.

That was the last time anyone saw her.

The world didn’t even know she was missing until three hours later, when the White House confirmed that her security team had lost contact.

And then the news broke.

“FIRST LADY MISSING”

“DAISY R. EMMAD UNACCOUNTED FOR”

“PRESIDENTIAL SPOUSE POTENTIALLY ABDUCTED IN FLORIDA”

The globe flipped upside down.

Social media went nuclear.

“Where the hell is Daisy?” “You don’t just lose the First Lady—what the hell is going on?” #BringDaisyHome trended within fifteen minutes. Celebrities, world leaders, HBCUs, aunties and pastors alike were on full digital alert. The NAACP, Delta Sigma Theta, and the National Black Women’s Roundtable demanded answers in real time.

Cable news anchors’ voices trembled through emergency updates:

“There’s no video. No trail. No leads. As of right now, the First Lady of the United States has disappeared without a trace.”

The White House went into lockdown. Damion Rashaad Emmad didn’t leave the Situation Room for hours. His jaw clenched, his suit jacket flung off, tie undone, shirt soaked in sweat. Elijah stood beside him like a shadow of war, phone in one hand, mouth tight.

“We don’t speak to the public until we know what happened,” Elijah said firmly.

But Damion shook his head.

“We owe them. This ain’t a scandal—this is an attack.”

In that moment, the President of the United States looked less like a politician and more like a grieving husband in battle-mode.

He stepped out to the Press Briefing Room at 1:03 a.m., his voice low and sharp:

“My wife, the First Lady of this nation, has been taken. I won’t lie to you—we do not yet know who, or how. But I promise this: we will find her. And to those who did this… pray.”

He walked off without taking a single question.

By sunrise, cities across the country erupted into spontaneous vigils and protests. Black and Brown women, crying in groups on sidewalks, holding up candles and posters with Daisy’s face. Lines wrapped around mosques, churches, and synagogues as people gathered to pray. Children wrote letters and taped them to fences around the White House.

“Please come home, Miss Daisy. We miss you. – 7-year-old Janelle”

In Senegal, murals of Daisy Emmad went up overnight. In South Korea, candlelight vigils were organized by feminist student groups. In Palestine, women wrapped their keffiyehs around pictures of Daisy, lifting them in the streets. In London, a protest banner read:

“TO TOUCH DAISY IS TO TOUCH THE WORLD.”

Back in the States, Nyla—normally composed and cutting—was seen on MSNBC, eyes bloodshot, lips trembling.

“This isn’t just about a First Lady. It’s about the soul of this nation. If she isn’t safe, none of us are.”

The news cycle didn’t stop. The people didn’t rest.

And in every corner of the country, one question echoed louder than any prayer, protest, or plea:

“Where is Daisy?”

Chapter 167: “Proof of Life”

The world had been holding its breath for six sleepless days.

The Emmad White House, though calm in its public statements, had become a bunker of desperation behind closed doors. International agencies were flooding intel; satellites combed skies; secret backchannels with U.S. enemies were activated in the name of finding one woman—the First Lady.

But nothing. No trace. No sound. No digital footprint.

Until 2:04 a.m. EST.

It started on the dark web. Then hit encrypted foreign servers. Then, somehow, live-leaked onto Twitter, TikTok, and WhatsApp in one coordinated wave.

The video was thirty-seven seconds long.

No location. No watermark. No facial reveal of anyone except her.

The world froze.

The footage was dim and flickering—grainy, as if filmed from a hidden camera or worn device. The walls were concrete, rust-streaked and dank. There was a harsh, buzzing hum—fluorescent lights or perhaps electric voltage from a generator nearby. A cold, metal door sat to the right, locked with five chains.

And then—her.

Daisy R. Emmad.

Chained at the wrists to an exposed pipe, her arms heavy and limp. Her legs splayed awkwardly. A ragged, soiled white dress clung to her bruised frame. Duct tape covered her mouth. Her eyes, though swollen, fluttered weakly as if searching.

A smear of blood streaked from her temple to her cheek. Her lip was split.

She flinched when the camera moved—barely—but enough to send the world into collective heartbreak and fury.

Then the audio came.

Not English.

The voice was sharp. Male. With a thick accent.

Somewhere in the background, another voice spoke faintly—different accent. Some said Slavic. Some claimed Russian. Others heard garbled static or mechanical distortions.

But one sentence was clear, barely decipherable and possibly translated in post:

"She is alive. But for how long?"

The camera lingered on Daisy’s face for a final five seconds. Her chest rose and fell slowly, labored. Her eyes closed, then cracked open once more.

Then the feed cut.

Global chaos followed.

News networks shattered their programming. CNN aired the clip on loop, censoring only the worst of the injuries. Black and Brown commentators broke down crying on-air. Nyla was seen being held back from entering the press room, screaming to staffers, “LEAK IT ALL—EVERYTHING! I DON’T CARE ABOUT CLASSIFIED!”

At 4:00 a.m., President Damion Rashaad Emmad walked alone into the Oval Office, Elijah at his side.

He stared into the national camera—no podium, no teleprompter.

Just a man about to split the earth open.

“You wanted us to see her like that. To make us fear. But you done forgot—this woman walked through fire her whole damn life. My wife is not your victim. She is the heart of a nation. You should’ve killed me first.”

He inhaled, jaw tense, fingers clenched.

“To the ones who did this—you will not survive this.”

“To the American people—stand by. This ain’t the first time they tried to take our queens. But I promise you this will be the last.”

He stood.

And then turned—without a single goodbye.

Across social media, a digital tidal wave formed:

#FindDaisy #HellIsComing #OurFirstLady

Protests reignited. FBI and CIA directors were summoned for a live Senate hearing. Embassies across the globe faced citizens demanding cooperation. In Russia, state TV denied involvement, but their hackers rejoiced on underground forums. In Ukraine, officials sent a message to the U.S. promising intel sharing and underground help.

Even North Korean hackers reportedly sent an anonymous tip to an international journalist.

“She’s being held somewhere with Eastern European roots… but the deeper cell might not be nation-based. Might be rogue. Freelancers. Mercenaries.”

Meanwhile, in a candlelit vigil outside the White House, a group of elders gathered in prayer.

An older Black woman whispered through trembling lips:

“We’ve carried our daughters through slavery, war, and exile. Daisy belongs to us now. And we will get her back.”

And as the sun rose, every TV in America played one message over and over again:

“First Lady Emmad is alive.”

And that meant the fight had just begun.

Chapter 168: The Puppet Master’s Toast

Within hours of the horrifying video of Daisy Emmad’s captivity flooding the internet, another leak—this one far more sinister—shattered the fragile calm of the world.

It was raw, unfiltered, and unmistakable.

A grainy recording surfaced from an undisclosed high-security Kremlin location.

There, Vladimir Putin sat surrounded by a circle of loyalists, glasses raised high. His lips curled into a twisted, triumphant smile as he spoke in Russian, his voice dripping with menace and contempt.

“At last, the West’s jewel has been caught. The Emmad regime will crumble from within.”

He chuckled darkly, eyes glinting with the cruel satisfaction of a chess master claiming a crucial piece.

“The puppet strings are ready to be pulled. Soon, the real America will return—the one that listens to those who know power. The Trump seed will rise again. Our work is not finished.”

Around him, his inner circle erupted in raucous laughter and toasts, champagne splashing.

In the background, a large screen flickered, showing chaotic news footage from the United States: protests, heartbreak, and political turmoil.

The words echoed loud and clear across encrypted channels, leaked further to global news outlets:

“The Trump puppet government is coming back. And this time, it will dance to our tune.”

Global reaction was immediate and furious.

In Washington, D.C., senior officials gathered urgently. The leaked video of Putin’s celebration was proof of direct Kremlin involvement in the First Lady’s abduction, shattering any remaining doubt.

President Damion Emmad’s team scrambled to craft a response, the weight of war rhetoric heavy in the air.

On social media, Americans and allies worldwide erupted—anger fueling rallies and cries for swift justice.

“We will not be puppets. We will fight. For Daisy. For democracy. For truth.”

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, intelligence agencies around the world began to mobilize. Allies in Europe, Asia, and the Middle East pledged cooperation, recognizing the global stakes. Cyber operations geared up to dismantle the Kremlin’s dark networks.

The world held its breath.

Because the game had changed.

And the stakes were no longer just political.

They were deeply personal.

Chapter 168: The Kremlin’s Declaration

The world was still reeling from the brutal video of First Lady Daisy Emmad’s captivity when an even darker leak shattered the global stage.

A grainy, clandestine recording emerged, broadcast across encrypted channels and hacked news outlets worldwide. It showed the Kremlin’s heart of power—a dimly lit chamber where Vladimir Putin sat at the head of a long table, flanked by stern-faced officials and generals.

His eyes burned with a cold fury as he spoke in measured, venomous Russian.

“The First Lady of the United States—the American bitch—is merely the beginning. Her capture signals the start of a new world order, one that will dismantle the lies of democracy and replace them with order born from strength.”

He leaned forward, voice dropping into a menacing whisper that rippled through the silent room.

“America, Europe, Africa—they will all fall. This is our plan. The West’s decadence will crumble, and from its ashes, a new empire will rise—an empire of control, of discipline, of power.”

He paused, lips curling into a cruel smile.

“Daisy Emmad will be the first to fall because she represents everything we despise—a symbol of Black resistance, of justice, of a new future.”

Putin raised a glass, the reflection of cold ambition glinting in the crystal.

“Let her fate be a warning to those who would oppose us.”

Behind him, a massive digital map flickered to life, flashing ominous red zones over the United States, then sweeping over Europe, and descending onto Africa.

The room erupted in grim applause and cheers, a chilling chorus of triumph.

Global shockwaves hit immediately.

In the United States, citizens watched with horror as news outlets translated and broadcast Putin’s words. Social media exploded:

“This is a war declaration.”

“We will never bow.”

“Where is Daisy? We want her back.”

European leaders convened emergency sessions, condemning the declaration and calling for united resistance. African nations issued statements expressing solidarity with the U.S. and vowed to resist imperialist aggression.

Inside the White House, Damion Emmad sat in the Oval Office, flanked by Elijah and senior advisors. The room was heavy with tension.

“They want to start a world war,” Elijah said grimly.

“They chose the wrong country, the wrong people to threaten,” Damion replied, fists clenched.

On social media, millions voiced fear but also fierce determination. Grassroots movements and activists called for solidarity and action. International communities rallied around the Emmad administration, pledging support.

The world now stood on the brink of a new era—one where the fight was not just for a presidency or a country, but for the survival of freedom itself.

Chapter 169: The Breakout and the Bold Broadcast

Darkness clung to the cold, damp walls of the hidden chamber where Daisy had been held captive. Bruised, exhausted, but unbroken, her mind raced with one goal: escape.

Using every ounce of strength, and a moment when the guards’ shifts faltered, she slipped from her chains and navigated the labyrinthine corridors. With stolen maps and smuggled info, she pieced together the Kremlin’s secret compound.

Hours later, after evading patrols and disabling a few primitive alarms, Daisy stood at the heart of the Kremlin complex. A concealed camera flickered to life in front of her.

With fierce determination burning in her eyes, she gripped the mic and faced the world.

“Putin,” her voice rang clear and unshaken across live feeds worldwide, “your name should be Pussy, not Putin.”

A ripple of shocked gasps and then cheers exploded globally as millions tuned in.

“You have no idea the people you’ve angered. You thought you could intimidate us with violence and terror, but you only made us stronger.”

Her voice grew fiercer, filled with the strength of generations.

“We are not afraid. We will rise, we will fight, and your empire of fear will crumble.”

The feed held steady as she stepped forward, the symbol of resistance, the First Lady reclaiming her power — a beacon of hope and defiance in the face of tyranny.

Chapter 169: The Breakout and the Bold Broadcast

The cold stone beneath her fingers was rough and unforgiving. Blood crusted along her brow and dripped down her temple, mingling with the grime. Daisy clutched her injured rib, each breath sharp and burning, but her spirit was unyielding. She looked every bit the warrior she was — raw, bruised, battle-worn — and she didn’t care who saw.

In the shadow of the Kremlin’s imposing walls, her fingers trembled only briefly as she activated the hidden camera’s live feed. Then, locking eyes with the lens, she forced herself upright.

“Putin,” her voice was hoarse but fierce, slicing through the silence like a blade. “Your name should be Pussy, not Putin.”

The world paused — millions frozen before screens as her words struck like thunder.

“You have no idea the people you’ve angered.”

She leaned into the camera, the raw pain in her side momentarily forgotten.

“You thought you could intimidate us with violence and terror, but you only made us stronger.”

Her gaze burned with unyielding fire as she straightened, raw emotion pouring out in waves.

“We are not afraid. We will rise, we will fight, and your empire of fear will crumble.”

Her defiance became a rallying cry, a beacon of hope piercing the darkness of oppression.

Global Reaction

Across continents, millions watched with bated breath as Daisy’s words ignited movements, inspired protests, and fortified resistance.

In New York, a young Black woman clenched her fists watching the feed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She’s one of us. She’s a warrior.”

In London, the BBC interrupted programming to cover the viral broadcast. Experts debated what this meant for global geopolitics — a First Lady escaped, speaking directly from the heart of her captor’s stronghold.

In Moscow, whispers of dissent began circulating through hushed conversations, citizens stirred by her courage despite the government’s iron grip.

Social media exploded. Hashtags like #DaisyUnchained and #PussyPutin trended worldwide. People posted videos of themselves repeating her words, their voices joining in solidarity.

The White House Response

In the Oval Office, Damion stared at the screen, eyes fierce but proud. Elijah stood at his side, jaw clenched, fists tight.

Daisy’s raw defiance was the message they needed — the rallying call to unify their nation and the world.

Damion turned to the cameras waiting outside, composing himself, and addressed the nation:

“My wife’s courage has shown the world the heart of our fight — resilience, strength, and unwavering hope. We will not back down. We will stand with her, with all of you, until justice and peace are restored.”

Elijah added, “This is not just their fight; it is ours. Together, we will answer this call.”

The camera’s harsh, unsteady view trembled as the Kremlin’s figure loomed over Daisy. The cold, military boots came down again and again, each kick striking like thunder against her battered body. Blood pooled beneath her, her face a mask of pain, bruises blooming dark and swollen across her skin. Yet through it all, her lips moved — whispering, steady and resolute, the ancient words of the Lord’s Prayer.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…”

Her voice was faint, fragile, yet unwavering. The world watched in horror, unable to look away.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…”

Her eyes, swollen but fiercely alive, locked with the camera, pleading, praying, commanding.

“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…”

The brutal kicks continued, but her spirit seemed untouched — defiant to the very end.

“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…”

Her breathing slowed, ragged and shallow, but her prayer persisted like a flame refusing to be snuffed out.

“For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever…”

Her gaze faded, eyes dimming as the screen slowly went black.

Chapter 170: The World Holds Its Breath

The video had gone viral within minutes. No one could escape the brutal reality of what they had seen: Daisy Emmad, the First Lady of the United States, battered and bloodied, whispering the Lord’s Prayer as the Kremlin’s boots rained down on her. The footage was raw, unfiltered, haunting.

Newsrooms across the globe shattered into emergency broadcasts. Anchors, usually composed and controlled, struggled to hold back tears. On every continent, millions gathered around screens, hearts heavy with grief and rage.

In the United States

The White House issued a terse statement within hours, condemning the act as a “heinous crime against humanity and democracy.” President Damion Emmad and Vice President Elijah Walker, though devastated, stood resolute in a live address.

“We have seen the evil laid bare today,” Damion’s voice cracked, “but we will not be broken. We will bring Daisy home. We will answer this with strength, with unity, and with justice.”

On social media, hashtags #BringDaisyHome and #JusticeForDaisy exploded in trending charts. Millions posted photos and messages of solidarity, organizing vigils in cities from Harlem to Los Angeles.

The Streets

Across the nation, spontaneous demonstrations sprang up—marches, candlelight vigils, and prayers. Churches rang bells in mourning. Streets were filled with cries for peace and resilience.

“We stand with Daisy,” chanted crowds in Washington D.C., Chicago, Atlanta, San Francisco. “We stand against tyranny!”

International Reactions

In London, Paris, Berlin, and Johannesburg, world leaders voiced shock and condemnation. The United Nations held an emergency session. The Secretary-General called the attack “an affront to human dignity and an attack on the global order.”

African and Caribbean nations, many of which had longstanding cultural ties with the Emmad family through reparations and restorative justice efforts, broadcast impassioned messages.

“We mourn with America’s people,” declared the Prime Minister of Jamaica, “and stand ready to support the fight against oppression anywhere it is found.”

Asia and Europe

Japan and South Korea condemned the Kremlin’s aggression outright. South Korean news anchors tearfully highlighted Daisy’s courage and faith in the face of brutality.

Meanwhile, protests in major Russian cities, though risky, began to bubble beneath the surface. Activists used encrypted messages to organize, pushing back against the state’s narrative.

Media Platforms

Viral influencers and journalists dissected every frame of the video, urging governments to take action. Former diplomats and experts debated the geopolitical stakes on news programs that ran around the clock.

Calls for a global coalition to pressure Russia mounted quickly.

Families and Communities

Across the U.S., families gathered to pray. The Emmad campaign’s message of hope and justice fueled a new surge in activism, reminding the nation of the resilience that had carried them this far.

In churches, mosques, temples, and community centers, interfaith leaders united in calls for peace and courage.

The world was shaken, but amidst the horror, a fierce fire was kindling — a fire for justice, for freedom, and for the return of Daisy Emmad.

ChatGPT said:

Chapter 171:

The screen flickered to life again, the world holding its breath. The dim, cold room came into view—Daisy, battered and bruised, her face swollen and streaked with blood. The Kremlin loomed over her, a cruel grin spreading as he slapped her hard, laughter echoing off the walls.

But then, in a surge of unyielding defiance, Daisy spat a spray of blood directly into his face.

The laughter cut short.

She locked eyes with the camera, her voice raw but steady. “If I die alone, do not let my death be in vain. I’m not afraid of dying. I am afraid my works will not stand.”

The Kremlin snarled, roughly grabbing her chin, forcing her gaze back into the lens. “Say goodbye.”

Her jaw clenched tight, refusing to break. Then, in a whisper that shook the hearts of millions, she said, “Damion, I love you. You are the love of my life. I’m sorry if I miss our children—let them know I love them.”

Her eyes, fierce and unyielding, stayed fixed on the camera until the feed abruptly cut.

The world was left stunned — a raw, heartbreaking testament to courage in the face of cruelty.

Chapter 172:

The room inside the White House was deathly silent as the video ended. Damion stood frozen, the raw, painful words from Daisy echoing in his mind. His face tightened, eyes burning with fierce determination and heartbreak. The love of his life, the mother of their children, battered yet unbroken, had spoken directly to him—and now she was a prisoner in hostile hands.

He turned sharply to his top military advisors and security chiefs. His voice was low but icy with fury: “If they don’t bring her home, I swear, we will burn it all down. She is my wife. She is my family. No one will stand in the way.”

Within minutes, orders were issued. The best special forces, intelligence operatives, and tactical teams were mobilized. Plans for a covert extraction operation were drafted, analyzed, and approved.

Elijah stood at Damion’s side, steady and resolute. “We will bring her back,” he promised. “And we will make sure no one ever threatens our family again.”

Meanwhile, across the nation and around the world, news anchors, social media influencers, and everyday people expressed a tidal wave of emotion — shock, outrage, solidarity, and hope. Citizens rallied behind Damion and Daisy, flooding the streets with vigils, prayers, and protests demanding her immediate release.

On every platform, hashtags like #BringDaisyHome and #FreeFirstLadyEmmad trended globally. World leaders condemned the Kremlin’s actions, promising support and aid.

In the darkest hour, the country — and the world — united.

Chapter 173:

The White House press room was flooded with tension as the shocking news broke—leaked documents and intercepted communications revealed that the previous Trump administration, including his son, had betrayed the country by leaking Daisy’s whereabouts to the Kremlin. The motive was chilling: to destabilize the current administration and pave the way for their return to power as Russian puppets.

Damion’s team was blindsided by the depth of the betrayal. The leaks included encrypted messages showing collusion plans, timelines, and coded orders to compromise national security. The outrage was immediate and explosive.

News outlets exploded with breaking reports, debates, and fiery commentary. Social media ignited with hashtags like #TraitorsExposed and #NoMorePuppets. Former administration officials faced intense scrutiny and calls for immediate investigations and arrests.

Across the nation, protests surged—not just demanding Daisy’s safe return, but also justice and accountability for those who had conspired against their democracy.

Damion’s voice was steady but full of fire in a national address: “This betrayal cuts deep, but it only strengthens our resolve. We will not be divided. We will not be broken. We will bring Daisy home, and we will rebuild this nation—together.”

The political landscape shifted overnight, as moderate and independent voices condemned the treason and rallied behind Damion’s leadership.

Behind closed doors, the military and intelligence agencies accelerated their rescue plans, fueled by a renewed urgency and the burning desire to reclaim their First Lady.

Chapter 174:

The video dropped like a bombshell across global news networks and social media platforms. Grainy and dark, it showed the Kremlin in his private chambers, smirking cruelly at the camera. His voice dripped with sadistic amusement as he recounted the discovery made by one of his doctors during Daisy’s captivity.

“They found out she’s pregnant,” he sneered. “A little surprise, isn’t it? But we’ll be taking that away first—her hope, her future—before we even think about returning her to that… president.”

He chuckled, cold and hollow, then leaned closer to the lens. “And yes, we will make him watch. Every agonizing moment. Because a leader without his family is a broken man.”

The footage cut abruptly, but the message was seared into the minds of millions worldwide. Outrage exploded immediately.

In the United States, leaders across the political spectrum condemned the Kremlin’s cruelty. Activists, celebrities, and everyday citizens flooded social media with fury and prayers for Daisy’s safety and her unborn child.

Damion’s administration responded swiftly, issuing statements denouncing the act as barbaric and inhumane, vowing that the full weight of justice and military might would be brought down on those responsible.

Yet amidst the chaos, Damion sat in the Oval Office, clenched fists trembling, his jaw set hard. The thought of Daisy, beaten and pregnant, suffering in enemy hands ignited a fire of rage and desperation like never before.

He whispered to Elijah beside him, “They’ve crossed a line. If they think this breaks me, they don’t know who I am.”

The world watched and waited, hoping against hope for a miracle

Damion knew time was slipping through his fingers, and every moment Daisy remained captive tightened the knot of urgency around his heart. In a secure video call, he reached out to Volodymyr Zelenskyy, the resilient leader of Ukraine, whose country was locked in a brutal fight against the Russian invasion.

Zelenskyy answered with a grim determination that matched Damion’s own. They spoke openly about the stakes—the fragile balance between freedom and tyranny, and the unthinkable cruelty inflicted upon Daisy. Damion made a direct appeal: Ukraine’s victory against Russia was vital for global peace, but more than that, he needed help to bring his wife home alive.

Zelenskyy did not hesitate. “We will stand with you. Help us push back the aggression, and we will move heaven and earth to rescue Daisy. No price too high.”

The agreement was clear: America would escalate its support to Ukraine’s military with unprecedented aid, intelligence sharing, and strategic cooperation. In return, Ukraine committed its best special operations forces to locate and extract Daisy from her captors.

News of the alliance leaked quickly, sending waves of hope and renewed pressure on the Kremlin. The world watched as two leaders, united by a common cause and fierce resolve, prepared to strike back against tyranny—and to bring a mother and First Lady home.

Chapter 175: Homecoming

The world had waited breathlessly for news from the frontlines. The Ukrainian forces, bolstered by unprecedented international support—especially from the United States under President Damion Emmad’s bold leadership—had finally turned the tide. The Kremlin’s grip was faltering, its once iron fist loosening.

But for Damion, victory in Ukraine was only the first step. His heart was still chained to one urgent, unyielding hope: that Daisy was alive. That somewhere in the shadows of war and captivity, she was holding on.

Months of agonizing silence had stretched into an unbearable weight. Every morning, every night, Damion had stared into the abyss of uncertainty, haunted by the images of her battered body, the blood, the bruises—the cold, cruel reality of her captivity. But never once had he stopped fighting.

Now, the silence shattered.

Just before dawn, the White House grounds buzzed with the sudden, almost surreal presence of U.S. Special Forces��quiet, methodical, almost ghostlike in their efficiency. They came bearing a secret few even in the administration knew: Daisy was found. Hidden, alive, and frail beyond recognition but alive.

Inside the Oval Office, Damion waited, pacing, barely breathing, every second stretching into eternity. Elijah stood nearby, ashen-faced, silent, knowing this moment was beyond words.

Then, the doors opened. The world seemed to freeze.

Daisy stepped in—no longer the radiant, unshakable First Lady the country had known, but a shadow of that woman. Her skin was pale and marred with bruises, her eyes sunken but fierce, her hair tangled, her lips cracked and swollen. Blood crusted the edges of her brow and the corners of her mouth. She walked slowly, each movement heavy with pain, as if her body was a prison still fighting to release her spirit.

Damion’s breath caught. His eyes filled with tears that he could no longer hold back.

He rushed forward, trembling, voice breaking with disbelief and overwhelming relief. “Daisy… my love… you’re here… you’re alive…”

She looked up, eyes glassy but clear, and whispered, “I’m here… I fought… I survived… for us… for Sekou… for Imani…”

Without hesitation, she collapsed into his arms, her body fragile, her ribs aching painfully from the beatings she endured. Her breathing was shallow, and every inhale seemed to cost her.

Damion caught her, holding her as if trying to transfer all his strength into her broken frame. Tears spilled freely as he kissed the bruises on her face and ran his hands through her tangled hair. “You’re safe now. You’re home. I’m here. We’ll heal. Together.”

Around them, aides and security personnel stood silently, their faces masks of emotion restrained—some wiping tears discreetly.

Daisy clung to him fiercely, whispering broken words of prayer and hope, “God… thank you… I’m still here…”

For a long moment, the two of them existed in a bubble of pain, relief, and love that transcended everything the outside world could understand.

Then came the press—the cameras, the microphones, the live feeds as the news broke globally. Images of Daisy’s return swept across every screen: the battered but unbroken First Lady, reunited with her husband, the President of the United States, the symbol of resilience in a world that had seemed to teeter on the edge of darkness.

World leaders reacted immediately—messages of solidarity poured in from Ukraine, Europe, Africa, Asia. The victory over the Kremlin was celebrated, but it was Daisy’s survival that ignited a new wave of hope and determination.

In America, the nation held its collective breath, rallying around the Emmad family with renewed passion. Support poured in from every corner, from cities and small towns alike. Vigils were held, prayers offered, but now, celebration mingled with tears as Americans witnessed the power of endurance and love.

Back in the Oval Office, Damion spoke briefly to the press, voice steady but charged with emotion: “My wife is a warrior. She is a survivor. This victory is not just for Ukraine—it’s for every person who has faced oppression, pain, and injustice. Daisy’s strength reminds us all that we must never give up hope.”

As night fell over Washington, Damion sat beside Daisy’s hospital bed in the White House medical suite, holding her hand, whispering promises of healing, peace, and a future rebuilt.

Sekou and Imani were brought in later, their eyes wide with innocent wonder and cautious joy. Daisy smiled weakly, tears flowing as she embraced her children, her family whole once again.

This moment—their reunion—was a turning point, a beacon of light against the lingering shadows of war and captivity. The Emmad family had been tested by fire, but their love and resilience were a testament to the unbreakable spirit of their nation.

And as the world watched, it became clear: nothing would ever be the same again. Because they had witnessed a homecoming not just of a woman, but of hope itself.

Chapter 176

The White House had never felt this silent.

Behind its high, historic walls, time felt frozen in the private medical suite. Daisy lay still in a hospital bed, her skin pale and her body limp, the echo of weeks in captivity etched into every bruise, every shallow breath. She’d fallen into a deep, medicated sleep—her final whispered words still haunting Damion’s ears: “I don’t know if they took him from me or not…”

Damion sat at her side, one hand clutching hers, the other trembling as he wiped at his face. His voice was hoarse from shouting orders, crying out to God, and demanding answers. But none of it had prepared him for this moment.

The doctor entered quietly, her expression grim but professional. “Mr. President…” she began softly, pulling up a small portable ultrasound unit. “You asked us to check for viability. We’re going to proceed as gently as possible.”

Damion just nodded, jaw clenched tight, unable to speak.

They dimmed the lights. The hum of the machine filled the silence. Cold gel touched Daisy’s bruised abdomen as the wand traced carefully across her skin.

The screen flickered with static. Everyone held their breath.

After a long pause, the doctor murmured, “We’re… seeing some signs of early pregnancy. But there’s no detectable heartbeat yet.”

Damion’s throat tightened. “What does that mean?”

She hesitated. “It could be too early. Or it could mean…” She swallowed. “It’s possible the embryo didn’t survive the trauma. The drugs, the malnourishment, the violence—her body’s been through hell, Mr. President.”

The words stabbed like glass. Damion covered his mouth with a shaking hand, the weight of helplessness pressing down harder than ever before.

“There’s still a chance,” the doctor added gently. “But right now, we just don’t know.”

Damion leaned over Daisy, kissing her forehead softly. “You’re not alone,” he whispered. “I’m right here. I never left. And if that baby’s still with us, we’re going to fight like hell to protect them. Just like I’ll protect you.”

He lowered his forehead to her temple, letting his tears fall freely now, soaking into her curls.

The machines beeped quietly. The night outside was dark and uncertain. But inside this room, love and anguish held each other in silence.

And still—hope lived, even in the smallest breath.

Chapter 176 – Continued

Hours blurred. The West Wing’s medical suite had become a command center of grief, hope, and unrelenting prayer.

Physicians rotated in and out, trying everything in their power. IVs. Oxygen. Anti-inflammatory steroids. Blood transfusions. Gentle hormone stabilizers. And still, Daisy’s body wouldn’t respond. Her vitals teetered between steady and unstable. And her womb, though showing signs of life, gave no guarantees.

Damion paced until his knees ached, hands bloodied from how tightly they gripped and shook. Elijah had to pull him aside at one point to stop him from breaking a monitor. Nyla wept in the hallway with Sekou, refusing to leave. Nia stood in prayer, her AKAs clustered around her in soft sobs.

Then came the slam of boots.

A man entered. Tall. Senegalese. Stern-browed and precise. Dr. Nasir El-Amin Secretary of Health, brilliant trauma surgeon, and longtime friend to both Daisy and Damion. He didn’t wait for questions.

“I need the room cleared,” he ordered sharply. “Everyone except one nurse and my assistant. Now.”

“But—” one physician began.

“I said now. I know her body. I know this family. You’ve done enough.”

They obeyed.

The next ninety minutes were silent hell for those outside the double doors.

Damion sat, fists pressed to his lips, praying silently, furiously, without form. Lord, please don’t let me lose her. Please don’t take my baby boy. Please— Over and over, the loop in his mind never stopped.

Then the doors opened.

Dr. Nasir stepped out in his scrubs, blood at the collar, sweat on his brow. But his expression… it wasn't defeat. He looked directly at Damion, voice calm but weighted.

“She’s alive,” he said.

Damion exhaled so hard he nearly collapsed.

“And…” Nasir paused, wiping his face. “The baby—your son—is alive. Stable. But this is a fragile moment. They’ll both need time, and she’ll need every ounce of peace you can give her. Any misstep could send her body into shock again.”

Damion stared at him, lips trembling. “I owe you everything.”

“No,” Nasir said quietly. “You owe her. She didn’t give up. That woman—your wife—is a damn warrior.”

Behind him, monitors beeped gently. Daisy lay still, her skin still pale, but her breathing stronger. And tucked within her—life. A flickering heartbeat. A son, still holding on.

Damion walked in silently and sank to his knees at her bedside. He took her hand gently and placed it against his lips.

“Thank you for fighting,” he whispered, eyes closed. “Thank you for not leaving me.”

Outside, word hadn’t yet reached the world. But in that room, among bruises and sacred breath, a family’s legacy had survived.

And the war for justice… would only burn hotter.

Chapter 177 – “She’s Alive”

The Roosevelt Room had never been so quiet.

The cabinet sat stiff and silent, each chair filled but hearts scattered. Some held hands. Others gripped their knees. Nyla’s head was bowed in silent prayer, fingers pressed together. Elijah sat at the head, flanked by Nia and Marcus. The air was so thick it felt holy.

Then the door opened.

Damion entered, eyes bloodshot, face pale but firm. His walk was slow. Measured. Grief still clung to him like a shadow—but something else flickered behind it.

Hope.

The moment he stood at the podium in the room, every eye turned to him. Cameras weren’t allowed. No press yet. Just them. His circle. His warriors.

He took a breath and spoke.

“She’s alive.”

Gasps broke from every mouth.

Elijah gripped the edge of the table, mouth wide in disbelief. Nia burst into tears so violently she had to cover her face. Nyla choked out a praise cry. One by one, cabinet members leapt to their feet.

“She made it?” Marcus asked, voice breaking.

“She made it,” Damion nodded slowly, voice heavy. “And so did our son.”

They erupted—cheers, sobs, shouts of thanks echoing across the chamber like a gospel revival. Chairs scraped. Hands clapped. Heads fell into palms. It was messy, chaotic, and sacred.

Damion raised a hand to quiet them, voice hoarse.

“She’s unconscious still. Fragile. Our son too. But she fought. And she didn’t quit.” His throat tightened. “They put her through the worst hell I could imagine—and she didn’t stop fighting.”

The room fell silent again, a different kind of silence. Reverent.

“Dr. Nasir saved them,” Damion continued, nodding to the physician standing quietly behind him, his own eyes rimmed red. “And now we protect her peace until she wakes. There is no next step—no policy—no plan—until she’s home, safe in my arms, fully healed.”

He looked around at his team. “The First Lady survived the Kremlin. Now we show the world who they tried to break.”

Then the feed opened to the nation.

Broadcasts were interrupted. Phones buzzed. News anchors broke into sobs mid-report. A voiceover narrated while stills from the White House fed live: “Breaking: President Emmad confirms that the First Lady and their unborn child are alive. She is currently in critical but stable condition.”

Crowds screamed. Cheered. Fell to their knees in the streets. Murals and prayers were painted in real time. Churches rang bells. Students marched. Neighborhoods cried.

She had survived.

The world had watched her suffer. Now they would witness her resurrection.

And Damion?

He stood at the gates of vengeance, flame in his chest, the love of his life barely holding on.

The war wasn’t over.

But the Emmads had just begun.

Chapter 178 The World Holds Its Breath

The news broke just before dawn.

No flashy pre-announcement. No formal briefing. Just a quiet, solemn livestream feed from the White House press room that suddenly flickered to life. A moment later, Nyla stepped behind the podium. Her Zeta blue was muted beneath a black blazer, her voice thick but steady.

“She’s alive,” she said softly.

For three long seconds, the world was quiet.

“She’s alive,” Nyla repeated, stronger this time. “The First Lady of the United States, Daisy René Emmad, and her unborn son are both alive. They are in critical condition, but stable. She is resting. She is safe. She is home.”

That was all it took.

Within minutes, the internet shattered under the weight of joy. Hashtags exploded across every platform: #DaisyIsHome, #OurFirstLady, #ThankYouAncestors. Major networks abandoned regular programming. CNN cut live to the White House gates, where hundreds—then thousands—of citizens flooded the street, sobbing, singing, raising fists to the sky.

In Paris, the Eiffel Tower lit up with digital projections of Daisy’s face. In Ghana, a candlelight vigil turned into a sunrise celebration. In Brazil, dancers poured into the streets holding pictures of her in her majorette uniform, in her Delta gear, with Sekou on her hip. The Tokyo skyline shimmered with her silhouette etched in light.

Church bells rang in cities across the U.S. and beyond. Mosques, temples, and shrines saw crowds gather not in mourning this time—but in thanksgiving.

At a street corner in Chicago, a young girl gripped her grandmother’s hand and wept. “She made it, Grandma. She made it. The baby too.”

On MSNBC, anchors cried openly as footage played of Daisy—slumped, bloodied, defiant—cut against the soft words from Dr. Nasir, aired shortly after:

“She’s fighting. And so is the child. The president and I ask the nation and the world to do one thing: give her time. Pray. Hold space. She doesn’t need pressure—she needs peace.”

That alone was enough for spontaneous vigils to begin around the clock. In Harlem. In Oakland. In Dallas. In the reservations of Oklahoma. In the barrios of L.A. and Miami. On HBCU campuses from Howard to Spelman to FAMU.

And for every tear shed, there was rage too.

Protesters marched against the remnants of the Trump dynasty, demanding arrests. Murals of Daisy went up faster than they could be documented. One read: “She rose in chains, we rise in power.” Another: “You can’t kill the revolution, it just gave birth.”

In London, a BBC anchor spoke solemnly to the camera: “This moment may be remembered not simply as the survival of a First Lady, but the rebirth of an entire people’s resolve.”

At the White House, where thousands held vigil in silence, Damion had not yet emerged. Nor had Elijah. The doors remained shut. The curtains drawn.

But the people didn’t need to see them yet.

They knew—because they felt it—that Daisy René Emmad had survived hell, and that her child—their child—was still with her.

And now, the world was waiting. Not for war. Not for vengeance.

But for her voice.

Because they knew when Daisy finally stood again, the earth would tremble.

Chapter 179 She Rises

It started in silence.

Not the fearful kind the world had known for weeks—but a sacred, expectant silence. The kind that settles before a miracle. The kind that feels like breath held in the lungs of an entire people.

Daisy René Emmad stirred.

Dr. Nasir had barely closed his eyes in the recliner next to her when the monitors began to shift. Nothing alarming—just steady, strong vitals. Her breathing deepened, no longer labored. Her body, which had endured more torment than any human should survive, began to cool from fever. Her fingers twitched beneath the blankets. One, then the other.

She was waking.

Nurses rushed in, whispering thanks as if God Himself stood watch. The room smelled of peppermint oil and lavender—Daisy’s favorites. Candles flickered behind the privacy glass. Gospel music played low on a nearby speaker, but her breathing began to sync with the rhythm. Her lips moved, soundless at first.

Then the whisper came.

“…Our Father…”

Dr. Nasir stood, tears gathering in his eyes. Her lips kept moving—cracked but mending.

“…which art in Heaven…”

The bruises across her ribs, once violent and purple, had faded to shadows. The dried blood that once caked her hairline had been gently washed away the night before, but now her skin showed no trace of the gashes beneath. The swelling in her cheek reduced by half. Her pulse—steady. Her body—restoring itself beyond medical logic.

And beneath it all, the child still held on.

Barely five weeks gestational, a life so early it had no heartbeat when she was taken—but now it pulsed gently in her womb. The baby was safe.

Damion hadn’t left the hallway. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten. Just stood—every hour on the hour—waiting for news that didn’t come until now.

When Dr. Nasir stepped into the hall, his face was wet with reverence. He didn’t speak. He just nodded.

Damion was inside the room before the next breath.

There she was.

Not slumped. Not unconscious. But blinking—groggy, but aware. Her lips trembled, not in fear, but with effort.

He dropped to his knees by her side.

“Daisy.”

She looked at him, eyes fluttering, brown and endless. A tear slid down her cheek. He caught it before it hit the pillow.

“I saw Sekou,” she whispered hoarsely. “I think I saw our baby boy… too.”

Damion let out a sound he didn’t know he was holding—a cry that broke from his chest like a damn bursting. He laid his head gently against her ribs, careful not to touch too hard. Her fingers rose, weak, but they threaded into his hair like she’d done a thousand times before.

Outside her hospital room, the nation didn’t yet know.

But around the world, people began to light candles again.

Because somewhere, in the quiet corners of faith and fire, something in the spirit had shifted.

Daisy was healing.

And so was the country.

Chapter 180 The Woman on the Balcony

The morning air rolled in soft over the capital, thick with dew and stillness. The skies above the White House glowed with that golden hue that only came after deep sorrow—the kind that stains the edges of dawn with silent prayers.

Dr. Nasir had come early. He didn’t trust anyone else to touch her—not yet. Not when she was more than just a patient. She was family. A symbol. A miracle.

He examined her in complete silence, his stethoscope pressing lightly against her back as Daisy leaned forward with the IV pole standing beside her. She winced at his touch, but there was no fear in her face. Only something more ancient. More resolved.

“Your vitals are stronger than yesterday,” he murmured. “No infection. No bleeding. No fever. The baby…” He looked up at her, his eyes filled with something sacred. “Still holding on. Stronger heartbeat now. It’s… hard to explain.”

Daisy gave him a look. “God doesn’t need explaining, Nasir,” she rasped softly.

He smiled. “No, ma’am. He doesn’t.”

The rest of the medical team came and went. Cabinet members and aides filtered in and out quietly, paying their respects with wet eyes and whispered affirmations. The First Lady’s body had been through war, but her soul was still sovereign. They saw it in the way her hands folded in prayer when no one was speaking. In how she kissed the photograph of her family on her nightstand before she fell back asleep.

By mid-afternoon, she was alone again.

And then she moved.

The surveillance camera in the corner of the room caught it first—Daisy sitting up. Her IV still hooked, her hands trembling slightly as she tugged the mobile pole forward. Her hospital gown hung loose around her form, bandages still wrapped carefully beneath. She looked fragile, but not broken.

Her bare feet touched the cold tile floor. She hissed—just once—and steadied herself.

Then she walked.

Slowly. One foot after the other. The IV pole squeaked as she guided it with her left hand, her right pressed gingerly to her ribcage. Her breath shallow, but purposeful.

She approached the tall French doors to the balcony just off her recovery suite. The private one. The one usually sealed. But she unlocked them.

The breeze hit her immediately.

She inhaled it, her eyes closing, as if the air itself was part of her healing.

Below her—streets filled with people. Hundreds of thousands. Holding signs. Lighting candles. Praying. Singing. Chanting. The world hadn’t moved since she was taken—it had gathered and waited, held together by hope, fury, and love.

A sudden stillness overtook the crowd as the doors opened.

And there she was.

Daisy René Emmad.

Hair messy. Cheekbones sunken, but glowing with defiance. Bandages visible beneath her loose sleeves. One arm clutching her side, the other raised high into the air. Her hand open. Palm out.

A wave.

The First Lady waved.

The crowd screamed. Sobbed. Fell to their knees.

Phones rose like a sea of blinking stars. The networks cut instantly into live coverage. News anchors shouted over each other as the footage flashed across every screen on earth.

“She’s alive!”

“She’s standing—she’s waving!”

“God, she made it…”

Inside, security scrambled—but Damion stopped them.

“She’s earned this,” he whispered, eyes full. “Let her be seen.”

On that balcony, with tears pouring silently down her bruised face and a child still fighting inside her, Daisy stood not as a victim—but as a warrior.

The message didn’t need words.

She had survived.

And now, the world would follow.

Chapter 181 Signs and Wonders

The silence that followed Daisy’s appearance on the balcony was unlike anything the world had ever heard. It was reverent—suspended in time—millions holding their breath as if the very Earth paused for her next move.

Her body shook as she kept her balance, but her spirit? Unshaken. Unyielding. Radiating in a strength that only came from being broken and still choosing to rise.

And then… she pointed upward.

A trembling arm raised to the clouds as her eyes flickered toward the heavens. Slowly, reverently, she tapped her own chest with her open palm—once, twice—just over her heart. Her eyes filled again. The gesture was small, barely a movement to most, but it echoed across continents.

She was saying it without a microphone. Without words.

It was God.

The same God she’d whispered to in a cold Russian prison cell. The same God she’d called on while beaten, while chained, while praying the Lord’s Prayer through bloodied lips. The God she clung to when there was no reason left to hope.

Tears slipped down her cheeks. This time, she didn’t hide them. Her hand shook as she wiped them away with her sleeve, still staring out into the world that had waited for her return.

Cameras zoomed in as her body shifted.

That’s when they saw it—when the whole world saw it.

From one of the chairs just inside her room, she’d taken a notebook. A plain, spiral-bound one meant for routine medical charts. On it, in thick black marker, she had scrawled a message—large, bold, unmistakably hers.

She lifted it with both hands over her head like a fan holding up a concert sign:

"God is a God of miracles. Praise be to the Most High.Thank you to the Ukrainian President.Thank you to everyone who prayed for me or cried for me.My ribs are a little sore… but I am still standing and ready to serve.Oh—and if someone has some Sprite, and maybe if a brother or sistercould hook a girl up with halal chicken and lamb over rice?I’d be grateful."

The crowd erupted. A wave of laughter and sobbing and shouting washed over D.C. and across every living room watching. Phones shook in trembling hands. Newscasters cried openly on air. Entire families on couches fell to their knees and whispered, "She’s back. She’s really back."

In Ukraine, President Zelensky stood from a war room table, eyes misted as his team watched the feed. In the Bronx, someone yelled out of a fourth-floor window, “That’s my First Lady!” And across mosque steps in Chicago, Black, Arab, and Desi elders clapped with open palms, repeating her words with joy and tears.

Inside the White House, Damion couldn’t speak.

He just fell into the nearest chair, dropped his head into his hands, and let the wave of relief collapse him.

His wife—the mother of his children, the woman the world had tried to steal—was not only alive.

She was still Daisy.

And God help whoever tried to take her again.

Chapter 182 Still Daisy

The wind teased the hem of her hospital gown as Daisy steadied herself against the IV pole, eyes scanning the ocean of faces below. The cheers still rippled, though now many were standing in stunned silence, tears streaking cheeks, hearts clenched in gratitude.

But Daisy wasn’t done.

With the same breathless fire that had never once let her die, she lowered her first message and carefully flipped the notebook page over. Her hand shook—still sore, still healing—but her pen strokes were unmistakably her: bold, loopy, and just a little dramatic.

She raised it again, grinning softly through exhaustion.

"Nah but for real,that halal food is always bussinand I got mean cotton mouth in here…Oh and to the aunties out there,hook ya girl up with some sweets—Dr. Nasir don’t gotta know!"

The crowd roared. It was a joyful, full-bellied eruption, the kind that came after mourning had overstayed its welcome and laughter finally broke through. It echoed through the marble buildings of D.C., across radios, through car speakers, through tears and dancing in the streets.

Black aunties started pulling out their family dessert recipes.

Arab and Desi women called their daughters from the kitchen.

HBCU students in Howard group chats were already debating what flavor of halal platters to bring first.

And on TikTok, videos exploded under the tag #StillDaisy, showing people holding up their own signs: “We got the Sprite, First Lady.” “Halal on the way, sis!” “We hid the sweets from Dr. Nasir!” “You asked…we delivered.”

In her hospital room, Daisy leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the balcony door, heart thudding softly in her chest. She was tired. She was fragile. But she was alive. And her people? They had never left her.

Inside the White House, the cabinet and family crowded around Damion’s phone, rewatching the moment.

He clutched the device to his chest, his voice thick, eyes glassy. “She’s still her,” he whispered, half laughing, half crying. “She’s still… Daisy.”

And across the nation—and the world—people realized something powerful:

Even in the face of hell, joy had survived.

And so had she.

Chapter 183 Still Daisy: Part II

The wind kissed her cheeks like an old friend as Daisy once again stepped out onto the private White House medical balcony, her steps still wobbly but determined. The IV pole clacked softly at her side as she guided it with care, her other hand pressing lightly against her ribs. The applause hadn't even stopped from the first round. But she had more to say—more to give.

She smiled bashfully at the crowd below, then rubbed the back of her neck like a girl who knew she was doing too much—and doing it anyway.

With another flourish of her notebook, she lifted a new message over her head, scribbled in big, uneven letters, but every word pure Daisy Emmad:

"I ain’t forget about my girls now!Since Dr. Nasir says I gotta rest (he doin' the most)...But I’m a multitasker!My women’s meetings aren’t canceled.Tell a friend, bring a friend,give me like two daysand come here—we can meet, laugh, cry, talk, eat!"

The crowd gasped, then erupted—again. The women especially. Black women. Brown women. Women from all faiths and backgrounds. Women who saw themselves in her—who had wept when she disappeared, prayed when she was beaten, and now cheered because their sister had survived.

Inside, the cameras captured everything. The moment wasn’t polished, wasn’t poised.

It was powerful.

Social media immediately surged. #DaisysGirls began trending. “We’ll be there in two days.” “She’s holding her ribs but still holding space for us.” “Name a stronger woman. I’ll wait.”

White House staff began fielding thousands of RSVPs from women's organizations, sister circles, young girls' mentoring programs, doulas, lawyers, shelter workers, nurses, grandmothers, students.

Daisy Emmad had barely returned, but already, she was gathering the women.

From her balcony, she exhaled slowly and waved again, eyes misty. Then she mouthed what the crowd couldn’t hear—but instinctively understood:

“I love y’all.”

She turned, tugged her IV stand behind her, and slipped back into the room where healing still waited.

And every woman watching knew—without question—

Their First Lady was back.

Chapter 184 Return to His Arms

He was already on the move before the crowd finished screaming.

Damion Rashaad Emmad had been watching the live feed with the rest of the cabinet, standing at the back of the medical suite, arms folded, jaw tight. The second she stepped out onto that balcony—IV stand and all—he didn’t ask permission.

He ran.

Secret Service knew better than to block him. A few peeled off to escort him, the rest parted like the sea. His strides were long, heart pounding like a war drum inside his chest. That was his wife. His everything. After nights of sleepless grief, rage, prayer, and military fire, she had walked herself to the balcony and waved to the nation like a queen holding court.

And still thinking about her girls?

Yeah, he wasn’t wasting another damn second.

When he burst into her room, the IV stand had just clicked into place by the bed again. She was slowly settling back under the sheets, her hair a little wild from the wind, cheeks flushed. She looked up—eyes tired but bright—and before she could say a word, Damion was on his knees beside the bed.

His hands cradled her face like it was spun glass. He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her fingers, his own eyes wet now.

“You stubborn, beautiful, brave-ass woman,” he whispered thickly. “Do you know what you just did out there? You almost killed me again.”

She tried to smile, but her lower lip quivered. “Had to let them know I’m still here.”

He brushed his thumb along the bandage near her temple, his breath catching. “Don’t ever do that again without me. If you gotta walk through hell—I’m going with you. Always.”

“I missed you,” she choked softly, and her voice broke on the last syllable.

He pressed his forehead to hers, holding her so gently it was almost reverent. “Baby, you are my soul. I missed you every hour. I was ready to tear the whole damn world apart to find you.”

Her hand curled weakly around the collar of his suit. “You did. You brought me home.”

He nodded slowly, swallowing hard. “And I’ll do it again. A hundred times. A thousand. I don’t care how many devils I gotta fight—no one takes you from me and lives to brag about it.”

Then, with a quiet sigh of awe, he placed his hand on her belly. Their future—still uncertain, still fragile—rested there.

“I need you both,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You and this little warrior. So please… rest now. Let me protect you.”

She nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I love you, Damion. I needed you so bad.”

“I’m here,” he whispered, climbing into the bed beside her, his arms wrapping around her gently. “You’ll never need me again without me being right here. Always.”

And for the first time in weeks, Daisy Emmad slept—not from exhaustion, or pain, or medication—

—but safe, wrapped in the arms of the man who would burn the world down before ever letting her be taken again.

Chapter 185 Sanctuary

The room had finally emptied. Guards posted quietly outside. Monitors dimmed. Only the steady hush of machines and the soft hum of the White House night surrounded them.

Damion had drawn the curtains and dimmed the lights to a soft golden hue. Not because she needed darkness, but because she deserved peace. The kind of sacred peace only intimacy could restore.

Daisy lay propped against the pillows, IV still attached, eyes fluttering open as she felt his hand trail slowly across her cheek, then down to the pulse point at her throat—where her life beat steady and warm beneath his fingertips.

“I almost didn’t make it,” she whispered.

“You did,” he said, voice a low growl as he pressed a kiss to the center of her palm. “Because you’re mine. And I felt you. Every second. I felt you fighting to come back to me.”

Her eyes shined. “I needed you, Damion. I needed your hands. Your voice. Your weight. Your arms. Your... presence.”

He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “You got all of me, baby. Right now. Ain’t nobody here but us.”

He kissed her carefully, tender at first—until her hand found the back of his neck and held him there, trembling but hungry, full of longing carved deep into her bones.

He groaned against her mouth, easing himself gently beside her, arms bracketing her body without pressure. His hands moved slowly across the fabric of her hospital gown, reverent, as if reacquainting himself with every inch stolen from his protection.

“Did they hurt you here?” he whispered against her ribs, his palm cupping the delicate space just beneath her bruised side.

She nodded faintly.

His mouth met the skin there, slow, warm. “Then I’m kissing it better.”

“And here?” he asked, fingertips brushing her thigh.

Her breath hitched. Another nod.

He kissed it next. “This too.”

He moved with patience. Not to seduce, not to consume—but to restore. Every gentle touch of his lips was a reclaiming, every whispered word a balm to her body and soul.

“Daisy René Emmad,” he murmured, “you’re my wife. My queen. And nobody—nobody—will ever make you feel unsafe again. Not while I breathe.”

Her fingers slid through his curls as she held him close, eyes full of tears. “You don’t know what it did to me… being without your arms. Without your weight. I needed your dominance. Your presence. I needed to feel like I was yoursagain.”

“You never stopped being mine,” he growled softly, lips trailing along her collarbone. “But I’ll remind your body every damn day if I have to.”

And when she nodded—aching but willing—he climbed fully into bed with her, careful not to jar the IV or her healing body. He tucked her beneath him, chest to chest, his warmth surrounding her like armor. Their lips found each other again, a different kind of hunger stirring—not rushed, not rough—but deep and affirming.

Daisy clung to her husband like he was breath itself, whispering against his lips: “Stay right here. Make me feel safe again.”

And Damion, eyes fierce, hand on her belly and heart both, whispered back:

“I got you, Mrs. Emmad. For life. And when you’re ready—I’ll remind the world you were never broken. Just reborn.”

That night wasn’t about lust. It was about healing. About two warriors—one stolen, one raging—reuniting in sacred softness. And beneath the weight of his love, Daisy finally slept in peace, her body cradled, her soul safe.

He laid her gently on the plush king-sized bed, gazing down at her with reverence and adoration. Daisy's beautiful caramel skin seemed to glow in the candlelight, her almond-shaped eyes shimmering with emotion as she reached up to cup his cheek.

"Damion," she whispered softly, "I missed you so much. I thought I'd never see you again."

His heart clenched at the vulnerability in her voice. "I missed you too, baby. More than words can express. But you're safe now. I'll never let anyone hurt you again."

Damion leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers. Their breath mingled as they savored this intimate moment of connection. Slowly, he trailed tender kisses along her jawline, down the column of her neck. Daisy shivered, arching into his touch.

He worshipped her body with reverent caresses, mapping every curve and hollow he knew so well. His hands slid beneath the silken fabric of her nightgown, pushing it up to bare her smooth thighs. He kissed along them, relishing the feeling of her skin against his lips.

Daisy's fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close. "Damion...I need you," she breathed. "I need to feel alive again."

His answer was a low growl as he rose up to claim her mouth in a searing kiss. Tongues entwined, dancing a passionate dance of desire. Damion's hand slid higher, cupping the heat between her legs. She was already wet for him, ready.

He pulled back, looking into her eyes. "Tell me what you need, baby. I'll give you anything."

Daisy nipped at his bottom lip. "I need you to make me yours again. Claim me, body and soul. Show me how much you love me."

With a feral grin, Damion captured her lips once more as he positioned himself at her entrance. Slowly, reverently, he slid inside her welcoming warmth. They both moaned at the exquisite sensation of joining.

He took her with long, deep strokes, each one a declaration of his devotion. His hands roamed her body, touching, caressing, stoking the flames of their passion higher. Daisy met him thrust for thrust, nails raking down his back as she urged him on.

Tension coiled in Damion's core, the need to possess her, to fill her with his seed almost overwhelming. But he held back, determined to give Daisy the pleasure she craved first. His fingers found her sensitive pearl, circling and teasing until she was writhing beneath him.

"Cum for me, baby," he commanded. "Let me feel you come undone."

Daisy shattered with a keening cry, her inner muscles clamping down around him like a vise. The feel of her pulsing around his length sent Damion over the edge and he followed her into ecstasy with a guttural groan.

They collapsed together in a tangle of sweat-slick limbs, hearts pounding as one. Damion held Daisy close, murmuring soothing words against her skin as she trembled in the aftermath of their lovemaking.

"I love you so much," he whispered fervently. "You're my everything."

Daisy smiled up at him, eyes bright with unshed tears. "And you're mine. Forever."

Sealed with a tender kiss, they drifted off to sleep in each other's arms, safe in the knowledge that they would face whatever challenges lay ahead together - because they had already conquered the impossible. Their love was unbreakable.

"Good morning, beautiful," he murmured, his lips brushing against her neck. She could feel his breath, warm and steady, against her skin. His hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples until they hardened into tight buds. She arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Damion's hands slid down her body, his touch lingering on her hips, her thighs. He rolled her onto her back, his body covering hers. She could feel his hardness, hot and insistent, against her stomach. She reached for him, her hand wrapping around his length, but he batted it away. "Not yet, sweetheart," he growled, his voice low and commanding. "Today is about you."

He kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring her mouth, claiming her. She melted into the kiss, her body softening under his touch. His hands roamed her body, teasing, taunting, driving her wild. She could feel her desire building, her body aching for his touch.

Damion's mouth trailed down her body, his tongue licking, his teeth nipping. He lavished attention on her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. He kissed the insides of her thighs, his breath hot against her skin. She could feel her desire pooling between her legs, her body begging for his touch. He didn't make her wait long. His tongue found her clit, his touch gentle but insistent. He licked, he sucked, he nibbled, driving her wild. She could feel her orgasm building, her body tensing as he worked her expertly. His hands gripped her thighs, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he held her open for him. And then she was cuming, her body convulsing, her cries filling the room. Damion didn't stop, his tongue and fingers working her through her orgasm, drawing out her pleasure. He kissed her inner thighs, her stomach, her breasts, his touch soft and loving.

She could feel his pride, his satisfaction in pleasing her. She was his, and he was hers, and in that moment, nothing else mattered. He moved up her body, his lips capturing hers in a deep, passionate kiss. She could taste herself on his lips, her desire mingling with his. She reached for him again, her hand wrapping around his length, but he didn't stop her this time. Instead, he groaned, his hips thrusting into her touch. "Damion," she panted, her voice breathless. "I need you inside me." He growled, his body covering hers. She could feel his hardness, hot and insistent, against her entrance.

She wrapped her legs around him, urging him on. He thrust into her, his body filling hers, completing her. She cried out, her body arching to meet his. He began to move, his hips thrusting, his body taking hers. Her nails dug into his back, her body meeting his thrust for thrust. She could feel her orgasm building again, her body coiling tighter and tighter, ready to snap. "Damion," she panted, her voice a breathless whisper. "I'm close."

He groaned, his body moving faster, his thrusts harder. She could feel him hitting that spot inside her, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her body. And then she was coming, her body convulsing, her cries filling the room. Damion followed her over the edge, his body tensing, his dick pulsing as he spilled into her. He collapsed onto her, his body boneless, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

She wrapped her arms around him, her body holding him close as their combined releases dripped out of her body. She could feel his love, his protection, his possession. She was safe, she was home, she was his. And in that moment, she knew, she was finally truly home.

Chapter 186 Mine

The White House afternoon sun filtered softly through the long windows, casting a golden warmth over their suite. The medical equipment had been quietly rolled back, IV line disconnected for brief hours of supervised rest. And within those hours… they’d taken each other slow. Then hard. Then soft again.

It was now past noon.

Damion lay on his side, one hand tucked behind his head, the other trailing down the gentle curve of Daisy’s hip, his fingers drawing slow, idle circles on her bare skin beneath the sheets.

Her body, still healing but resilient, rested with a soft, steady breath. She had fallen asleep for a moment against his chest, but now she stirred—her legs stretching, sighing at the ache of pleasure and the weight of everything else that had come with it.

Damion’s grip tightened just a little around her waist. He bent his head to kiss her shoulder, then whispered, voice low and still heavy with emotion:

“You don’t know how close I was to burning the world down for you.”

Daisy, eyes still half-closed, gave a soft hum. “I know, baby… I felt it. I dreamed of your voice when I couldn’t hear anything else.”

He lifted himself onto his elbow, gazing down at her. “I’m feelin’ better now. But I still…” He exhaled. “I still need to feel like you’re mine again. Not because I doubt you. But because that bastard tried to take something that was never his. And I need you to remind me…”

Her lashes fluttered open. She looked at him—deeply, fully—and reached to cradle his jaw. “You want your René?”

“I need her,” he growled, hand tightening just slightly at her hip. “Not just your body. Your mouth. That little roll of your eyes when I say something slick. The way you whisper my name when I press you against the wall. I need all of it. All of you.”

Daisy sat up slowly, bare and glowing despite the bruises that were already fading. She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, careful but commanding. Her fingers slid into his curls, her forehead resting against his.

“You never lost me, baby,” she whispered. “I’m right here. I’m yours. And the only person that gets to touch me like this, claim me like this, is the man whose last name I wear like armor.”

His eyes burned. She could feel his hunger thrumming again. His hands slid up her thighs, anchoring her, needing her like breath.

“You gonna remind me, René?”

She nodded slowly, lips brushing his. “I’m gonna make you feel so close to me you’ll forget there was ever distance. I’ll remind you you’re the only one who’s ever touched me this way. The only one who ever will.”

And when their mouths met again, the kiss wasn’t frantic this time—it was deep, desperate in the way only lovers who had nearly lost each other could understand.

Damion didn’t just take her. He worshipped her. And Daisy didn’t just give herself—she offered him back every piece of herself that had been hidden, trembling, stolen.

For the first time since her return, she wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered something that broke him wide open:

“I’m safe now. You make me safe.”

And in that moment, all of Damion Rashaad Emmad’s rage melted into devotion. She was his. And now the whole damn world would be reminded.

Chapter 187 Cabinet Confidential

The White House had finally begun to exhale. The tension that had gripped the air for days had loosened just slightly, now replaced with the stillness of recovery—and for the Emmads, a kind of love that refused to break under fire.

In the private living quarters, the light was dim and golden, curtains parted just enough to let the afternoon in. Daisy lay curled in between Damion’s legs, her cheek pressed to his bare chest, fast asleep. A thick blanket covered most of her body, though her messy curls and faint bruises told a story of both pain and passion.

Damion leaned back against the headboard, shirtless, quiet, his arms cradling her like she was glass he refused to let slip again. His eyes were on the balcony where she’d waved to the world. Where she’d stood like a miracle.

The door opened with a soft knock that wasn’t really a knock at all. Elijah’s familiar voice carried in:

“Aye… y’all decent?”

Damion didn’t move. “Not especially. But we covered.”

Elijah stepped in, his Alpha lapel still pinned to his jacket, though his sleeves were rolled and his expression was halfway between worry and dry amusement. Nyla followed behind, in a cobalt Zeta hoodie, eyes scanning the room.

And then Elijah stopped short.

Daisy was still sleeping peacefully between Damion’s thighs, one arm draped possessively over his waist, her breathing slow and steady.

Elijah raised an eyebrow as he folded his arms. “Damn, mate. You really couldn’t help yourself? Girl just got back from captivity and you got her sleepin’ like she ran a marathon.”

Damion’s mouth curled, lazy and unapologetic. “She wanted to be reminded she was home. And I’m her home.”

Nyla snorted, dropping into a nearby armchair. “Mmhmm. You stay hunching the girl, Damion. She barely gets breaks between pregnancies!”

Damion chuckled low. “Ain’t my fault she fine, loyal, and knows how to arch that back like a blessing from heaven.”

Elijah turned to Nyla with mock offense. “Why are you letting him be like this? Man got the First Lady lookin’ like she fought the Devil and then got put in the backseat of a Monte Carlo.”

Nyla shrugged, grinning. “Because it’s kinda beautiful. She looked like she died in that footage. Now look at her. Peaceful. Loved. Safe.”

Damion looked down at Daisy, his palm gently smoothing over her curls. “That’s all I ever wanted for her.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The four of them, the true core of the Emmad administration, stood or sat in quiet reverence.

Elijah broke the silence, his voice softer now. “World still shakin’, bruv. But this room right here? This the center. This what they tried to destroy. And failed.”

Damion nodded, eyes never leaving Daisy. “Let ‘em all watch. Let ‘em see what love looks like when it survives war.”

Nyla added gently, “And what leadership looks like… when it still bleeds and still stands.”

The room stayed still, save for Daisy’s breathing.

And though none of them said it aloud—each one of them knew: the war wasn’t over. But their Queen had survived.

And love had held the throne.

Chapter 188 His Always

The room was still cloaked in that hazy intimacy, the kind that only settles in after too much grief has been survived and too much love has been poured. The late afternoon sun dappled across Daisy’s skin as she stirred, a soft groan in her throat, delicate and nearly inaudible.

Damion felt her shift before he heard her voice. Her fingers gently curled against his chest, her lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as she whispered, so quiet, so his,

“Dame… have them leave. I’m ready for the next round.”

He didn’t react at first. Not out of hesitation, but reverence. That voice—the one only he ever heard like that—soft, placid, needy in the most sacred way. She sounded like surrender. Not the broken kind. The kind that was love.

“Elijah. Nyla,” Damion said low and even, his hand smoothing over Daisy’s hip as he held her tighter. “Give us the room.”

Elijah blinked. “You serious? Again?”

Nyla stood, smiling knowingly as she motioned for Elijah to follow. “Let the man have his wife. You saw what he went through. She just got her life back, let ‘em live.”

Elijah threw up his hands but didn’t argue. “Fine, fine. But you’re gonna wear her out before the inauguration parade.”

Nyla rolled her eyes. “That girl’ll be walking with a glow, not a limp. Let’s go.”

They slipped out, the door clicking closed behind them.

The moment they were alone again, Daisy pressed her face into Damion’s neck, inhaling him, clutching him.

“I missed your weight,” she whispered. “Your warmth… the way you look at me like I’m everything.”

“You are everything,” Damion murmured, shifting to hover over her with gentle command. “And I’m gonna remind you just how much you still belong to me. Not just your body, baby… your soul. Your strength. Your softness. All mine.”

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes even as her thighs shifted beneath him. “Take it, Dame. I need to feel safe in you.”

He kissed her forehead first, then her lips, and then lower—worshiping every inch like a vow. Every touch was careful but firm, every sigh she gave him was soaked in both love and aching release.

Daisy had nearly died.

But now, she was alive.

And in Damion’s arms, moaning his name like prayer, she knew she was finally home again.

Chapter 189 Praise Her Back to Life

She was already crying before he even touched her again. Not from fear—but from feeling. The kind that split a woman open, stripped her down to everything raw and real. Daisy lay beneath him with her eyes glassy and red-rimmed, fingers clutching his wrist as Damion hovered over her, lips brushing her temple.

“You with me, mama?” he asked gently, thumb stroking along her trembling jaw.

She nodded through a choked sob, breath catching in her throat. “I—I’m trying,” she whispered. “I feel too much… and not enough.”

Damion kissed the corner of her mouth. “That’s alright. I got you. Let me bring you home slow.” His voice—rich, husky, reverent—melted over her skin like honey warmed on fire. His weight settled into her slowly, grounding, commanding, but never harsh. His hands moved across her like prayers, like promises.

“Look at me,” he breathed, cupping her cheek. “You been through hell, but baby… you’re still mine. Ain’t no pain, no enemy, no devil alive that can take you from me.”

Her tears slipped out in slow rivulets, but she didn’t turn away. She let him see her. And he praised every bit of it. Every tremble. Every sob.

“That’s it,” he murmured, sliding inside her like truth, slow and deep. “You feel that? That’s me. That’s love, girl. That’s safety. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known, and still the sweetest thing I’ve ever touched.”

A hiccuped cry slipped from her throat.

“That’s right, let it out. Let me feel those tears, I’ll take ‘em all. You’re a miracle walkin’, Daisy René. My miracle. Still so soft. Still so powerful. And damn, you’re still mine.”

His strokes were measured—filthy and reverent all at once, the kind of intimacy that blurred lines between worship and want.

“You’re the mother of my babies. The woman that turned the White House into a home. You make power look gentle, and gentleness look invincible.”

She clutched him tighter, sobbing into his neck, legs wrapped around his waist like her whole body was pleading for him to never let go again.

And he didn’t.

He kissed her through her unraveling. Worked her through every tear with groans of love, deep praise echoing in her ears as her body shook and shattered beneath his.

“You’re so beautiful when you cry for me,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear as he held her in his arms, both of them breathless and undone. “Even broken, you’re everything. And I’ll keep loving you like this every damn day… until you believe it again.”

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

Her body melted against him, heart pounding as she let herself finally fall—completely, entirely—into the arms of the man who never stopped loving her.

Even when the world tried to rip her away.

Chapter 190 His Perspective – A Holy Return

Damion couldn’t sleep.

Not because he was restless—but because for the first time in weeks, maybe months, he felt peace. Real, bone-deep, soul-quieting peace.

His wife was asleep beside him. No—on him. Draped across his chest like she always used to be, like her rightful place had always been pressed against his heartbeat. Daisy’s hand rested over his ribcage, fingers curled gently, like her body still needed proof he was there. Her breath was soft. Calm. No more gasping in sleep. No more flinching at shadows. Just rest.

And Lord… she’d earned it.

Damion exhaled, brushing his lips to the top of her head. His arm wrapped around her waist, his other hand resting protectively over the slight swell of her belly. Barely there. Just a whisper of new life. His son. Their son. Still alive. Still fighting.

They all made it.

He closed his eyes and whispered thanks to whoever had listened—God, the ancestors, maybe even the quiet strength of his wife’s own spirit—but he wouldn’t forget this gift. This grace.

Ten times.

That’s how many times he’d had her since they were reunited—soft and begging, pliant and praising, trembling and whispering his name like it was the only word she still trusted. Ten times he’d held her like she was the most fragile and precious thing on earth. And ten times she gave herself to him like only she ever could.

Only to him.

It wasn’t about the sex. It never was.

It was about having her back. Her breath, her surrender, her tears—yes, even her tears—because they were his now. Just like her joy. Just like that gentle, silken side of her that she reserved for no one else.

Daisy Emmad, the First Lady of the United States, beloved by the world… was still his woman. And when she was beneath him, soft and needy, whispering “Dame, please” in that broken voice full of trust—it was sacred.

She’d always been a warrior. A queen. A force. But when she melted in his arms? That was the part of her the world would never understand. That pure, vulnerable submission she offered only to him—it was more precious than gold.

Damion kissed her temple again and tightened his hold. “I got you, mama,” he whispered. “Ain’t nobody ever takin’ you again.”

He still remembered the screams in his throat the moment he thought she was gone forever. The nights he raged in silence. The deal he made with God or the devil—whoever would listen. He’d tear down the earth brick by brick to get her back.

But now? She was here. Alive. Healing. Still trusting him with the softest parts of her.

His heart ached just thinking about it.

He looked down at her, at the slight movement of her lips as she dreamed. One of her legs curled between his, her whole body wrapped around him like she knew she’d found safety again.

And he vowed—right there, holding his entire world in his arms—that he’d never take her softness for granted again. Never take her light. Her sweetness. Her submission. Because to him, it wasn’t weakness. It was holy.

A gift only she could give.

And he’d spend the rest of his life proving he was worthy of it.

#michael b jordan x black!oc #michael b jordan fanfiction #romance #x black oc #mature fic

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