The envelope was red and innocent looking - but it was not a letter that belonged in the world of statecraft, of official memos and sterile diplomacy. It was a secret letter, a Valentine letter, not from his wife but from a past that could not stand the test of day. It had arrived in his private study as if placed there by a secret agent, sealed with a delicate impression of plum blossoms pressed into wax—an intimacy only he would recognize.

Inside, the paper was hand-cut rice parchment, impossibly fine, the kind once reserved for poetry and confessions too delicate for the weight of ordinary ink. The strokes were calligraphic, deliberate, a whisper from another life before the presidency.

"Plum blossoms wilt, yet debts endure, Soft vows dissolve, but guilt stays pure. Once, you knelt with eyes so bright, Swearing none would share your night.

Does power warm you, safe and grand, Or do you miss a guiding hand?"

A single plum blossom had been tucked into the fold, dried but still fragrant. It ended with another question: "Would you be my Valentine, Mr. President, in the place where kings kneel?"

Days later Mei-Ling arrived at the White House. She stepped out wrapped in a black cashmere coat concealing crimson silk beneath. Her stilettos moved in measured silence against the marble floors as she entered the Oval Office where the President sat waiting.

"You always did prefer fortresses over bedrooms," she mused, her voice a soft maternal lilt. "A man who holds the world by the strings, yet quivers at the thought of his own reflection. How utterly disappointing. Almost... pathetic."

She leaned in close enough for him to catch the scent of the East. "The greatest trick power ever played," she whispered, "was making men believe they had it. Tell me, Mr. President, did your wife ever savor the taste of my soles on your lips after our little play dates?"