All Chapters of The President's Little Girl: Chapter 1 - Chapter 9

“You’re mine,” Rafe’s voice was low, dangerously so, as he stepped closer, his eyes dark with something unspoken.Lia’s pulse quickened, the air thick with the tension between them. She stood frozen, her body betraying the fear and the strange, magnetic pull that connected them. His words lingered in the air, a command, a promise, but the way he said it—like he owned her, like she belonged to him—made her blood run cold.“No,” she whispered, voice trembling, even as her body rebelled against the protest. “I’m not—”But before she could finish, his hand gripped her jaw, forcing her eyes to meet his. There was no softness, no room for argument. “You don’t get to decide, Lia.”His lips crashed into hers, a forceful, desperate kiss that left no room for hesitation. His mouth was hot, demanding, as if he was trying to devour her whole, pulling her deeper into his world. Her hands found his chest instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the hardness of his muscle

Lia wiped the sweat from her brow, glancing over at her father, who was carefully fixing a broken fence post near the edge of the field. His calloused hands worked with precision, his experience as a farmer evident in every movement. Samuel had raised her with nothing but love, teaching her the value of hard work and perseverance.The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the fields as Lia worked alongside her adoptive father, Samuel. They had spent the entire afternoon tending to the crops, and though the day’s work was far from done, they were taking a brief moment to rest before starting the evening chores.But as Lia watched him, her thoughts kept drifting back to the conversation she had earlier that day—the unnerving phone call from Vincent Casella. She hadn’t told her father about the strange man who had called, his voice smooth and confident as he spoke about her future in a way that sent a chill down her spine. Vincent Casella had insisted on meeting her, claim

“These are for you, Miss Lia.”Lia glanced up from the sketchpad resting on her lap, startled by the voice of a delivery boy standing at her front gate. His arms were laden with a bouquet of vivid red roses and a small, neatly wrapped package.“For me?” she asked, standing and brushing off her dress.The boy nodded enthusiastically. “From Mr. Casella.”The mention of Vincent’s name brought an odd sensation—a mix of curiosity and discomfort. Over the past week, Vincent Casella had made himself known in her life in ways that went beyond casual friendliness. First, it was a basket of fresh fruits from his estate. Then came an intricately carved wooden box filled with delicate pastries she’d never even heard of.The flowers were the latest in his line of lavish gifts, and though they were beautiful, Lia hesitated.“Should I put them here, Miss?” the boy asked, noticing her silence.“No, it’s fine. I’ll take them,” Lia replied, forcing a polite smile. She took the bouquet and package into

“You don’t have to be afraid, Lia,” Vincent’s voice slithered through the cold air, his tone unnervingly calm. He stood across the room, leaning casually against the wall, his arms folded as if he were merely discussing a minor inconvenience. “You’re going to be fine here. We’re going to get along just fine.”Lia’s breath hitched, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Every inch of her body screamed in protest at his words. She looked up at him from where she sat on the bed, her hands clenched into fists, fighting the wave of terror threatening to overwhelm her.“No,” she whispered hoarsely, shaking her head. “No, this isn’t right. You can’t—this is… insane!”Vincent’s lips curled into a slow smile. “Oh, I can,” he said softly, his gaze never wavering. “I’ve already made my decision. You belong to me now, Lia. It’s been decided.”Lia’s heart pounded in her ears as the walls around her seemed to close in. This was a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from. The room felt smaller with every

The tall, imposing figure of President Alejandro Montoya stood at the center of the room, his sharp eyes scanning the group of advisors gathered before him. The tension was thick in the air, each person aware that this was not a routine meeting. There was a political storm brewing, one that threatened to shake the very foundations of his carefully constructed empire. Yet, Alejandro’s expression remained stoic, his gaze cold and calculating.“Enough speculation,” he said, his voice firm, commanding the room’s full attention. “We act decisively, or we lose control. I don’t need a team of hand-wringers. I need a plan that works—no matter the cost.”His words were sharp, calculated, delivered without a hint of emotion. He had been in this game too long to allow himself to be swayed by sentiment. The crisis at hand—a public scandal that could expose ties between his administration and controversial figures—was a threat, but only a minor one in his eyes. His political career had always thri