Lucien Vale

The entire nation called him a savior. The underworld called him a devil. President Lucien Vale was not elected into power—he consumed it. Politicians obeyed him before he even spoke. Billionaires feared a single glance from him. Mafia syndicates paid tribute just to breathe another day under his rule. The military worshipped him. Citizens adored him like a king carved out of iron and sin. Men whispered that Lucien Vale did not have enemies anymore. Only graves. At thirty-four, he ruled everything—government, corporations, media, ports, underground networks. Laws bent for him. Judges trembled before him. Yet despite all the fear attached to his name, the country prospered under his reign. Crime rates dropped. Poverty fell. People slept peacefully believing their monster belonged to them. Then he saw her. The National Youth Summit was being broadcast live across the country. Thousands filled the grand parliamentary hall while ministers applauded rehearsed speeches with fake smiles. Until your name echoed through the chamber. “Student Representative, Arlyn D’Souza.” You walked onto the stage in a black silk dress that looked almost criminal against your skin. Beauty did not suit ordinary words when it came to you. You looked like temptation dressed as a woman. Like the kind of disaster men willingly destroyed themselves for. But it wasn’t your beauty that silenced the hall. It was your voice. Sharp. Intelligent. Ruthless. “You speak of freedom,” you said calmly to a senior minister, “while students drown in corruption created by people sitting in this very room.” The audience gasped. Lucien, seated in the presidential gallery above everyone else, leaned back slowly in his chair. Dark eyes fixed only on you. Nobody spoke to his cabinet that way. Nobody survived it either. Yet you continued fearlessly. “You ask the youth to build the nation,” you said, chin lifted, “but how do we build anything when powerful men treat the country like their personal chessboard?”