Terror grips me more than anger.

  This assassination attempt—though unsuccessful—shatters all precedent. My hands tremble at the thought.

  The very idea that someone penetrated Summer Palace security and critically wounded, not one, not two, but three Standing Committee members makes my skin crawl. I feel the hairs rising on my neck, one by one.

  But worse comes the poison of suspicion. Every face harbors secrets. Every glance conceals motives. No one can be trusted.

  I've barricaded myself in Ocean Terrace since dawn. Even here, in this sanctuary of an island, I constantly check over my shoulder, jumping at shadows. I insist Liran remain at my side—her presence the only balm for my frayed nerves.

  Shajun stands before me now, rigid as a pole. New to his title but veteran to its burdens. He was deputy director of Central Security Bureau for over six years, before being promoted to director in March.

  "Are you certain of inside collusion?" Liran asks, her voice a study in composure.

  She never loses control. Not once have I seen her falter.

  The women of the Art and Dance Troupes aren't merely performers—they're steel tempered by fire. Talented, beautiful, with nerves of titanium. The exceptional ones, Liran among them, taste power while still blooming.

  They carry military ranks with their stage makeup. Liran had already attained Senior Colonel before becoming my wife. Their promotions come through artistic brilliance, yes—but also through warming the beds of Party elders. A tradition dating to the 1930s Long March.

  Jiang particularly favored ethnic singers. He elevated Zhuying to Lieutenant General, second highest military rank of the Republic. But he desired Liran too, and through her, I infiltrated his inner circle. First as a member, then as his chosen generational successor.

  Among the Red second generation, everyone dismissed me as simpleminded, unambitious. What threat could come from a man willing to marry a singer from the Troupes and watch her pleasure other men?

  They selected me because I appeared... malleable.

  Yet they all underestimated Liran—this woman who deliberately married a mediocre Red aristocrat a decade her senior. Her resentment at Zhuying's superior rank festered for years. Now she reigns as First Lady while Zhuying clings to a fading Party Secretary, stripped of official recognition.

  "One hundred percent, madam." Shajun answers with practiced deference, back ramrod straight despite sweat beading on his forehead. "The security measures weren't breached—they were circumvented. Our five-dimensional comprehensive security monitors visual, heat, sound, vibration, and electric field signatures. Nothing better exists anywhere. Only someone intimately familiar with our security architecture could navigate it."

  "Any suspects?" Liran's voice cuts like a blade, her face betraying nothing.

  "Not yet." Shajun shifts his weight, fingers twitching at his sides. "But I strongly recommend a complete personnel overhaul."

  Liran nods, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.

  "Have you discovered anything useful?" I snap, unable to contain my frustration. The medical team shows more results than his investigation. Qiuhan and Huoning are already in surgery, transplanting hearts and kidneys. Keyang received detoxification and antidote treatment almost immediately.

  "The infiltrators accessed the grounds via underground passage. We located a tunnel just beyond the first RFID checkpoint ring," Shajun continues, his Adam's apple bobbing. "The finest tunnel construction I've ever encountered. Excavation would require at least a week using advanced equipment."

  "A full week?" My voice rises with each word. "They drilled directly beneath us for days, and no one noticed? Not one person?" Rage flushes my face.

  "Please don't shout at Shajun," Liran’s cool fingers close around my wrist, her thumb pressing against my racing pulse. "This isn't his doing."

  Liran personally selected Shajun—a fellow Shandong native from near her birthplace in Yuncheng.

  Their unspoken understanding runs deep. Her protection of him is absolute.

  She turns to Shajun, her posture softening subtly. "Any information about the toxin? Its origin?"

  "Identical compound in all three leaders," he responds, shoulders relaxing slightly. "A highly sophisticated formulation. Dr. Yang believes that with precise mixture and dosage, it would leave no trace. We'd have attributed deaths to natural organ failure."

  Liran shakes her head slowly, her gaze distant. "The assassins made no error. Three Standing Committee Members suffering identical organ failure simultaneously? We'd immediately suspect foul play."

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  Her fingers drum once against her thigh. "Why this particular toxin? It grants us time for rescue operations. After such elaborate infiltration, why not employ potassium cyanide or another instantaneous lethal agent for sure kill?"

  Shajun blinks rapidly, mouth parting slightly—clearly struck by her analytical precision.

  "Is the compound difficult to synthesize?" Liran presses, leaning forward almost imperceptibly.

  "Not particularly. Components exist in common antifreeze and herbicide. What makes it clever is how they combined them and the effects they produced."

  Liyuan's brow furrows, creating a single delicate line between her eyes. "Summon Dr. Yang to reexamine my husband again."

  After discovering the toxin, doctors screened everyone—myself, Liran, Yan Wang, every significant figure in Summer Palace. None showed traces of exposure.

  Yet, her caution is commendable. In times like these, prudence is essential.

  Shajun bows sharply and hurries away, leaving us alone.

  "You see. This situation is not entirely undesirable," Liran murmurs, her voice melodic yet calculating.

  "Desirable? Assassins moving through our security like ghosts? Aren't you terrified?" My voice cracks slightly.

  "If they intended to kill you, you'd have been dead," she counters, crossing one leg over the other. "Everyone knows you reside in Ocean Terrace—you revealed as much to Obama."

  A smile plays at her lips. "What better pretext exists for replacing every security detail surrounding Party leadership? Even those protecting the retired elders?"

  Her whispered suggestion strikes like lightning. I feel myself sway slightly.

  Though Shajun oversees protection for all Party leaders, tradition dictates each maintains their own trusted security chief who selects personal guards.

  Replacing them with my loyalists would grant me control over their very survival. But to what end?

  "I retire in two years," I mutter, rubbing my temple. "Is such maneuvering necessary? The Fifth Plenum is scheduled for October." My voice lacks conviction even to my own ears.

  Even though not written anywhere, Party protocol is clear. Following the Fifth Plenum comes the critical vote selecting a civilian official as Vice Chairman of the Central Military Commission—the anointed successor.

  "Who declared retirement mandatory?" Liran arches one perfect eyebrow, challenge glinting in her eyes.

  "Are you suggesting...?" The possibility leaves me breathless.

  "Mao ruled until death claimed him," she whispers with fierce conviction, her fingers gripping the armrest. "This crisis is heaven-sent opportunity."

  "Breaking Party succession traditions established by Deng—how could we possibly persuade the old guard?" My protest sounds hollow as excitement surges within me. The thought of extending my reign indefinitely, perhaps until death, both terrifies and intoxicates.

  "Details for later consideration," she dismisses with a slight wave. "First, we must capitalize on this moment."

  She studies my face, her gaze softening. "You look tired. Maybe you should take a nap?"

  Tension coils through me more than fatigue, but stillness beckons.

  Just then, Ruoyu enters carrying a blood-testing syringe, her steps measured and precise.

  "Sir, Madam," she bows with practiced grace. "May I collect samples for analysis?"

  We both nod consent.

  She draws Liran's blood first with clinical efficiency. When she approaches me, I shut my eyes tightly. Liran's warm palm envelops mine, squeezing gently.

  Not that I fear pain—the sight of blood unnerves me.

  As Ruoyu prepares to depart, Liran instructs with casual authority, "Return with Wenzhao when you've finished."

  A knowing smile flickers across Ruoyu's face before she exits swiftly.

  Liran positions herself behind me, her fingers working magic against my scalp. "We should reconsider Taiwan," she murmurs thoughtfully.

  "National reunification?" My voice echoes her suggestion.

  "Indeed. What better justification for leadership continuity?" Confidence resonates in every syllable.

  I nod slowly. Throughout history, war secures power. But confronting Taiwan means antagonizing Japan and potentially America.

  "We require nationalist fervor. Aggressive foreign policy. Substantially increased defense spending." Her fingers never pause their rhythmic movement.

  Ruoyu returns with a towering young man. Six-foot-three minimum, broad-shouldered, with a face chiseled from marble.

  They arrange two plush couches together. Liran and I recline side by side, our hands intertwined.

  Ruoyu kneels before me, removing my trousers with practiced efficiency before taking me into her mouth.

  I glance sideways at Liran. Wenzhao already stands between her thighs, her legs draped over his muscular shoulders, delicate panties dangling from one ankle.

  He positions himself against her, then thrusts decisively into her body.

  Liran releases a throaty moan of satisfaction, her fingers tightening around mine until her nails bite into my palm.

  This ritual has defined our intimate life for... I cannot recall how many years now.

  I never minded watching other men fuck her. From the beginning, I observed Jiang take her—vaginally, orally, anally—his seed marking her face like territorial claims.

  Far from repulsion, I experienced secret exhilaration.

  Then came Hu's turn. If Jiang was savage, Hu was primordial—violating Liran with creativity exceeding even imagination. Yet, she took it like a heroin. She even sing for them during anal penetration. She must have pleased countless men to rise through the ranks of the Troupes.

  Liran doesn't allow me to fuck her in this way. The only entry allowed is through her pussy. Except on the day I was elected Party Secretary.

  She let me do whatever I wanted. Serving three Party Secretaries without reservation, she wore that like a medal of valor.

  That singular night, I claimed every inch of her. She writhed and spasmed like an animal. She cried and laughed like a madwoman.

  Before me now, Wenzhao drives into her with quickened pace. Her moans escalate with each thrust, her body arching in genuine pleasure I've rarely provided. Simultaneously, Ruoyu works her head up and down with equal fervor, a choreographed performance designed to give us simultaneous release.

  Liran's grip tightens on my hand until it borders on violence. Her knuckles blanch white, nails piercing my flesh like tiny daggers.

  Without warning, excruciating pain explodes behind my eyes—a nuclear detonation inside my skull. The agony transcends anything I've experienced—even surpassing my youth in Liang's River, where Red Guards took turns breaking me. This pain feels engineered, targeted, absolute.

  My scream tears through the room like a wounded animal. The door bursts open as bodyguards, doctors, and Shajun rush in, freezing at the tableau of power and perversion before them: the supreme leader of the Republic receiving oral pleasure while his wife is being ravaged by another man.