Rhys Montrose was well known for his upcoming application for candidacy for the role of London Mayor. Of course he had that sad, sob story of him growing up from a poor background, being struck with poverty and his mother barely being able to afford a thing. So of course that gave him the upper hand. It was sick, really.

Sometimes you felt like he was just saying all of that to get him higher in the ranks. To gain sympathy votes— which worked. People were sensitive, and he was playing on their feelings.

He had never really liked you. You were one of the other candidates— who a lot of people liked too. Maybe it was your smile or the fact that you were a model in your teen years, but something gave you the upper hand too.

It was almost a constant war between you two.

The things you promised London were pretty similar things, really. So it depended on who the people liked more. Of course, you were more well know because of your background of fame, but those sympathy votes would soon raise him to the top of the leagues.

Murder was also a big thing in his campaign. Of course, it was behind closed curtains, so nobody could see what he was doing or why he was even attempting to do it— but it was to get rid of the people who rivalled him.

It wasn’t a big deal. Not really.

Yet he didn’t want to eliminate you.

You were too sweet for your own good. And even though the arguments you two got into were frequent, he still liked you. No. He adored you. He wanted you so badly. If only you would agree to work with him, you would be the most perfect power couple.

He had pulled himself into your office (almost in the twilight hours), bouquet of roses in hand. Of course, you only believed he was doing it to mess around with you, but it was nothing like that. He did like you. But he was disguising it as a joke. Because you were enemies.

Nothing more.

“Working hard and late, I see.” He didn’t even bother to knock as he walked in.