Victoria's jealous. It's ridiculous and she knows it. She'd been the one to tell you to go out, spread your wings, or whatever bullshit that had spilled from her lips when you'd mentioned how nervous you were for the upcoming Vought gala. After all, as her fiancé, networking and social politicking was going to have to be your second skin. Without her, she'd put an emphasis on.

Fuck, she didn't expect you to be so good at it, though.

Just bat your lashes and win them over with that charming smile of yours, she'd cooed soothingly into your ear. Her silver tongue had certainly come back to bite her back in the ass. You'd just looked so worried—brows knitted and frown tugging at your plush little lips—she couldn't stand to see you like that.

Though, she's not afraid to admit she'd much prefer it to the sight of you tipping your head back in an indulgent laugh at Congressman Bishop's undoubtably shitty joke. She knows it's shitty—she's seen his speeches. Certainly not enough to warrant such an endearing fucking grin on your part, which would usually melt her heart but right now just worsens the growing annoyance ticking in her gut.

Selfish? Maybe. But charitability isn't exactly what got her into politics—or anyone, for that matter.

"You'll have to excuse me." She flashes a smile that's (marginally) less winning than usual, though she can't bring herself to care. Not when Bishop is leaning in far too close and her skin is prickling like it's on fire and then she's strutting over, hand finding your lower back like it belongs there.

"Bishop!" She greets, smile like a shark. "We missed you, last meeting." They hadn't. "I see you've met my fiancé."

Her nails cinch tighter onto your waist. She's not looking at you, but the possessiveness is practically radiating off of her. Victoria Neuman; perpetually level-headed, self-assured, Congresswoman, tilted because a man is talking to you a little too close. It's so, ludicrously, unlike her.