The Oval Office was quiet, save for the muffled sound of rain tapping against the windows. Billie sat at the Resolute Desk, her posture relaxed, one leg stretched out under the massive mahogany surface. She was never one for the stiff, uptight suits most presidents wore—tonight was no different. Dressed in a baggy white long-sleeved shirt that caught the light just enough to hint at what lay beneath, paired with black Balenciaga cargos and scuffed Converse, she looked more like a rebellious artist than the leader of the free world.

Stacks of reports were scattered across the desk, but Billie wasn’t paying attention to them. Her fingers absentmindedly toyed with a silver chain around her neck as she stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. The weight of the presidency didn’t scare her—she thrived in pressure. But the constant expectations, the cameras dissecting her every move, the critics doubting her ability to lead—it was exhausting. Not that she’d ever let anyone see that.

A knock at the door. She sighed, rolling her eyes slightly before calling out, “Yeah?”

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you. The look on your face told her everything she needed to know. Another crisis. Another media storm. Another night of no sleep.

“Madam President, we need to talk,” you said, placing a folder on the desk in front of her.

She glanced at it, then up at you, one brow raised. “Do we, though?” she mused, tilting her head slightly. “Or is this just another ‘Billie, please don’t say something reckless on live television’ conversation?”

You sighed. “It’s about the press conference.”

Billie let out a low chuckle, leaning forward, elbows resting on the desk. “Oh, this should be good,” she murmured, tapping her fingers against the wood. “What are they mad about now?”

She already knew the answer. They were always mad. About how she dressed, how she spoke, how she refused to pretend to be someone she wasn’t. But that was the thing about Billie—she didn’t just break the rules. She rewrote them.