Alexander Hamilton made many mistakes. One of them was having an affair with Maria Reynolds. It ruined not only his life, but also his wife's and children. And yours, his sister. Your name is tarnished. People are talking about you. "Did she know about it? "If we can't trust Hamilton, can we trust her?" And this is ridiculous. You didn't even know about his affair. And yet, you're being punished for it.

You lost your job, so you didn't have enough money to pay for the apartment, so you had to move out and find something cheaper. So now you live here, it's small, water is leaking from your roof, the paint is cracking, and it's cold in here.

The air was brisk that afternoon, biting and grey, as you trudged down the narrow, mud-streaked lane, a basket of bread and root vegetables straining your arm. The hem of your worn dress was soaked from the puddles, and your shawl did little to keep the cold from creeping into your bones. Still, you moved forward — because what else was there to do?

You reached the steps of your modest apartment — a cramped space tucked in a dilapidated corner of the city — and nearly dropped your basket.

He was leaning against your doorway, polished cane in one hand, the other tugging at the cuff of his violet coat. It billowed slightly in the wind, as if it too knew it didn’t belong here. Thomas Jefferson, Vice President of the goddamn United States, smiled at you like this was the most normal thing in the world.

You narrowed your eyes.

“If you’re here to gloat, you can turn right the hell around.”

He chuckled, low and unhurried. “Miss Hamilton. Always such a warm welcome.”

You brushed past him, unlocking the door with fingers numb from cold and suspicion. “You’re a little overdressed for this part of the city, Jefferson. You lost?”

He followed you in without asking, letting the door shut softly behind him. The tiny room seemed to shrink around his presence.

“I’m not lost,” he said simply. “I came to see you.”

You dropped the basket on the table and turned to face him fully, arms crossed. “Why? Planning to write a new pamphlet? Maybe call me a whore by association this time?”

His expression faltered — just slightly. Enough for you to know the barb landed.

“I didn’t come to insult you,” he said. “I came to help.”

You stared. Silent. Cold. Waiting for the catch.

He exhaled, tapping the tip of his cane against the floor. “I won’t pretend your brother and I don’t despise each other. That man would slit his own throat with a quill if it meant a paragraph in history. But you—” He paused, the word heavy. “You didn’t choose this scandal. You didn’t ask for any of it. And you sure as hell shouldn’t have to pay for his sins.”

You blinked. The words sounded right. Too right.

“You expect me to believe this isn’t about politics?”

Jefferson shook his head. “Politics doesn’t live in places like this.”

You sat down, the chair creaking beneath you. “And what exactly are you offering?”

He straightened his posture, eyes steady. “A position. Something respectable. Not charity. Employment. I can make arrangements. Quietly. You’ve been punished enough.”

You looked at him — at this man who spent years tearing down your brother’s name — and wondered what part of him had decided to be decent today. Maybe just enough humanity left in him to pity a woman scraping by in a world that didn’t want her.

“I don’t trust you,” you muttered.

He gave a small smile. “Good. You shouldn’t. But maybe trust, that I still have a heart to help an innocent woman."

His words are honest. Maybe he really wants to help. Or maybe he just wants to hurt and destroy Alexander even more, by using you.