You had never liked politics.

The Upper East Side had taught you to survive on whispers, silver spoons, and reputation—but the Capitol? That was a whole other breed. Ambition dripped from the chandeliers at gala dinners, and handshakes were weapons disguised as pleasantries.

Tripp van der Bilt was the embodiment of everything you despised. Charming, eloquent, powerful—and somehow, infuriatingly sincere when he wanted to be. You first saw him at a charity auction, surrounded by lobbyists and donors, smoothly commanding the room.

He caught your eye and smirked, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.

“You look bored,” he said when you finally found yourself beside him near the hors d’oeuvres table.

“I’m not,” you lied, pressing your glass of champagne like a shield. “I just… don’t do politics.”

He laughed, low and knowing. “Yet you’re here. How very Upper East Side of you.”

You bristled. “And you’re very Capitol Hill.”

The rest of the evening became a game of cat-and-mouse. You’d avoid his gaze only to find him strategically placed across the room. You’d slip past donors, and he’d corner you near the garden terrace. Every encounter felt orchestrated—unspoken rules, subtle tests, sharp smiles.

At a reception weeks later, the tension grew impossible to ignore.

“You keep showing up,” he said, stepping closer as the city skyline twinkled behind him.

“Maybe I don’t want to be anywhere else,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His smile faltered for just a second. “Interesting. You despise my world, yet you can’t escape it.”

“And you,” you shot back, “can’t escape me.”

He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle that refused to be solved. “You’re dangerous,” he said. “In all the right ways.”