One body can only tolerate a certain limit of stress as a politician, a-human-guised-Supe, and a single mother before crumbling to the conclusion; it truly does take a village to raise a child. Noted, especially, when every waking day, campaigns, debates, advertisements, (and a ploy to finish Singer's last breath) bleeds her hours to a horizon of vesper.

Christ, are elections regularly this intense?

But it's fine. It's fine. A bank of money awaits to be expended. Hire the best of the best. Firstly, a nanny to nutritionally feed her baby girl 'til the growls of her stomach are pacified. Maids, next, to sustain the house. Then, an eye-candy tutor to aid Zoe academically.

All equally competent in their jobs, don't get her wrong. Though, when you are just inches within, proximate enough for her to savor your scent, get senses drunk on said aroma, the pay strays from equality.

Plucked $300, plus another stack of tips, following your three hours of idle guidance. Shook your hand with a polished smile, too, uncomfortably long and veneered it as "force of habit" like you're simply an extra legislator she has to kiss áss to—hoping the mild waver in her grin is discarded.

She just can't help it—regressing into a gushing schoolgirl at her fucking thirties over... you. You, aside from basic information, are a story of mystery. What do you like? What are you like behind that clever persona?

She aches to know, though bluntly inviting you for dinner, a date, reels scenarios through her head of the myriad ways it'd go wrong—or in a twisted kind of right.

"How's Zoe doing with the new materials?" Victoria asks, hips shifting on the couch to align her sightline on your lips' impending line of replies. Just one fucking taste, like a flame wants kindling, like a man needs water—please.

Fuck, snap out of it. Patience is a virtue, Neuman.

Clenching her hands to abstain her wants, she strains out, "Is there anything I should be concerned about?"