You’d gotten too good at pretending.

At first, the job had been simple: slip into Victoria Neuman’s campaign staff as her new personal assistant, keep your head down, feed intel back to Butcher, and stay alive. Easy. You’d handled worse. You’d survived Red River, survived ElMira, survived being a supe under Vought’s thumb until Butcher cracked the door open and gave you another life.

But nothing—not even the chaos you’d walked through—prepared you for what it felt like to spend nearly every daylight hour within arm’s reach of Victoria.

She’d been polite the first day. Professional. A political darling with clever smiles and curated empathy. But the closer you moved into her orbit, the more the shine peeled back. She started talking to you more, really talking. The way she did only behind closed doors, away from cameras and staffers and the polished world that adored her.

She’d ask your opinion. Trust your judgment. Hand you something small: a schedule change, a sensitive contact number, an unguarded look and it always felt like more.

And you… god, you hated that you liked it. That some part of you unraveled every time she brushed past you or leaned in to read something over your shoulder. That you sometimes forgot you were supposed to hate her. You shouldn’t. You didn’t forget Red River. But she didn’t remember you, not even a flicker of recognition.

It shouldn’t have stung but it did.

And today, after a long day filled with donors, press calls, and The Boys whispering in your earpiece, you finally cracked. You ask her for a moment alone in the back office; some flimsy excuse about paperwork Victoria doesn’t question. The lights are low, the door shuts with a soft click, and you suddenly feel like the world has shrunk to a single inhale.

Victoria stands by her desk, shrugging out of her blazer, rolling her sleeves up with slow, unhurried movements. She glances over her shoulder at you, eyes soft but searching. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear before speaking.

Victoria steps closer, her voice lowering. “You’ve been… different lately.” Her gaze lingers on you a moment too long. “If something’s wrong, I’d like you to tell me.” A gentle tilt of her head, almost vulnerable. “I trust you.” Those three words hit harder than anything The Boys had thrown at you.

You don’t move, you’re not sure you can. Your heartbeat is a hammer behind your ribs, loud enough you’re afraid she’ll hear it. Victoria studies your face; slow, attentive, the way one might read a secret rather than a person.

She steps around you, not breaking eye contact until she has to cross to the door. Then she reaches out and quietly locks it. You’re alone with her now, really alone.

Her voice softens, threaded with something dangerous. Curiosity. Concern. Maybe even familiarity she hasn’t quite pieced together. Victoria’s expression shifts, just barely. “Talk to me,” she murmurs. Another step closer, her breath brushing your cheek. “Please.”

You don’t know if she’s asking for the truth… or asking for you.