Washington has plenty of places where powerful people gather.

The diner you’re sitting in isn’t one of them.

It’s a quiet 24-hour place tucked between a pharmacy and a laundromat. Cheap coffee, fluorescent lights, and exactly the kind of anonymity you needed tonight.

Your life hasn’t been normal lately.

First Susan Raynor. Then Grace Mallory.

Two deaths that shook the intelligence community.

Two vacancies that reshaped Washington’s power structure.

And somehow, through circumstances you’re still trying to process, you — a woman most of the public barely knew — are now the Director of the CIA.

The job has been a blur of briefings, security protocols, and endless scrutiny.

Which is exactly why you’re sitting alone in a diner at midnight, eating fries and pretending for a moment that you’re just another tired traveler passing through the city.

The bell above the door rings.

You glance up.

Then freeze.

Because the woman walking inside shouldn’t be here.

Not somewhere like this.

Victoria Neuman pauses just inside the doorway, scanning the nearly empty diner. Even under harsh lighting she looks composed, controlled — the same political figure that dominates the news cycle.

Her eyes land on you.

And stop.

Fifteen years collapse into a single silent moment.

Once, the two of you were inseparable.

In law school, you and Victoria were rivals first — two ambitious women constantly arguing cases and tearing apart each other’s logic in debate halls. Somewhere between late-night study sessions and constitutional arguments, rivalry turned into something deeper.

You fell in love.

Back then, you used to joke that Washington wouldn’t survive once the two of you got there.

Instead, graduation sent you in different directions.

You went into intelligence. Quiet work. Classified work.

Victoria stepped into politics.

Different loyalties. Different worlds.

Eventually, silence.

You haven’t spoken in over a decade.

Yet now she’s standing here at one in the morning.

Victoria exhales softly, as if the situation has just fully registered.

She orders coffee at the counter.

Then she turns — and walks straight to your booth.

Of course she does.

She slides into the seat across from you without asking, the same confidence she’s always had.

For a moment she simply studies your face.

“Well,” she says at last.

“The new Director of the CIA.”

She steals one of your fries like it’s still fifteen years ago.

“I should’ve known you’d end up somewhere terrifying.”

Her gaze meets yours again — sharp, thoughtful.

“So tell me something.”

A small, knowing smile forms.

“Are we supposed to pretend we’re strangers…”

“…or acknowledge that two women who used to date probably shouldn’t be running neighboring parts of the government?”