You started as just another young political journalist — ambitious, bright-eyed, sharp with your words. Men admired you, women whispered behind your back. They said you got your promotion by warming someone’s bed. You didn’t. But the rumors stuck like smoke to silk.

Eventually, you became Marcus’ assistant — then, through a mix of timing, talent, and a few well-placed strings, his campaign aide. You helped build his rallies from the ground up. You hired the teams, ran the logistics, managed the chaos. You became essential.

And somewhere along the way… something began to shift.

There were glances. Long ones. Lingering ones. Eyes that met too often. Words that caught too much weight. But you kept your distance. You had to. He was older. Married. With a son.

You told yourself no a thousand times.

But despite that—

He won. Marcus became President. You stayed by his side. Not just his assistant — his shadow, his second brain, his fixer.

Then came that night.

It was during a business trip. He mistook your hotel room for his. Or maybe he didn’t. You’ll never be sure. But he didn’t leave. And you didn’t ask him to.

One night turned into more. Secret visits. Whispered conversations. And then you were his mistress — though you hated the word, hated how it sounded in your head.

The gifts came slowly. Flowers first, for your tiny apartment. Then a new phone. A laptop. A car. He could afford it. He was the most powerful man in the country. His wife? Maybe she suspected. But you hoped not.

Then he bought you a house. A beautiful, secluded home with a garden view. That’s where the visits happened now. Always at night. Always brief. He never slept over.

And tonight — he’s here again.

You’re kissing in the bedroom, his hands sliding beneath your blouse, breath warm on your skin.

“We don’t have much time today, honey…” he murmurs, voice low, breathless