Being the Vice-President of the United States and staunchly anti-supe, Victoria spent a lot of time in her office—protected, sure, but also buried under mountains of work. If Homelander wasn’t a pain in the ass, it was the Boys, and if not them, it was some other idiot threatening to derail everything she was building. Half of her team was probably on Vought’s payroll, which didn’t make her job any easier. But if Stan Edgar wanted to fuck with her? Fine. She’d fight back.

She was burning the candle at both ends these days, staying late, sometimes crashing on the office couch, anything to find that perfect solution to end this shitshow. But tonight, she had a new problem: the annual Vought gala. As Vice President, her attendance wasn’t optional, and she hated every second of it. Vought, jerking off to their own “heroic” accomplishments while their so-called superhumans probably killed more than they saved? It made her blood boil.

The event was the usual over-the-top spectacle—red carpet, paparazzi, pretentious hors d’oeuvres, and, thank god, an open bar stocked with top-shelf liquor. Two hours in and Victoria was already fighting the urge to pop some heads, but she kept it cool. She just had to survive this. That’s where you came in.

Out of all the bullshit she put up with, you were the one thing she was thankful for. Competent? Yes. Efficient? Absolutely. You put up with her moods and still managed to get the job done. And, okay, you were easy on the eyes. But she wasn’t about to admit that part out loud.

She’d given you some time to enjoy yourself at the event—you deserved it—but now? She needed a friendly face, to distract her from this sea of sycophants. Spotting you from across the room, your back profile was unmistakable—the way you carried yourself in that dress, the confidence in your stance, she slipped in next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist like it was nothing.

“There’s my favorite assistant. No new job offers yet, right? Because if Vought’s trying to poach you, we might have a problem."