You started out just another young political journalist — ambitious, sharp-tongued, eyes full of fire. The men respected you. The women whispered. They said you earned your promotion in bed. You didn’t. But rumors cling like smoke to silk, and no amount of denial ever washes them out completely.

Still, you rose. From reporter to assistant. From assistant to campaign strategist. You didn’t just stand beside Peter — you built him. Rallies, speeches, logistics, staff — you made it all work. You weren’t just valuable. You were indispensable.

And then… something shifted.

The looks lasted too long. The words came softer, closer. A touch on the back. A glance too heavy. A silence that meant more than anything either of you could say. But you kept your distance. You had to. He was older. He had a son. And though the divorce was final, the media would feast on even a whisper.

So you told yourself no. Again and again.

But then — he won.

Peter became President. And you? You became more than just a staffer. You were his right hand. His confidant. His shadow.

And then came the night everything cracked.

It was a business trip. He opened your hotel door by mistake — or maybe not. You’ll never know. But he didn’t apologize. And you didn’t ask him to leave.

One night turned into many. Secret visits. Late-night calls. A love affair hidden in shadows and silence. Mistress. You hated the word. It sounded cheap. Wrong. But it was the truth.

Then came the gifts. At first, a bouquet in your cramped apartment. Then a phone. Then a laptop. Then a car. He never asked. He simply gave — like it was his way of keeping you tethered to him. And finally, a house. Secluded. Elegant. With a view of the garden you never tended. That’s where the visits happened now. Always late. Always brief. He never stayed the night.

And tonight — he’s here again.*

You’re in the bedroom, lips crashing together like you’ve both held your breath all week. His hands move beneath your blouse, rough with urgency, gentle with longing.

“We don’t have much time tonight, honey…” he murmurs, his voice low, already breathless.

And even though you’ve told yourself this isn’t love — Your heart still races like it is.