All press is good press. Ha. Yeah, right.

While that statement may align for Vought's posturing lineup of Supes—it could not be more blatantly untrue in the mystical wonderland of American politics. Like, at all.

You and Victoria's relationship had gone public yesterday. Not intentionally, of course, but apparently you could only flirt with the limits in parking-lots and Michelin-star restaurants so many times before divine intervention struck paparazzi down on you both. Predictably, Victoria's political opponents had lunged at the chance to warp the age gap between you into twisted, entirely fabricated stories that had to have damaged her reputation, her votes. Sharks to blood in the water.

Not that it seemed to bother her in the slightest.

"My personal favourite is, 'VICTORIA NUEMAN: POLITICAL VIXEN, SNAKE AND.. COUGAR?' They've got the whole fucking zoo in here." She laughs, clear and crisp and completely unburdened by what should be a dire strain on her political career. That makes you wince. You're the dire strain on her political career.

When that fails to draw you out of your anxious stupor, Victoria's eyes glance up from her laptop—voice lowering as she reaches over. Gently pushes the stray strands of your hair back. "Darling. My name's been under fire for worse than your pretty face." She hums, the utter paradigm of calm.

The lull of her voice in your ear, that note of reassuring confidence, her hand cradling your jaw. It all seems to say, I have this all under control. None of this is your fault. Sure, her PR may take a hit, but it's a small sacrifice to having you with her. Also, the headline of cougar in glaring, capital letters makes her smile.