Chapter 102

My shoulders ached from holding perfect posture. Lady Maris tapped the center of my spine again with the end of her pen, a silent command to straighten. I obeyed, jaw tight, trying not to let my frustration show. The mirror in front of me offered no comfort, just a reflection of a girl pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

"Again," Lady Maris said.

I dipped my head in a formal greeting, palms together, weight balanced evenly on both feet. It was better this time. She didn’t nod, but she didn’t correct me either.

We moved through the motions again and again: entrance, bow, gesture, eye contact, greeting, pivot. The same words, the same angles. I hated it, but I was improving. My body was starting to remember without thinking, which was the whole point. She didn’t praise me. That wasn’t her style. But her instructions came less often now, and her tone had softened from surgical to merely stern.

By the end of the second hour, sweat was prickling beneath my collar despite the cool temperature of the study. Emma stood off to the side, scribbling something in a notebook and occasionally glancing up with a proud little smile, like a mom watching her kid learn to walk.

“Again,” Lady Maris said.

I started to move, then paused. “Can I ask something?”

Her eyebrow arched. “You may.”

“Do you actually think I can do this?”

There was a long pause. Then she said, “No one starts ready. The ones who succeed are the ones who work through the parts they hate.”

That wasn’t exactly reassuring. But it was honest. And I could work with honest.

Later that day, I stepped into the donor luncheon in heels that pinched and a neckline that itched. The sunlight through the glass atrium made everything gleam, from the silverware to the crystal carafes of water. Every conversation was polite and sharp as glass. I moved through the tables the way Lady Maris had drilled me: even steps, soft eye contact, shoulders back.

When it came time to welcome the guests formally and introduce the wine, I took a breath and deviated from the suggested remarks.

“This year, we’re highlighting vintages from Crescent Hollow, a smaller but exceptional vineyard run entirely by a local matriarchal pack. Their 40-year harvest took silver at the Western Summit.”

A few donors exchanged glances. One man at the far end of the table frowned into his glass. But another guest clapped lightly, and a woman with a silver braid raised her glass and said, “About time.”

It wasn’t the kind of reception that made headlines, but it was a decision that felt right. And I was starting to trust that mattered.

That trust lasted about four hours.

Nathan found me in the hallway, holding his tablet out like it was bad news in a physical form.

“You went viral.”

My stomach dropped. “What now?”

He pressed play on the screen. A clip from a political commentary show played, showing me at the luncheon. The frame zoomed in, pixelated and dramatic, on the way I held my fork.

“She grips it like it’s a murder weapon,” the host said, deadpan. “Is she going to defend her territory or eat arugula?”

There was laughter. The studio audience cackled. Nathan cringed.

I stared for a second. Then, before I could stop myself, I snorted.

“Oh my god,” I said, laughing. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair.”

Nathan blinked. “You’re not mad?”

“I look like I’m about to challenge the arugula to a knife fight.”

We posted a reply on my official account with a photo of a fork stabbed into a slice of chocolate cake and the caption, I’m learning, okay? It took off immediately. The retweets started piling up. Even a few of the talk shows clapped back with, “Alright, she’s funny.”

By dinner, the worst of the criticism had flipped into praise.

“She’s got a sense of humor.”

“She’s relatable.”

“She’s not pretending to be something she’s not.”

But not everything was going so well.

I overheard Nathan and Richard talking outside the strategy room. Their voices were low, but the hallway carried sound.

“Adam’s doing late night spots now,” Nathan was saying. “Same story. Claims you stole his girlfriend, playing the victim. David’s team is boosting it. They’re putting clips into their smear ads.”

Richard didn’t respond right away. But his silence had a weight to it. A threat. It settled into my spine and stayed there.

That night, I buried myself in briefing documents, curled up in the little library that Richard had converted into a workspace for me. The lamp buzzed faintly. My eyes ached.

There was a soft knock. Then Richard walked in, carrying a mug of tea.

“You’ve been in here forever,” he said.

“I know.” I rubbed my eyes. “Trying to memorize policy talking points. There’s a youth forum in North Howl and they’re already suspicious of me.”

He set the mug down and leaned against the edge of the desk, looking at me in that frustratingly calm way that always made me feel seen and cornered at the same time.

“You never needed to prove anything,” he said quietly.

I blinked. “That’s not why I’m doing this.”

“Isn’t it?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

He reached for my hand, fingers brushing mine gently. His skin was warm. Grounding. Then he leaned down and kissed me.

It started soft. Familiar. But when I kissed him back, something shifted. He slid his hand to the back of my neck, pulled me up into him, and the kiss deepened. I stood, pushing the chair back. Our hips bumped the desk and neither of us cared. His mouth was on mine again, and again, and his hands were beneath the hem of my shirt, slow and searching. I pressed my chest into his, wanting to feel every inch of him.

When I tugged him onto my lap, it was with a kind of giddy defiance. He grinned into my mouth.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He straddled me on the desk chair, knees brushing mine, and kissed down the side of my neck, warm breath dragging across my skin in a way that made me tremble. My hands slid under his sweater, tracing muscle and heat, and when he groaned softly against my collarbone, I felt it in my bones.

I opened my legs just enough to guide his hand there, my breath catching as his fingers brushed over the front of my underwear. His eyes searched mine for permission, and when I nodded, he slipped his hand beneath the fabric and touched me with an aching kind of patience.

My head fell back slightly as he circled, slow and intentional, reading every hitch in my breath like scripture. His mouth stayed at my neck, murmuring things I couldn’t fully hear, and I couldn’t bring myself to care. My hands gripped his back, clutching at the sweater I’d tugged halfway up earlier.

He pressed two fingers inside me, curling just right, and I bit down on his shoulder to keep from making too much noise. The world narrowed to the rhythm of his hand and the heat pulsing through me. When it ended, I sank back in the chair and stared up at him, dazed. He brushed the hair back from my face and kissed me again, quieter this time, like a secret.

Later that evening, the whole campaign team gathered in the dining hall. It was a strategy dinner in name only. No one brought notes. Emma wore sweatpants. Nathan actually laughed at one of my jokes.

I sat between two junior staffers, laughing about something completely irrelevant to the campaign, my cheeks flushed from wine and lingering adrenaline. Halfway through the meal, I looked up and found Richard across the table, his fingers lazily stroking the rim of his glass.

His eyes were on me. Not casually, not accidentally, deliberately. Watching me like he was still touching me under that desk. My smile faltered, heat prickling up the back of my neck. I reached for my water just to give my hands something to do. He didn’t smile. But his eyes told me everything. I shifted in my seat, pulse fluttering, and crossed my legs tightly. He leaned back slightly, one brow raised in a question I could almost hear. I looked away before I melted through the chair.

And I smiled back.