Chapter 82

It started with a missing folder. Not mine, Richard's. One of the red-sticker binders that held his weekly press strategy schedule. I hadn’t touched it, but he asked if I’d seen it, and when I said no, he didn’t press. Just nodded and moved on like he already had a theory, or worse, like he already knew.

The whole week felt off-kilter. Meetings ran too long or ended abruptly, people forgot to CC the right threads and printed the wrong drafts. Adam kept hovering by the water cooler, outside Richard’s office, lingering by the printers like he was waiting for something, or someone.

He was polite but twitchy, overhelpful in a way that didn’t feel like him, always volunteering to deliver messages or pick up briefing packets. Twice, I caught him glancing toward my screen when he passed behind my desk, and even though he smiled like it was nothing, my stomach had started curling tighter by the day.

I tried not to jump to conclusions, but the briefing notes for Friday’s debate prep came back from Legal with edits I hadn’t made. Not just style tweaks, either, actual substance changes. Facts were switched out, and the language softened where it should have been sharp. Talking points that had been carefully calibrated suddenly sounded generic and overly conciliatory.

I carried the packet straight to Nathan’s desk and dropped it in front of him.

“Did you look at this?” I asked.

He glanced up. “It’s the Friday file.”

“It’s a butchered version of the Friday file.”

He picked it up and flipped through, eyes narrowing. “You’re sure this isn’t you?”

“You think I called Councilman Derrik’s platform ‘thought-provoking’? I’ve been calling it lazy since March.”

Nathan flipped a few more pages and frowned. “This looks like someone tried to retrofit your work after it left your hands. I’ll check the version history and document access logs, and if someone’s altering internal docs, we’ll find out.”

“Find out fast, and quietly.”

He nodded, suddenly more serious. “You think it’s internal?”

“I think someone is leaking, or trying to make it look like someone is.”

Later that afternoon, Jenny breezed into the break room like she owned it and plucked a scone from the pastry box without looking at anyone.

“Adam’s weirdly informed lately,” she said to no one in particular, though her eyes flicked toward me before she bit into the scone.

I stirred my coffee and said nothing, because I knew better than to take the bait.

He was. He always seemed to know what room Richard would be in before the rest of us did. He asked pointed questions in strategy meetings like someone had handed him the summary notes hours before, and he referenced Council debates that hadn’t aired yet. He kept watching me, too, not openly and not aggressively, but like he was waiting to catch me doing something.

That night, Richard texted me at 9:17 p.m.: Press draft is a mess. Need a second set of eyes. You around?

I considered pretending I wasn’t, then I grabbed my coat and walked down the hall to the empty press office, locking the door behind me.

The room felt overly bright under the fluorescents, and the press drafts scattered across the table looked like a parody of official language.

“‘Sustainable cross-sector coordination’ sounds like something we’d say right before a military coup,” I muttered, crossing it out with a red pen.

Richard leaned back in his chair, watching me with that unreadable expression he used when I was working and he didn’t want to interrupt it.

“Do you want to rewrite the whole thing?” he asked eventually.

“I want to rewrite our entire communication strategy, but I’ll settle for this paragraph.”

“You’re tense.”

“No shit.”

He didn’t push. He just let the silence stretch between us as I paced, flipping the pen between my fingers and feeling the weight of every breath.

“I brought the Adam stuff to Nathan,” I said. “Told him to check the logs.”

Richard exhaled slowly. “Good.”

“You already knew?”

“I had suspicions.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

His gaze flicked up. “I didn’t want to spook him until we had proof. You walking around with your righteous fury tends to light things on fire.”

I rolled my eyes. “Charming.”

He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The silence fell again, but this time it was heavier, denser, like something had shifted in the air and neither of us wanted to be the one to say it.

“Do you think he knows?” I asked, voice quiet now.

“About us?”

I nodded.

“I think he suspects.”

I crossed my arms, mostly to keep them from shaking. “Then we’re screwed.”

He stood slowly, like he was afraid any sudden move would send me running.

“We’ve been careful,” he said. “But if this is turning into a liability...”

“It already is.”

I turned toward the wall of windows, arms still crossed, trying not to think about the mess this would become if it all came out, trying not to think about the mess it already was.

He stepped up behind me. Close. Not touching. Just there.

“You want me to stop?”

I didn’t answer right away. I just stared out at the city, lights flickering like stars beneath glass.

“No,” I whispered. “I want it to matter.”

That was the only warning I gave him.

He spun me around before I could second-guess myself, and I kissed him like it was the last night we’d get to pretend it was just about need. Like it wasn’t about power and secrecy and desperation disguised as control. His hands cupped my jaw, then slid down to my waist, anchoring me to him as I pushed him back against the press table.

We knocked over a stack of draft folders and didn’t stop. He unbuttoned my shirt slowly, reverently, while I tugged at his belt with fingers that shook more than I wanted them to. My back hit the table as he kissed down my neck, slow and open-mouthed, making a sound low in his throat that turned my knees to liquid.

“Lights,” I gasped.

“Leave them.”

I swallowed hard and kissed him again, sinking into it. We didn’t make it to the couch. We didn’t need to. He lifted me onto the table, and I wrapped my legs around his hips like I’d been waiting all day for this moment. Maybe I had.

The sound of the city was still outside, and the building creaked faintly as it settled for the night. It all disappeared under his hands, under his mouth, under the way he looked at me like I was the only thing anchoring him to this moment.

After, we stayed tangled longer than we should have, catching our breath while the overhead lights buzzed and the rest of the floor fell silent.

Richard leaned against the edge of the table, shirt still open, and reached out to trace a finger along the edge of my jaw.

“We’re playing a dangerous game,” I murmured.

He pressed his forehead to mine. “Then we better win.”

I smiled faintly, feeling the weight of the night settle on my shoulders.

“If we don’t,” I said, “we’re going to lose more than this campaign.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Outside the press office, the hallway light flicked on. Someone passed by. We didn’t move. Just waited, breath held, two people suspended in the center of a war that hadn’t broken open yet, but would.