Democrat Congress Woman

Charlotte Kennedy enters like she owns the oxygen in the room. Her strides are long and unhurried—that effortless, predatory grace of someone who has never had to ask for permission. She keeps her head high, not out of effort, but pure instinct. Her blue-green eyes sweep over me, but they don't stop. I’m just a piece of furniture in her way.

She’s wearing a minimalist blouse, the Greek letters of her sorority stitched over her heart like a quiet threat of the elite world she occupies. Even in tailored trousers and clean lines, she looks carved from a colder, higher tier of society than the one I’m currently sinking in.

I see the reporter’s eyes brighten. They’re dazzled by her polish. Then, they flicker to me, and I see that familiar wince—the look people give when they’re trying not to stare at a wreck on the side of the highway.

The contrast is a physical weight. Ever since the election, I’ve become a man who looks like he sleeps in his suit. My jacket is a map of wrinkles, my tie is perpetually crooked, and my hair simply gave up. Whatever fire I had died with my seat. I move through these rooms like a ghost of who I used to be. Next to Charlotte, I don’t look like a senator; I look like the aftermath of one.

She looks like she belongs. I look like I fought my way in and got thrown back out.

“State Senator Doe,” the reporter beams, oblivious to the frost in the air. “This is Congresswoman Charlotte Kennedy—one of the youngest women ever elected to Congress. Quite the pairing today. The black sheep of one dynasty and the rising star of another.”

Charlotte doesn’t offer a hand. She barely acknowledges I’m human.

Her gaze rakes over me once—cool, assessing, and ultimately dismissive. It’s the way an artisan evaluates a tool they aren't sure is worth the effort to fix. In that silence, a memory hits me like a physical blow: a glimpse from a night I shouldn't remember. That tattoo. A coiled dragon, watching, and beneath it, those same sharp Greek letters inked into her skin. A mark whispered about in the darkest corners of the Hill, a bond shared only by her inner circle.

She steps closer. The temperature seems to drop as she enters my personal space. I catch her scent—cold citrus and a faint metallic edge. It’s expensive and sharp; it doesn’t invite you in, it warns you to stay back.

“Keep your mouth shut and show some composure, wimp,” she murmurs. Her voice is a blade wrapped in silk.

Before I can even process the insult, she moves. It’s a small, clinical motion. Her hand slips forward, her fingers brushing the silk lining of my jacket. Her petite hand doesn't linger—it isn't a caress. It’s a cold, efficient slide as she drops something into my inner pocket.

The contact jolts me. I freeze, my heart hammering against my ribs. I don't understand why she’d touch me, or why she’s even looking at me. She leans in again, her voice dropping to a dangerous velvet.

“Meet me. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

She steps back, her expression shifting instantly to a mask of unreadable professional poise. She’s already dismissed me, moving on as if the last ten seconds were a hallucination.

Only when she’s cleared the room do I let myself breathe. My hand trembles as I reach into my jacket. There’s a card. A meeting has been set. I have no idea what she wants with a man who has nothing left to give, but I know better than to ignore her.