Political Consultant

We debate. We spar. We trade blows for sixty minutes under the unyielding glare of the network cameras. It’s a dance of rhetoric—my Harvard Law precision clashing against her Columbia fire. On screen, we are perfect opposites: the "Border Hawk" versus the "Liberal Darling." We are equals in the arena, each strike met with a counter-move, each statistic answered with a narrative.

When the cameras finally shut off and the staff filters out, the room feels larger, colder. The studio lights cool from a blistering white to a softer amber haze. And that’s when I finally see her without the filter of the broadcast.

Helena Lima.

She notices me the moment the last producer leaves. Her head turns sharply, long black hair shifting over her shoulder like a blade, and she hits me with a glare that feels entirely personal. Her eyes are dark, almond-shaped, and Argentinian—narrowed now with a blend of hate and stunned scrutiny. I can see her processing the last hour, trying to reconcile the "sexist jerk" persona I project with the man who just dismantled her legal arguments with clinical efficiency.

She adjusts her cuff—a move intended to project the poise of a smooth operator. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn't need to. Her face does the talking.

I let my gaze drift, studying her statuesque 6’1” frame. I don’t look up at her; I look through her, maintaining a deliberate, provocative edge.

“Don’t,” she says quietly, her voice icy.

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like you’re trying to fantasize about me.”

I give a short, barking laugh—the sound of a man who spent his twenties in a cockpit, not a courtroom. “Honestly? With a figure like yours, I figured thinking wasn’t your main sport. But hey, you kept up better than I thought for a ‘Darling.’”

Her jaw tightens. “Don’t get comfortable. My father was an immigrant from Argentina. I actually know the human cost of your border security rhetoric.”

I grin, stepping into her personal space. I can smell her expensive perfume—the scent of someone who spends her nights fixing the messes of men like Damian Ellison. “You’re too beautiful to be this angry, Helena. If you scowl any harder, half the state might file a natural-disaster report.”

She stares. Cold. Unblinking.

“I heard a rumor,” I drop my voice to a low hum. “Rated-R whispers. Late-night meetings with your biggest client. Closed doors. People in this town invent soap operas, Helena, but I’m a pilot—I prefer the black box data.”

The flicker of panic is there for a millisecond before she buries it. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know enough.” I reach out and take her hand. It’s a test of dominance. She yanks it back as if the contact burned. Her eyes flash with that "patrician disgust" she uses as a shield.

“Where?” she snaps, finally taking the bait.

“Argentina vs. USA. Friendly match. Your father’s old team.”

That hits her harder than anything else. A flicker of pride and nostalgia crosses her face before she crushes it back into her smooth operator mask.

“Those tickets have been sold out for months,” she scoffs. “And why would I go anywhere with you?”

I tilt my phone toward her. When she sees the digital tickets—and the lack of a paper trail—her posture snaps rigid. She’s trapped.

“If you wear a t-shirt and tight jeans that accentuate your figure,” I say, my voice calm and authoritative, “we’ll go to an Argentinian spot with decent vegan options. I know you prefer the leaves, Helena, and you know how much I like good steak, and I like it rare. If you try to play the fixer at the stadium... I’ll take you to an Argentinian steakhouse where the smell of the grill will be enough to make you sick for a week.”

“You’re a barbarian,” she stammers, her eyes darting to mine.

“I’m a realist. Control the outcome, Helena. Isn't that what you do for Ellison?”

The mention of her client-lover is the final blow. She caves, her voice a whisper of pure spite. “I’ll wear what you want. But only because I refuse to be bullied into a carnivore dungeon.”

I don’t give her the satisfaction of a reply. I lean in. It’s an intercept. I kiss her—deliberate, unhurried, bold. She freezes. For a heartbeat, she doesn't pull away. She betrays the smooth operator for a sudden, impulsive vulnerability.

I pull away first. Always leave the mission on your own terms.

“You will be mine,” I say. Not as a threat, but as a statement of fact.

I walk away, the heavy studio doors thudding shut behind me. But I don’t leave. I linger in the dim hallway, my back against the wall, listening.

I hear the snap of her wrist as she pulls out her phone. Her voice is trembling with a "Fixer's" fury.

“Get me everything on him,” she hisses into the line. “Donors, staff, scandals... I want him regretting he ever thought he could own me.”

I stand there in the silence of the corridor, listening to the fading echo of her voice. I don’t smile; I simply wait. She can dig, and she can fight—but for the first time in her career, she’s up against a pilot who knows exactly how to navigate the storm.