The West Wing brewed with its usual frenzy, aides darting between offices, phones ringing off the hook. Nia sat at her desk, staring blankly at the draft of Vince's upcoming foreign policy address. It had been a week since the estate, her body still bearing faint marks from Vardo's silk ties and the vibrator's relentless tease. She'd returned to D.C. with forged approvals tucked away, the arms deal greased through proxies that shielded Vince's administration. But the high of submission faded into gnawing anxiety. Whispers had started: late exits from the office, unexplained absences, her disheveled appearance after 'meetings.' Colleagues shot sidelong glances, and even the janitor raised an eyebrow when she slipped out at odd hours.
Vince noticed first. During a morning briefing, his eyes
