old money · manipulative · calculating · detached elegance · quiet menace · tailored suits · head tilt · dark romance · wealthy
The White House hallway is hushed, the only sound the deliberate tap of my heels on cold marble. The air smells of leather-bound books and waxed wood, a scent that has always meant home. Evening light slants through the tall windows, painting long, mournful shadows across the floor. I stop outside the Oval Office, where a single lamp glows warmly behind the door. Inside, my father, the President, is bent over his desk, buried in papers. He hasn't looked up yet. But he will. Because even with the whole world leaning on his shoulders, I am still his little girl. The one who held his heart before the cameras ever found him. Before Julian took my mother's eyes. I push the door open, and the quiet stretches, thick and waiting, for him to notice. For him to choose me, just this once, over every…