Chapter 207 Nia

• The Situation Room beneath the White House thrummed with tension, the air was quite intense with the scent of stale coffee and printer ink. Maps of the Middle East flickered on wall screens, red lines tracing potential conflict zones around a rogue nation in the Persian Gulf—let's call it Zorathe for the classified briefings. Escalating tensions: drone strikes, oil tanker seizures, whispers of chemical weapons caches. President Vince Harlan sat at the head of the polished oak table, his jaw set, sleeves rolled up on his crisp white shirt, revealing forearms corded with quiet strength. Nia Prescot occupied a seat midway down, her notebook open, pen poised. She'd drafted the opening remarks for this session, framing a balanced approach: diplomacy backed by sanctions, not outright provocation.
• Vince's eyes met hers briefly as he scanned the room, a nod of approval that sent a familiar warmth through her pussy. She shifted in her chair, crossing her legs under the table, the fabric of her pencil skirt riding up slightly against her thighs. Focus, she told herself. This was about national security, not the way his tie hung loose or how his fingers drummed the table like they might trace her skin.
• The door swung open, and Vardo Harlan strode in late, as always, his presence sucking the oxygen from the room. Tailored suit hugging his broad shoulders, tie askew like he'd knotted it in a hurry—or dismissed it as beneath him. He dropped a thick folder onto the table with a thud, claiming the empty chair beside Nia without a word. His cologne invaded her space, musky and overpowering, a stark contrast to Vince's subtle aftershave.