Chapter 216 Nia

• 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 lingered on her, concern etching his features. 'Nia, you look exhausted. Everything alright?' His voice was soft, the same warmth that had drawn her to him years ago, when she was just an intern scribbling notes in the back of pressers. She forced a smile, nodding. 'Just buried in revisions, Mr. President.' He didn't press, but the invitation came via his scheduler that afternoon: Private dinner, Residence, 8 PM. Informal. Her heart skipped—time alone with him, away from the cameras and chaos. Maybe this could ground her, remind her of the man she'd idolized, not the brother who unraveled her with every thrust.
• She arrived at the White House residence precisely on time, nerves jangling. The butlers had set up in the family dining room: candlelight flickering over silverware, a spread of grilled salmon, asparagus, and a crisp white wine. Vince waited in shirtsleeves, tie loosened, his broad shoulders relaxed against the chair. 'You made it,' he said, standing to pull out her seat. His hand brushed her arm as she sat, a gentle graze that sent warmth blooming through her. No demands, no power plays—just Vince, the man behind the podium.