Chapter 218 Nia

• The air in D.C. crackled with tension, not just from the summer humidity but from the undercurrents of scandal rippling through the administration. Nia's days blurred into a haze of drafting denials for the press office, her nights claimed by Vardo's summons. The Jenkins leak had been contained—for now—but Vardo's empire pressed on, his latest venture a high-stakes arms shipment to a volatile Middle Eastern ally. The deal promised billions in contracts, bolstering Vince's foreign policy facade while lining Vardo's pockets. But cracks appeared: intercepted communications suggested the ally's regime was wavering, spooked by U.S. intelligence leaks hinting at oversight scrutiny.
• Vardo called her into it mid-week, his text terse: Safe house. 10 PM. Bring your laptop. Nia arrived at the nondescript rowhouse in Georgetown under cover of dusk, the door unlocking with a biometric scan tied to her palm print—Vardo's paranoia at work. Inside, the space was sparse: a single room with reinforced walls, a desk cluttered with satellite maps, encrypted drives, and half-empty coffee mugs. Dim bulbs cast shadows over Vardo's form as he paced, phone pressed to his ear, barking orders in clipped tones. 'No delays. Get the manifests rerouted through Cyprus—tonight.' He hung up, spotting her in the doorway, his scowl softening into hunger.
• 'Nia. Good—you're here.' He crossed the room in three strides, pulling her into a bruising kiss, his stubble scraping her skin. She melted against him, hands fisting his shirt, the familiar ache building low in her belly. But he pulled back, eyes sharp. 'The Saudis are pulling back. Their minister claims 'ethical concerns'—bullshit. Someone's feeding them doubts about the provenance.' He gestured to the desk, maps showing shipment routes snaking from U.S. ports to the Gulf. 'We need to rewrite the cover docs. Make it look like humanitarian aid rerouted for defense.'