Never in a thousand years. A million. All of human history.

Never did I think I’d be sitting in a room with Graham Blackpool and his PR consultant.

I need to pull it together.

On the outside, I’m perfectly matched to this opulent room in my best court outfit. It’s a skirt suit I splurged on the summer after 2L; a heather gray that makes my eyes look amazing. I stopped at my favorite salon an hour before the meeting and had them put my hair into the perfect chignon. Not that I can’t do it myself, but when the stakes are this high, you need professionals.

Not that I know what the stakes are, exactly. Only that the empty room hums with a strange energy, as though someone walked out the very moment before I walked in.

I’ve been waiting ten minutes.

A call from the White House. A PR consultant. A meeting to discuss mutually interesting matters.

Photos, probably. Of me and Graham Blackpool.

The door swings open and at the sound of the hinges, I get to my feet.

Graham comes in first, face set, green eyes glinting in the cloudy light from the windows. We’re not in the White House, but his White House PR consultant comes in directly behind him. His name is Brian Kelting—I remember that much from the phone call I took in the lobby of the Library of Congress.

They meet me in the middle of the room. I have to steady myself, take a deep breath, because Graham Blackpool is like a storm. When he enters the room, it’s like a cold front colliding with summer heat. I’ve been thinking about that intensity since he visited the coffee shop.

Not dreaming about it.

Just thinking.

“Ms. Leighton.” So, Graham has learned my last name. It would’ve been an easy find, after my face was plastered all over the Internet. “This is my PR liaison, Brian Kelting.”

I stick out my hand first. Screw them, if they think I’m some delicate flower. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kelting.” He has a strong grip and a pleasant face, red hair cropped close.

“Call me Brian.”

“Thank you.”

“Let’s all take a seat.” It’s fine with me that Brian is steering this meeting, and we sit.

Graham leans forward, his elbows on his knees. Brian continues, as if we all want to be here, having this, the most awkward meeting on the planet.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, Ms. Leighton, there’s been quite a bit of press coverage regarding your meeting with Mr. Blackpool.”

“I wouldn’t characterize it as a meeting.” My law school instincts kick in. I can reject the premise of anything he says. That’s an available option to me. “Mr. Blackpool was very briefly a customer of the coffee shop where I work.”

Brian nods. “The encounter wasn’t typical, though, was it?”

Don’t blush. Do. Not. Blush. I keep my eyes firmly on Brian’s face. “Not entirely typical, no.” It burned. His eyes on me—they still burn. There’s an energy coiled in him that’s angry and lustful and sharp, and I can’t stop thinking about it.

“The photos say as much.”

I cross my ankles and fold my hands in my lap. “There’s nothing I can do about the photos, Mr. Kelting.”

“No, and we wouldn’t expect that from you.” We? “If it were only photos, this would be a news cycle like any other. But that, combined with the accusations against Mr. Blackpool—”

I laugh, a single ha. “Mr. Blackpool isn’t the one being called a prostitute in front of the entire country.”

“Solicitation is a crime in the District of Columbia,” Brian says mildly. “For all parties involved.”

My face goes hot. “I’m not involved. And frankly, if you’re going to frame it in that way again, then I think we can conclude this meeting and—”

“No, no.” Brian raises his hands in the air. “I’m not suggesting that you’re at fault. I am suggesting that there is a way to take control of the media narrative before it becomes more damaging.”

“More damaging to whom?” I try my best not to let my voice pitch too high, the way it does when I’m fucking furious. “Who are we worried about here?”

It’s a stupid question. He’s from the White House. I look down at my hands.

“You, for one.” Brian ticks people off on his fingers. “Mr. Blackpool, for another. And third, the President of the United States.”

I can’t decide if he’s joking. But why would he be? “You’re telling me that the president is worried about a few tabloid covers and gossip websites?”

Brian clasps his hands in front of him. “President Blackpool has some concerns about scandal reaching the White House.”

“Isn’t it a bit late for that?”

“Not yet, no.” Brian’s face lights up in a big smile. “But we’ve got a plan in place that should mitigate speculation.”

Both of them look at me. “And?”

“We need your cooperation in carrying it out.”

It’s frigid outside. The bar exam is in two days. I’m too hot in this suit jacket, and I want to leave. Badly. Being this close to Graham, even though he’s just sitting there, watching me, is like sandpaper against my skin. “What do you need me to sign?”

Brian frowns. “This solution won’t require official paperwork. It would have to be on the honor system.”

I’m also hungry.

“Why don’t we cut to the chase? Tell me the details.”

“President Blackpool would like to request that you”—here, cheerful Brian has the grace to look sheepish—“simulate a relationship with Mr. Blackpool to capture the attention of the press and put these rumors to rest.”

I stand up. “Thank you very much for your time, gentlemen.” Where is the front door? This is a private meeting area that, from the outside, looks like a normal house. It reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of the White House’s interior, but up close, I can see chips in the gold paint that covers some of the decor. There are gouges in the hardwood arms of the chairs...if they’re even hardwood. It’s not as real as it seems.

“Wait.”

Graham’s voice stops me in my tracks, sending shivers up and down my spine.

“This is for the entire country, Ms. Leighton.” I don’t like the way he says Ms. Leighton. I want to hear him say Bellamy. It’s a ridiculous, irrational want, and I try to bury it deep when I turn to face him.

“It’s a lie.” Thud thud thud. My heart pounds so loud the walls vibrate. “I’m not going to respond to a lie with another lie.” With a pang, my mother’s face pops into my memory.

“Going on this way—” He we are again, facing off, just like that day on the sidewalk. Graham shakes his head. “It might not turn out the way you think.”

“I like to be honest.”

“I like to be prepared.” Graham’s voice drops into a register that makes my spine tingle with recognition. I don’t know how I missed it before. He is powerful. His voice rings with it. “This is the best way to defend ourselves against scandal.”

“It’s not truthful. It’s not honorable.” I want him to see it, to see why I can’t do this, why every cell in my body is reaching for the right thing. This is not the right thing. Another wave of heat rockets up to my cheeks.

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

Graham Blackpool looks at me, his green eyes razor sharp, and I die a little inside. I die a little because I’m not touching him. Because he’s not touching me.

I lift my chin. “That would make me a whore, if I took money from you for this.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brian’s jaw drop.

Graham steps closer. There’s a foot of air between us. That’s it. “Everyone’s a whore for something, sweetness,” he says, the smallest breath of a sneer in his voice. “What’s your price?”

Fuck.

His voice resonates so deeply that heat grows between my legs, even as an offended gasp rises to my mouth. I don’t know what’s worse.

I don’t have to listen to this. I don’t have to have my soul twisted around this rich man’s finger because the President thinks it would play better in the press.

I lift my purse into the crook of my elbow. “Goodbye, Mr. Blackpool. If you need me, Mr. Kelting has my number.”