Amazing how fast people turned when power shifted.
The elevator doors opened and I stepped inside. Alone. The mirrored walls showed me my reflection from every angle—a woman in a $3,000 suit with not a hair out of place, looking exactly like someone who had everything under control.
The doors closed.
I exhaled.
The lobby was worse. Word had spread fast—of course it had, this was Washington, gossip traveled faster than legislation—and I could feel every eye on me as I crossed the marble floor. Assistants clustered by the coffee cart, pretending not to stare. A junior aide I’d promoted last year quickly turned and walked the other direction. A city councilman I’d endorsed—a man who owed his entire career to my support—saw me coming and suddenly became very interested in his phone.
Cowards. All of them.
But the worst was Marjorie Sullivan. Deputy Mayor. The woman who’d been waiting in the wings for years, desperate for me to slip so she could swoop in. She was standing near the entrance, pretending to review some documents, but I saw the smile she was trying to hide. The barely contained glee.
Our eyes met.
“Vivica,” she said, voice dripping with false concern. “I just heard. Is there anything I can?—”
“Save it, Marjorie.” I kept walking. “We both know you’ve been waiting for this moment since the day I appointed you.”
Her mask slipped for just a second—a flash of real satisfaction underneath the performance—before she rearranged her face into something sympathetic.
“I’m sure this will all get sorted out,” she called after me. “These things usually do.”
I didn’t respond. Just pushed through the doors and walked into the afternoon sun, feeling the weight of a hundred stares on my back.
I made it to my car before I fell apart.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely unlock the door. I slid into the driver’s seat and sat there, staring at nothing, trying to process what just happened.
Evidence. They said they had evidence.
How? I’d been so careful. Every bribe, every backroom deal, every favor called in—I covered my tracks. Used intermediaries. Kept nothing in writing.
So how did they get evidence?
India.
The thought hit me like a slap.
India knew everything. Every secret. Every scheme. Every body buried in the foundation of my career. She’d been by my side for years, in my bed for almost as long. If anyone had enough information to bring me down, it was her.
But she wouldn’t. Would she?
We loved each other. What we had was real—I was sure of it. She wouldn’t betray me. Not after everything we’d shared. Not after everything I’d done for her career.
Unless she was trying to save herself.
If the FBI had come to her first, offered her immunity in exchange for testimony… India was smart. Ambitious. She’d always put her survival first. It was one of the things I admired about her.
It was also one of the things that made her dangerous.
I pulled out my phone to call her. Before I could dial, it rang in my hand.
India.
My stomach tightened. Was this a confession? An apology? Or was she calling to gloat?
“Baby,” I answered, keeping my voice steady. “I’ve been trying to reach you. Something happened?—”
