Chapter 11
Piper
T he Blackwood Strategic Advisory headquarters looms ahead—a sleek monolith of glass and steel, humming with power and promise. As I step out of the cab, the morning chill wraps around my legs. It’s the kind that reminds you autumn has officially arrived in D.C.
I tug my blazer tighter and run my palms down the sides of my dress, wiping away the nervous sheen clinging to my skin.
The dress hugs my body in all the right places, tailored and bold without being loud. Deep green panels framed in black contour down from the structured shoulders to the hem just above my knees, creating sharp lines that feel almost architectural.
It’s sleeveless and just the right amount of modest. It’s not prudish by any means, and it shows just enough skin to remind them I’m not here to disappear. My black stilettos are clean and pointed, about three inches—tall enough to make a statement, but low enough that I won’t wobble.
While picking out my outfit, I felt like fucking Goldilocks. Not too much of this, but not too little either. I think I’ve managed to find the perfect middle ground if I do say so myself.
I exhale and glance at my reflection in the glass doors. My braid is neat and tight, but a few strands have already slipped free to frame my face, softening the sharp angles tension has carved into my features.
Right, I’ve made it this far, and there’s no turning back now. My last chance awaits, and I refuse to leave without an internship. I’m not above begging if that’s what it takes.
The doors part with a hushed whisper, and I’m greeted by a sharply dressed woman, her expression unreadable but not unkind. “You must be Miss Harrington,” she states, her tone certain. There’s no doubt in this woman’s mind which is why she’s telling rather than asking .
“That’s me,” I say, glad my voice doesn’t waver. She nods once, businesslike, and gestures for me to move further into the lobby.
Everything about her is efficient—from the crisp lines of her slate-gray pencil skirt to the perfect twist of her hair at the nape of her neck.
She doesn’t wear much makeup, just a sweep of liner and matte lipstick in the exact color of quiet authority. I can’t tell if she’s forty or fifty, and somehow that makes her feel even more intimidating.
“I’m Maria Wilson, and I’m so glad you accepted my invitation,” she says. “It’s good you arrived early so we don’t have to rush through security.” While she talks, she guides me over to a sleek glass barrier guarded by two men in tailored suits.
There’s no chaotic beep of a grocery store scanner, no barking orders—just quiet precision. A discreet metal arch stands to the side, all matte black and polished chrome, flanked by a conveyor belt leading into a scanner that hums low like it’s already sizing me up.
“If you’ll place your handbag and blazer in the tray, please,” Maria says, gesturing toward the belt.
I do as she asks, watching as the tray slides forward, swallowed by the scanner’s soft blue glow.
“This way,” she says, motioning toward the detector.
My pulse trips as I step through. I’ve done this before—airports, courthouses, even a few political events—but something about doing it here feels different. Like I’m not just being screened for weapons… but for weakness.
Once I’m through the scanner with no issues, I step toward the belt, intending to grab my handbag. But I’m halted by Maria’s hand on my elbow.
“I’m just going to get—”
She interrupts me. “No need. You’re not permitted your handbag or blazer inside the interview room,” she explains.
“Really?” The word slips out before I can stop it. I recover quickly, force a smile, and shrug like it’s nothing.
Maria gives me a sharp nod, then she reaches into the small paper bag I hadn’t even noticed her carrying. “There’s one more thing,” she says as she pulls out what looks an awful lot like a blindfold.
My breath catches as my brain instantly tells me this is strange, that blindfolds don’t belong in interviews. “W-what’s that for?” My voice stumbles, caught between shock and curiosity.
“It’s procedure, Miss Harrington,” she replies smoothly. “If you resist, there’ll be no interview.”
Her tone is firm, final. No room for negotiation, no room to argue. My heart pounds, a split-second war between self-preservation and ambition. But ambition wins. It has to.
“Okay,” I whisper, nodding. Then I turn around, giving Maria my back so she can place the blindfold over my eyes.
The fabric is smooth against my skin, plunging me into darkness. My wor ld narrows, and I focus on my breath, forcing it to steady. I can’t see, but I can hear—the quiet efficiency of the space, the soft footfalls of my guide.
I’m led down a hallway, the carpet beneath my feet muffling each step. My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to reach up and tear off this blindfold, but I resist the urge. I need this too badly to ruin it with nerves.
A door opens, and I’m guided inside a room and onto a chair, the cushion soft against my thighs.
The space seems to hum with invisible energy, every nerve tingling in anticipation.
My heart hammers in my chest as I strain to hear any sound, anything that might give me a clue about who else is in here.
There’s breathing—steady, controlled—but I can’t tell how many people are in here. Not even when a chair creaks which is followed by someone shifting their weight. The hush isn’t hostile—it’s hungry. I sense that whoever is here is waiting, watching.
My skin prickles with goosebumps, not just from the cool air, or from the loss of sight. But from the feeling of being seen—of being studied.
“Piper Harrington.” The deep and commanding voice sends a shiver down my spine. “My name is Rafe. Welcome to the internship interview here at Blackwood Strategic Advisory.”
I square my shoulders, forcing myself to focus. “Thank you.” My voice holds steady despite the whirlwind of emotions coursing through me. “I’m honored to be here.”
The interview begins with standard questions about my political strategy, ambitions, and goals. I answer confidently, my passion for public service evident in my tone.
Rafe’s voice is steady, professional. “Your résumé mentions that you want to be in the room where decisions are made. What do you believe is the most effective way to influence policy in today’s political landscape?”
I sit straighter. “Policy is shaped long before it ever reaches a public vote. True influence happens behind closed doors—through lobbying, media control, and agenda-setting. Voters see what we want them to see, and it’s the job of political strategists to ensure the right narrative is pushed forward. ”
A pause. I hear the soft shuffle of fabric. A quiet exhale followed by low murmuring. I strain my ears, but I can’t hear what’s being said. Did I surprise them? I can’t tell. The pause stretches, taut with judgment, pressing against my skin like unseen hands.
“And you believe voters are that easily swayed?” It’s another man asking the follow-up question. His voice is smoother, sharper.
I nod. “I do, Mr… umm… sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” I inwardly cringe for sounding so unpolished.
“Matteo,” he helpfully supplies.
“ Public perception is a science, Matteo.” I pause briefly. “The right headline, the right scandal, the right savior at the right time—it’s all about timing.”
Rafe speaks again. “That’s a cynical take.”
“It’s a realistic one,” I counter. “Change doesn’t come from wishful thinking. It comes from control.” The more I talk, the more my confidence soars. I’ve got this.
He hums, considering. “It seems you focus heavily on public perception. What about raw political power? Do you see yourself as the kind of strategist who plays kingmaker, or are you interested in holding office yourself?”
I hesitate, then shake my head. “I don’t want to be the face. The mind behind it is where I want to be. The person who builds the leaders, not the one shaking hands in front of a camera.”
He leans forward slightly, at least I think he does. When he talks again, he sounds closer. “And if you had to choose between winning by playing fair or winning by any means necessary?”
It’s a trap. I know it. But the answer is easy. “Winning is the only thing that matters,” I say, my voice unwavering.
A pause. I think I’ve impressed them. Then Matteo exhales softly, as if amused. “You speak like someone who understands the game, Miss Harrington.”
I steel myself. “I do.”
Then, just as I start to feel steady, as if I’ve passed some kind of unspoken test, another voice enters the mix—low, smooth, dripping with amusement.
“Tell me, Piper,” he drawls. “Do you touch yourself at night?”
My head snaps in the direction I think the question came from. “W-what?” I gasp. No, I must have misheard him. “Can you please repeat—”
“No,” he interrupts coldly. “A simple yes or no will suffice.”
Heat creeps along my cheeks. I inhale deeply, then I slowly shake my head. There’s no point in pretending to consider whether I’m going to answer or not. Of course I am. I’ve come this far, with everything to lose.
My mind reels. I’m a scholar, not a seductress. Desperation is a powerful motivator, and since I’m here to claim my future, I can be whatever he wants me to be.
I swallow hard, my throat dry. “Yes,” I whisper, hating myself for it. “Sometimes.”
“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth—but there’s a darkness under it that makes my stomach twist and my thighs clench. “Such a perfect toy.”
Oh, God. The way my body is responding is downright indecent. Those two words—hoarse and reverent—make me slick with want. Heat pools between my thighs, and I hate myself for how fast I go soft for pr aise.
The atmosphere thickens, humming with something primal. It coils around me, a presence more felt than seen, one that makes my skin prickle.
“Stand up,” he commands, smooth, effortless, like he already knows I’ll obey.
My body tenses at the unspoken challenge lacing his tone.
“Is there a problem?” Rafe asks. “A woman who understands the game must also be comfortable with high-stakes decisions.”
My heartbeat pounds in my ears. Shaking my head, I stand, ignoring the way my legs threaten to buckle under my weight.
“Now strip,” the third man demands.
“I… umm…”
“Take. Off. Your. Clothes.” He repeats the command, slowly pronouncing every word.
Silence smothers the room, thick and oppressive. My breath catches in my throat, my fingers curling into the fabric of my dress as if holding on to my last shred of dignity.
I freeze. Not in fear—but in… fuck, I don’t even know. Anticipation? Before I can ponder it too much, a chair creaks. A slow inhale. They’re waiting. Watching. Expecting.
“Now, Piper,” he says, voice like silk over steel. “Or you can walk out of here and leave with nothing.” The ultimatum is like a knife hovering over my throat.
Everything in me rebels, screams that this is wrong. But louder than that is the voice whispering this is what it takes . I’ve clawed too far, bled too long, to lose it all at the finish line.
My body betrays me before my brain can intervene—my hands move, reaching for the zipper at my back, fingers trembling as I tug it down.
The soft whine of fabric sliding apart is deafening in the stillness. My dress loosens, slipping from my shoulders, baring more of my skin to the chilled room. It pools at my feet in a whisper, leaving me in nothing but my underwear and heels.
My arms twitch with the need to cover myself. But I can’t show any weakness. Reaching behind me, my fingers fumble with the clasp of my bra. Before I can undo it, I’m stopped by a warm hand on my shoulder.
“Keep your underwear on, little toy,” the third guy orders in a husky voice.
His hand lingers, sending electricity coursing through my veins. I’m so caught up in the way his touch makes me feel that I don’t notice he’s moved until I feel his hands on my calf.
“Lift your foot.” I obey, feeling him remove the dress from my ankles.
“Thank you,” I breathe, assuming he did it to stop me from tripping over t he fabric.
Damnit, why am I finding that sweet? I shouldn’t because there’s nothing sweet about these men. I just know it. They’re all fucking watching as I stand there, almost naked for their viewing pleasure.
A long silence stretches between us. The pressure in the room squeezes around me, coiling like wire beneath my skin. But then, just as the urge to cover myself up becomes overwhelming, I roll my shoulders back and place my hands on my hips.
“Good girl.” Fuck, the rumble of praise from the third and unknown man punches straight to my core. My nipples harden, and my clit throbs in response.
Matteo and Rafe ask a few more questions. I answer—barely. I can’t think straight with the third man’s hand still on my leg. I’m waiting for his next move, not theirs.
“Do you prefer to be on top?” he asks, tone velvet-wrapped steel.
I lick my lips and roll my shoulders back. “I… err…” Christ, I’m not sure how to answer that question. Do I prefer it? Compared to what? I guess I like it fine… but it’s not my favorite.
The room feels smaller, closer now. His questions hang in the air, charged and heavy. I can feel his gaze on me, even though I can’t see him. I’m a deer in headlights, frozen yet painfully aware of every inch of my body.
“Answer me.” The words crack like a whip—sharp, impatient.
My mind reels, torn between maintaining my dignity and the desperation that had me blindfolded and half-naked in the first place. I’m ashamed by my body’s betrayal, the way it responds to his words, the ache that’s building between my legs.
I hesitate. “I… I don’t know how to answer,” I whisper. “It’s… umm… not my preferred way.”
There’s a low chuckle followed by another shift in the room’s energy. I feel him standing up. The slightest touch grazes my arm—just a whisper of contact—but it brands like fire. That’s what he is. Not a man, but a voltage.
“On your knees.”