#58
"Call it good, call it karma, I don't know how I got ya, but all I know is I'm all in now” Zolita
Four months left until her inauguration. Six months since a "chance" encounter in a parking lot ended with us tangled in the back seat of my Porsche.
She is my addiction, and like any addict in need of a fix, I found myself on a private jet heading toward D.C. My official mission was to finalize the transfer of my empire, but my true purpose was to find her under the shifting glows of the National Gallery’s light show.
I was on edge. My legs shook with a frantic, restless energy because I was finally, finally, closing the distance. I wanted to reconnect before she was officially lost to the solemnity of the Supreme Court.
Was it selfish? Absolutely. But I’ve always been willing to be selfish when it comes to her.
I performed the corporate rituals with clinical precision as when I cut the ribbon at the company’s new headquarters, toasted with investors who saw dollar signs where I saw a homecoming, and let seasoned politicians bend my ear for hours.
They didn’t have a fraction of my true attention. My focus was absolute, and it was pointed directly at her.
When night finally fell, I navigated the museum gardens until my heart skipped a beat. I found her standing there, a vision in a long, chocolate-brown dress that cinched her waist and left the elegant curve of her shoulders exposed to the cool evening air.
I approached her without a word, sliding a glass of sparkling wine into her hand.
"I thought it would take me longer to find out your company was relocating to D.C.," she said, her gaze undressing me with a familiar, searing intensity.
"I wanted to surprise you," I replied, my voice low. "Even though I know how much you claim to hate surprises."
She bit her lower lip, a habit that still made my blood simmer, before raising her glass in a silent toast and taking a sip of the golden liquid.
"I missed you," she whispered.
"Me too, Kitty."