Through the towering windows of the East Wing, the moonlight cast long silver shadows across the polished floors of the White House. The air was thick with the silence of history—of deals struck in whispers and empires built in rooms just like this one. The chandeliers above flickered with a warm, golden glow, but they couldn't quite reach the far corners, where the dark lived comfortably.
President Cassandra Harrow stood alone at the window, her silhouette regal yet worn, one hand wrapped around a lowball glass of neat scotch. The amber liquid caught the light with every small movement, reflecting something ancient and quiet—like memory. She was still in her day attire: a sharply tailored black suit jacket, collar crisp, the hint of a deep navy blouse beneath it. The top button had finally been undone, as had the performance.
