Phase One: Foundation Episode 2
Poker
Alexandria, VA
March 11, 2020
The streets outside Gwen’s Virginia home were quiet, the porch light casting a warm glow over the cul-de-sac. Inside, Gwen was curled up on her couch in sweats, laptop propped on the coffee table, a whiskey glass within arm’s reach. Robyn sat beside her, one leg tucked under the other, lazily sipping her drink. her tablet balanced in her lap, poker app glowing bright.
Across town, Jules and Dante had propped themselves on either side of the king-sized hotel bed. Jules lounged in an oversized sweater, messy bun barely holding on, while Dante reclined with the kind of posture that said “I’m only here so I don’t get fined.” His phone was propped on a makeshift tripod, camera angled just right.
At Amira’s sprawling glass mansion, she and Kai were a vision of controlled luxury. Amira looked like the cover of a champagne ad in silk loungewear, her tumbler catching the light. Kai had positioned both their devices at ideal angles… minimalist, functional, nothing out of place.
They were all connected through the app. The digital poker table hovered on their screens, a sleek interface filled with chips, avatars, and bluff counters. Video chat ran in a separate window, boxy and glitch-prone, but good enough.
"Alright," Gwen said, adjusting her camera. "Rules are the same: no cheating, no crying, and—"
"No politics," Dante finished, smirking.
"You say that every time, and every time, someone brings up politics," Jules reminded him with a grin, nudging his foot under the blanket.
"Yeah, because we live in a hellscape," Kai muttered, sipping their drink. "Besides, it’s 2020. There's literally no way to avoid it unless you're in a coma."
Robyn barely glanced up from her phone. "Mmhmm." She tapped something quickly, a flurry of fast thumbs, then flipped her attention back to the game. “Right. I’m just here to take all your money.”
Gwen scoffed. “You wish.”
Robyn’s device chimed. Again. Another match, another flirt, another possible “Are you up?” candidate. She smirked to herself and tapped out another message. She wasn’t not playing the game, but let’s just say her real strategy tonight was finding someone to de-stress with after the final hand. She toggled between apps, sending a casual 👀 to three exes and what’s your vibe tonight to two new ones. Including Delaney.
Delaney didn’t answer.
Instead, a few miles away in her modest apartment, Delaney stared at her phone like it had just insulted her. She was already in bed, hair twisted up, alarm set for 4:45 a.m. sharp. Her expression was tight, lips pressed in a flat line. Her phone buzzed again. Robyn’s name was lighting up the screen.
She rolled her eyes and silenced it with a flat slap to the nightstand.
Delaney hated missing poker night. She hated even more that she’d been pulled from her usual rotation to babysit the First Lady. And not just watch her… be her personal detail. The First Lady who had already demanded an all-female team, an indoor temperature of exactly 72 degrees, and who, rumor had it, couldn’t stand the smell of dogs.
Delaney exhaled sharply and buried her face in her pillow.
Back at Gwen’s, the game had officially begun. Avatars moved. Digital chips clinked.
Amira poured more champagne. “Alright,” she said, holding up her glass, “Let’s play. And remember, we can be vicious, but this is still family.”
Jules leaned into the camera, mischievous. “If we’re going to be raising stakes, I might need a few more cocktails in me. You know… to match your charm.”
Dante rolled his eyes. “Can we not flirt in the group game?”
Robyn didn’t hear him. She was too busy checking if Delaney had texted back.
She hadn’t.
"Alright," Kai said, dealing the first hand. "Let’s make someone cry."
The game was on.
And for a group of friends who were used to playing nice, tonight, the bluffing might hit a little too close to home.
East Wing, Washington D.C.
March 10, 2020
The White House glittered under its floodlights, pristine as a museum display case, sterile and unyielding. Inside, in the private residence, Zofia Blamp stood at the window, barefoot on heated marble, sipping a chilled glass of white wine. She was dressed in a black silk robe, her long hair loosely twisted back, diamond studs glinting at her ears, not for show, but because some habits die harder than love.
The East Wing had always been too quiet at night. The men never stayed long. Not unless they wanted something.
She heard the elevator ding and exhaled once through her nose.
“Darling!” Everett Blamp’s voice came before he did. Booming, performative, echoing like he was still on a campaign stage. “There she is. My beauty. My queen.”
Zofia didn’t turn.
“You’re home early,” she said simply, her Brazilian accent lingering like perfume in the air.
Blamp entered the suite still wearing his suit jacket, the American flag lapel pin catching the light. He was balding, tan in that leathery, expensive way, his teeth too white and too many of them visible when he smiled.
"Had to get away from that cabinet meeting. Bunch of bureaucrats with the spines of cooked spaghetti," he grunted, already loosening his tie.
He walked up behind her, reached to put a hand on her waist.
She sidestepped.
“Don’t,” she said. Not cruel. Just done.
Everett blinked like he hadn’t heard her. “Come on, baby, I haven’t seen you in days.”
“I saw you on six televisions,” she said dryly. “That was enough.”
He sighed and dropped onto the velvet chaise like a sack of bricks. “You’re really not gonna give me anything?”
“I told you,” Zofia said, folding her arms. “Not while you hold me hostage.”
“Oh please, you live in the goddamn White House, Zofia. People would kill for that.”
“And yet,” she said coolly, “I would trade all of this for a clean hotel room with my passport back.”
Everett rubbed his face. “We’ve been over this. I can’t divorce you while I’m in office. It would be a political disaster. The optics, the base, the media circus—”
“You mean you would look weak,” she snapped. “Admit it.”
“What’s the difference?” He sat up, scowling. “Look… You knew what you were signing up for.”
“I signed up for money,” Zofia said, her voice calm now. “And a little time. Maybe some respect. But not this circus of a life. Not your witch of a daughter asking me if I dye my hair to keep you interested.”
Everett waved a hand. “Glinda’s just territorial.”
“She is disgusting,” Zofia hissed. “And so are those sons of yours. Rhett is a cokehead with delusions of godhood. Edison keeps staring at women like they’re meat. And your grand plan is to pass this presidency on to one of them?”
“I raised leaders,” Everett barked.
“You raised predators,” she snapped back.
They stared at each other across the space. Somewhere far off, a television murmured muted Fox News.
“And what about Gio?” she asked quietly, the heat draining from her voice. “Do you want him to end up like them?”
Everett stood again. His voice softened, calculated. “Gio’s a good kid. He’s got your heart.”
“He has mine because you gave him none of yours,” she whispered.
Silence.
“I should have done like your second wife,” Zofia added, walking to the mirror, adjusting a loose strand of hair. “Taken my child far away from you.”
Everett stepped closer, and for a moment, his hands hovered at her waist again. “Zofia,” he said gently, “let’s not do this. You’re tired. It’s been a long week. Let me take care of you. Let me—”
She turned to face him, cold and brilliant in the low light. “If you want sex, Everett, you should find it elsewhere. I'm not your pet. I’m not your prize. And I’m not your wife…not anymore.”
He stiffened. “The papers say otherwise.”
Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t drop her gaze. “Then you better start printing new ones.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Finally, he scoffed, stepping back, running a hand over his combed-back hair.
“You want a scandal?” he muttered. “You’ll get one.”
“No,” she said, returning to the window, her back to him once more. “I want a life. And I will get that. With or without your blessing.”
He stood there a moment longer, watching her like she was slipping away. Because she was.
Then he turned and left the room.
Zofia didn’t look back.
She didn’t have to.
Zoom, multiple locations
March 10, 2020
The game started light, with jokes flying and bluffs being called out over the sometimes-glitchy Zoom connection.
“Alright, best heist movie of all time?” Kai asked, shuffling their chips with idle fingers.
“Ocean’s 8,” Jules said immediately, tipping her glass toward the group like it was an obvious fact.
“Facts,” Gwen agreed, crossing her legs and leaning back. “Sandra Bullock, Cate Blanchett, Rihanna… what more do you need?”
“Some tension,” Amira added, sipping her champagne. “And we got plenty of that. Debbie and Lou? That was a relationship. I don’t care what anyone says.”
“That was a situationship,” Gwen corrected. “Lou had ex-girlfriend energy.”
Robyn smirked, but didn’t immediately reply. She was busy eyeing her phone, thumbs firing off a quick “you up?” to three different threads. Jama-Lee, Mackenzie, and Delaney. The last one she hesitated on, then typed,
Still got time for a nightcap. If you grown enough 👀.
She hit send before she could second guess it.
Across town, Delaney was dead to the world, knocked out cold in her queen-sized bed, starfished diagonally under a heap of blankets. Her phone buzzed once on the nightstand. Then again. She didn’t stir.
Back on the call, Gwen shot Robyn a side glance.
“And you just happen to know a lot about ex-girlfriend energy?” Robyn finally said, catching up to the banter like she hadn’t just tried to schedule three hookups from the same couch.
Gwen shot her a look but said nothing, which only made Kai snicker.
Dante, who had been listening to the back-and-forth with mild amusement, shook his head. “Y’all are ridiculous. Ocean’s 8 was good, but The Italian Job? Now that’s a classic.”
Kai groaned. “Let me guess, you like the Mini Coopers.”
“They were efficient.”
“They were small,” Gwen shot back.
Jules grinned. “You hear that, Dante? You just got outvoted.”
Dante held up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Y’all have no appreciation for the classics.”
Kai, who had been quietly enjoying the chaos, leaned forward with a glint of mischief in their eyes. “You know, we could pull off a heist.”
That got everyone’s attention.
Jules laughed, tilting her head. “Oh? And what exactly would we be stealing?”
Kai shrugged. “The greatest heist is the one that makes history.”
Amira raised an eyebrow. “You mean, like, stealing a country?”
A beat of silence. Then laughter erupted around the table, but there was something electric in the air now, something unspoken. The idea lingered, stretching between them like an unsaid dare.
“Okay, okay,” Robyn said, setting down her drink. “If we were going to pull off the greatest heist, what would it be?”
Gwen tapped her fingers against the table, considering. “It has to be something big, something that changes everything.”
Dante chuckled. “Stealing an election?”
Amira smirked. “That’s already been done.”
Kai leaned in, voice low but charged with possibility. “Not like we would do it.”
The table fell into a thoughtful silence, and in that moment, the idea stopped being a joke. It became something else entirely.
Kai leaned forward, resting their elbows on the table, eyes sharp as they scanned the group. “Alright, let’s entertain the idea… purely hypothetical, of course. If we were going to steal a country, how would we do it?”
Amira smirked, leaning in to join the conversation. “The real question is who would we be stealing from? The rich? The corrupt? Or maybe something even bigger?”
“Well, we all know the answer to that,” Robyn said casually, her eyes glinting with a devilish spark. “We steal from everyone.”
The table fell silent for a moment, and then everyone laughed. But it wasn’t a typical laugh. It was the kind of laugh that happened when a group of people realized they had just conjured up something absurd, but oddly thrilling.
Gwen rolled her eyes, swirling the wine in her glass. “Oh, so now we’re just openly committing treason over poker?”
Amira smirked. “Treason is when you fail and get caught. A coup? That’s just history written by the winners.”
Dante shook his head with a low chuckle. “Y’all scare me sometimes.”
Jules grinned. “Oh, come on, babe. If we had to pull it off, we’d be the best at it.”
Robyn tapped her fingers against her lips, thinking. “If you really wanted to take over a country, you’d need more than just a crew. You’d need infrastructure, a public image, control of information.”
Kai nodded. “Exactly. It wouldn’t be a smash-and-grab. It’d have to be a long con.”
Kai grinned. “The slowest, most elegant heist in history.”
Gwen, ever the strategist, leaned in despite herself. “First, you need a figurehead. Someone the public trusts, someone electable.” Her eyes flickered to Robyn for a split second before she caught herself and quickly looked away.
Amira caught the glance and smirked behind her glass. “Someone beautiful, honorable, and damn near untouchable. A war hero, maybe.”
Robyn scoffed. “The hell are you looking at me for?”
Jules shrugged, a playful lilt to her voice. “You are the most upstanding of us. Decorated Marine, disciplined, clean record. If anyone could pull off the perfect Trojan horse presidency, it’s you.”
Robyn let out a dry laugh and leaned back in her seat. “Y’all must be drunk already. Because let’s be real, this country will never elect a Black, gay woman. Not in our lifetimes.”
The table fell silent for a beat. No one could argue with that.
Gwen sighed, rubbing her temples. “She’s right. The system is built to keep people like Robyn out. Hell, the primaries have been vile to its female candidates so far… No matter how qualified, no matter how much better the option, they’ll always find a way to shut the door.”
Kai drummed their fingers against the table. “So, what if we don’t ask permission? What if we just… walk through the damn door anyway?”
Dante smirked. “You’d need a campaign. Someone who knows how elections are won and lost.” He glanced at Gwen.
Gwen groaned. “I hate you all.”
Jules leaned in, grinning. “And you’d need a media presence. Someone to handle public image, shape the narrative.” She flipped her hair. “Obviously, that’s me. I’d make sure our candidate was the it girl of American politics.”
Amira tapped her manicured nails against the table. “You’d need money. A lot of it.”
Kai shot her a knowing look. “And I’m guessing you’d just happen to know where to get some?”
Amira lifted her champagne flute in a silent toast. “Connections are everything.”
Kai smirked. “And when it all goes down? You’d need an exit strategy. A way to make sure everything falls into place exactly how we want it.”
A silence settled over the table. The laughter had faded, and in its place was something else entirely.
This had started as a joke.
Now, it felt like the beginning of something much bigger.
East Wing, Washington D.C.
March 10, 2020
The click of Zofia’s heels echoed through the east wing of the Blamp estate as she returned to her private quarters. Her silk robe shimmered faintly under the golden chandelier light, her mind still humming with the bitterness of her earlier exchange with Everett. The man had the nerve to try her again tonight, as if his presidency bought him access. As if she'd ever let him earn back something she never gave freely in the first place.
She slid the double doors shut behind her and exhaled. The quiet inside was a balm.
She made her way to the floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the moonlit lawn. From here, she could see the silent shadows of agents pacing the perimeter, floodlights skimming over the property line in measured arcs. All the usual security protocol.
But inside her wing, the detail had shifted, and that was what mattered to her the most.
The team was decidedly female.
Zofia's shoulders loosened immediately. There would be no testosterone-fueled awkwardness or quiet leering tonight. No overeager twenty-two-year-old with a buzz cut pretending not to look down her robe while calling her “ma’am.”
She opened the door that led to the small vestibule where her immediate security team rotated. Two women stood at attention just inside the hall. Sharp-eyed, serious, no-nonsense.
“Name?” Zofia asked one, her voice smooth and expectant.
“Agent Rhodes, ma’am.”
“And who’s lead on this shift?”
The woman barely blinked. “Delaney Ramirez, ma’am. She’ll be in to speak with you personally at 6:15 a.m.”
Zofia’s lips curled, the corner of her mouth twitching into a pleased little grin.
“Delaney,” she repeated, savoring it slightly, her voice a mix of curiosity and delight.
The name wasn’t unfamiliar.
She’d heard it more than once in the President’s morning briefings. A fast-rising star. Calm under pressure. Clean record. Latina. Tactical. And not one of Everett’s pet cowboys, either. Which meant she was smart. Useful. And likely immune to flattery from men who thought their power was a personality.
“I look forward to meeting her,” Zofia said with a light smile, turning back toward her bedroom.
She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to.
MacLean, VA
March 10, 2020
Amira was still at her desk when Kai knocked at her door, soft and deliberate. She didn’t look up right away, just took another sip of wine and clicked through the LLC documents again.
“I figured you’d come,” she said, finally.
Kai stepped into the office without waiting for an invite. They’d shed the hoodie in favor of a plain black tee, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “You already started something.”
“Of course I did,” Amira said, swiveling her monitor toward them. “It’s just a shell company. A placeholder. But it’s in Robyn’s name.”
Kai came around the desk, scanning the screen. “Consulting firm?”
“Consulting,” Amira echoed. “Meaningless but professional. It’s perfect.”
Kai rested their hip on the edge of the desk, arms still folded. “You know this is spiraling, right? We were talking shit over poker and whiskey, and now you’re laying financial infrastructure.”
“Not spiraling,” Amira said, turning back to her screen. “Strategizing. There’s a difference.”
The silence stretched between them, thick with understanding.
Kai finally broke it. “We’re not talking about running a candidate. We’re talking about building one.”
Amira looked up at that. “Exactly.”
“You really think the country’ll swallow a Black woman as a Republican tech bro?”
“No,” she said. “I think they’ll swallow a myth. The idea of someone who confirms their worldview, who says just enough to be relatable and just enough to be radical.”
“And Robyn?” Kai asked. “You think she can pull it off?”
“She’s disciplined,” Amira said. “And adaptable. She has presence. That thing politicians need where you can’t stop watching them. Plus, she hates herself just enough to sell it.”
Kai didn’t smile at that, but their gaze softened, and just for a flicker, something vulnerable passed between them. Shared history, maybe a recognition.
“That’s dark,” Kai said.
“This whole plan is dark,” Amira replied. “We’re not saving the system. We’re corrupting it better than they ever could.”
Kai walked slowly around the room, trailing fingers along the sleek edge of the bookshelf. “It has to look organic. Nothing too perfect. Nothing too clean. Voters get suspicious when they can’t smell the bullshit.”
“Which is why we let them smell just enough,” Amira said. “A memoir. A bootstraps origin story. We drip it out over time, let the right-wing media do the rest.”
Kai turned to her, thoughtful now. “She needs a scandal.”
“She’ll have one,” Amira said dryly. “We’ll script it.”
They exchanged a long look, the quiet settling again, this time with weight.
“She’ll need to believe in it,” Kai added.
Amira gave a little shrug. “Then we feed her just enough truth to make it feel real.”
Kai nodded, and for a moment, it looked like they might leave. But they hovered in the doorway instead, watching her.
“You scare me,” Kai said, voice low.
Amira smiled, slow and amused. “I know.”
“You flirt with me like I’m not supposed to notice the pandemic scenario in your climate deck.”
Amira’s smile didn’t falter. “You noticed.”
“I always notice,” Kai said, backing up a step. “I’m demisexual, not blind. But I don’t trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
Kai paused. “And yet…”
Amira’s gaze flicked up to meet theirs. “Yet you’re still standing in my doorway.”
Kai exhaled, biting down whatever they wanted to say next. “Goodnight, Amira.”
“Sleep tight, Trojan.”
Kai disappeared down the hall, footsteps light but deliberate.
Amira turned back to her screen.
And smiled.
Alexandria, VA
March 11, 2020
Robyn lounged on the couch, fresh from the shower, Gwen’s oversized hoodie swallowing her frame. Her curls dripped occasionally onto the throw pillow behind her, and she was too tired to care. The TV was on mute with some overly dramatic political panel where the men all talked with their hands and interrupted each other.
Gwen was pacing. Again. Her glass of bourbon barely touched, more a prop than a drink. She wasn’t wired with caffeine. She was high on possibility.
“So,” Gwen began, her tone casual in a way that meant it wasn’t, “hypothetically… if someone were to run a candidate as a Trojan horse…”
Robyn raised a brow. “Hypothetically?”
Gwen ignored her and kept moving. “The name would have to be perfect. Familiar enough to feel real, forgettable enough to slide under radar. Robyn works. It’s gender neutral, adaptable. Rob Loche could be anyone.”
Robyn shifted. “Could be, sure. But… Rob Loche’s not me.”
“Doesn’t have to be,” Gwen shot back. “That’s the point. He’s a suit. A symbol. A story we tell.”
Robyn folded her arms. “And this story involves… what? A buzzcut and a shotgun wedding?”
Gwen smirked. “Maybe just a trim. But yeah, if we were doing this for real, you couldn’t stay… this version of you. You’d need to be someone they’d vote for. Which means Rob Loche isn’t single. A bachelor in this climate? Red flags.”
Robyn rolled her eyes. “So I get a fake name and a fake fiancée?”
“Or a wife,” Gwen shrugged. “That polls better. Especially in the Midwest. But again… hypothetically.”
A long pause hung between them. Robyn watched the TV without seeing it. Gwen watched Robyn.
Robyn snorted, the sound halfway between amusement and disbelief. “You’re asking me to turn myself into a mascot. A mirror. Something white folks can project their fantasies onto.”
“I’m asking you to survive the storm and become the lightning,” Gwen countered.
Robyn sat up a little, resting her elbows on her knees. The hoodie bunched at her forearms, sleeves damp from her hair. “You know what it took to get where I am? To make it home in one piece? To stay clean, to get my clearance, to keep my goddamn integrity?”
Gwen walked to the window, stared out at the quiet cul-de-sac below. “You ever think maybe you did all that to prepare for something bigger?”
“That something wasn’t politics.”
“No,” Gwen agreed. “But maybe it was war. Just… a different kind.”
The room fell into another long silence. Outside, a neighbor’s porch light flicked off. Somewhere, a dog barked. The muted news cycle kept spinning behind them, all mouth and no meaning.
Robyn’s voice was softer now. “I didn’t make it through two tours and a thousand invisible walls to put on a mask for people who hate everything I am.”
Gwen turned, slow and deliberate. “What if the mask gives you the power to unmake them?”
Robyn didn’t answer. She picked up the bourbon Gwen had left untouched, sipped once, then twice, and winced. “I’m not built for the stage. I don’t smile on cue. I don’t kiss babies.”
“You don’t have to,” Gwen said. “You just have to be believable enough to make them believe in something that doesn’t threaten them. That is until it’s too late to stop it.”
Robyn tilted her head. “And what happens when I forget who I am underneath all that?”
Gwen’s expression softened, just a trace. “I won’t let you.”
Robyn studied her. “You’d really do all this? For me?”
Gwen shook her head. “Not for you. For us. For every Black and brown girl who got told she was too angry. For every queer kid who got told they were too loud. For every veteran who got sent to the front lines and came back invisible.”
Robyn looked back at the TV again, where a white man in a red tie was being given the last word, again.
She set the glass down carefully.
“You’ve really thought this through,” Robyn finally said.
“I think,” Gwen said, voice low and steady, “that the system’s been screwing people like us for too long. If we had a candidate on the inside, someone who could nod and smile and play their game long enough to burn it down from the podium…”
“...It’d be dangerous,” Robyn finished for her.
Gwen nodded. “But it’d be worth it.”
Robyn was quiet for a beat. Then: “I like my curls, Gwen.”
“I know,” Gwen said softly, lips twitching at the corners. “But imagine how good they’ll look when you grow them back, and we’ve already burned the whole damn circus to the ground.”
“Okay,” she said. “Hypothetically.”
Gwen smiled, slow and dangerous.
“Then let’s build Rob Loche.”
Springfield, VA
March 11, 2020
For Jules and Dante, the night unfolded differently.
The poker conversation had struck a chord. Not panic, not regret, but a pulse of something old and familiar: urgency. The kind that reminded them both how fragile the balance of their lives really was. They hadn’t had a night away from their kids in months. And if the plan went forward, it might be months more before they had another.
So they didn’t waste it.
The moment the hotel room door closed behind them, Dante had his arms around her, and Jules didn’t hesitate. Their lovemaking wasn’t frantic, but it wasn’t slow either. It was steady. Intentional. Like a promise… one they didn’t say out loud, but both understood.
Afterward, tangled in the white sheets, Jules lay against his chest, her breathing even again. His fingers traced light, lazy circles on her back mapping her spine from memory.
“I should be building the prototype already,” she murmured, half-asleep. “Finding the look, shaping the tone. We’d have to decide if Robyn’s more blue-collar bootstraps or buttoned-up old money. There’s nuance.”
Dante smiled into her hair. “You’ll find it. You always do.”
She tilted her head to look up at him. “And you? What’s your angle?”
Dante didn’t answer immediately. He glanced out the window. “I’ve cleaned up enough messes to know how one gets made,” he said finally. “If we’re going to build this house of cards, I’ll be the one sweeping for bugs, planting the bodies, and torching the blueprints. No one's gonna trace this back to us.”
Jules chuckled softly. “Romantic.”
He looked back at her. “Dead serious. If you’re building the face, I’m burying the past. Every alias, every ex-roommate, every dumb tweet.”
“And when it all goes up in smoke?”
He kissed her shoulder. “Then we disappear. But not tonight.”
Jules exhaled slowly, letting herself fall against him again. “No. Tonight, we pretend we’re just…us.”
Dante pulled her closer. “Exactly who we need to be.”
Robyn had every intention of fucking the girl.
They’d met through DMs earlier that week. mutual thirst over old festival pics turned flirty real quick. Dark curls, wicked smirk, confidence that promised a damn good time. The kind of woman who didn’t ask questions, who knew the rules: no sleepovers, no getting too familiar, no photos.
Even in lockdown, where everything was risk-assessed and sanitized, desire didn’t just disappear. She'd been careful. Rented a hotel room under a throwaway alias. Masked up, wiped down. The girl was waiting, practically vibrating through the screen when they video-chatted to finalize the plan.
Robyn had even snuck out Gwen’s back door like a teenager. Hood up, hands in her pockets, adrenaline buzzing.
But something shifted on the way there.
The poker night conversation played on loop in her head… the way Gwen had looked at her across the table, like she saw the whole plan before anyone else had even fully formed it. Like Robyn wasn’t just part of the con, but the core of it.
She remembered Gwen’s hand on her arm when she'd laughed too loud. The casual intimacy of someone who knew her too well. Who saw her without asking to.
And just like that, the thrill of the hookup drained out of her.
The girl texted when she was two blocks away: Room 614. Door’s unlocked.
Robyn stared at it. Fingers hovered. Then, she turned around.
Plans Fell through, Rain check? She texted back.
By the time she crept back into Gwen’s place, the house was dark. Gwen's guest room was warm, her bed still made from when she'd left. She stripped down to her tank and briefs, sliding beneath the covers, her body humming with need…but her mind elsewhere.
She wasn’t craving release. She was craving clarity.
And maybe, though she wouldn’t admit it out loud, she didn’t want just anyone tonight.
She rolled over, staring at the wall that separated her from Gwen's room. Just on the other side.
She had a mission. But damn, did she have a complication, too.
Washington D.C.
March 11, 2020
Delaney groaned as her alarm buzzed against her nightstand. She swatted at it blindly, eyes still shut, body sprawled diagonally across the bed like she’d lost a war in her sleep. The sun was already peeking through the blinds, and her mouth was dry with regret.
She reached for her phone, squinting as the screen lit up.
Missed text: Robyn (12:34 AM)
You up?
Delaney stared at it for a long moment, her thumb hovering above a reply she knew would be pointless now. The message was nearly seven hours old. Robyn would already be gone…moving on, charming, distracting someone else.
She sat up slowly, dragging a hand through her tangled curls. She hated how that one message made her heart flutter and ache at the same time.
Don’t do this again, she warned herself. But her fingers didn’t listen. She opened Robyn’s contact and just looked. The little picture of Robyn in uniform, laughing, sunglasses halfway down her nose smirked back at her.
Delaney liked her. God help her, she did. Robyn was cocky and hot and maddeningly unpredictable. A natural flirt with a body like a damn movie trailer and eyes that knew too much.
And still, Delaney liked her. Really liked her.
But Robyn was a player. Always had been. She knew how to kiss like she meant it and then laugh it off ten minutes later. And Gwen? Gwen wanted Robyn too. She might not have said it out loud, but Delaney wasn’t blind.
That made things dangerous. Sleeping with Robyn more than once was already a mistake. Sleeping with her while Gwen clearly had long-term eyes? That was begging for drama.
Still…
What if I stayed with her during quarantine?
The thought came unbidden, hopeful. They could hole up together, keep each other warm, order takeout, binge trash TV, maybe pretend things were simpler for a while. She wouldn’t be alone. Robyn always made her feel like the world was spinning just right.
But then her stomach sank.
She’s not alone. She’s with Gwen. I know she is.
Delaney sighed and tossed the phone aside, guilt and jealousy coiling together in her chest. Besides, even if Robyn wasn’t wrapped up in Gwen’s orbit, Delaney couldn’t afford distractions. Not now. Not when she was about to step into the lion’s den.
The Blamp administration didn’t believe in masks. Or science. Or basic goddamn decency. They didn’t cancel events. They didn’t test properly. They smiled at cameras while whole cities gasped for air.
Now Delaney had to serve inside that circus.
Let’s hope Zofia Blamp is everything she hints at being, she thought, tying her hair back. Because I’m about to be in the belly of the beast.
She grabbed her N95, slipping it over her nose with practiced efficiency. One last glance in the mirror and took in her sharp eyes, and set jaw before she opened the door and stepped into the world, ready to serve, to protect, and to survive.
Even if it meant pretending her heart wasn’t already halfway across the city, curled up in someone else’s hoodie.
EPISODE THREE PREVIEW: "Let’s do this"
Location: The East Wing - First Lady’s Private Sitting Room, White House, March 2020
Zofia Blamp doesn’t flinch easily, but Agent Delaney Cruz is starting to press at the corners of her iron composure. Their dynamic is a spark waiting to catch fire. Delaney’s presence is unsettling in all the right ways… and Zofia knows it. She hasn’t been touched emotionally in years. Not by her husband. Not by anyone.
Meanwhile, behind the closed doors of Gwen’s townhouse, Robyn wakes to a storm. Guilt. Longing. And Gwen. whose razor-sharp instincts know Robyn’s hiding something.
The heist is no longer hypothetical.
The shell company is active.
The masks, both literal and political, are on.
In the next episode:
Delaney is pulled deeper into Zofia’s world—where nothing is what it seems, and desire simmers just under diplomacy’s surface.
Jules and Kai run a covert online campaign stress test, and not everyone likes what the algorithm says.
And Robyn? She’s got to decide if she’s really in this game for justice…
or just to outrun the heartbreak she helped create.