enemies to lovers with jack schlossberg slowburn asf

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Clad in a crisp, tailored suit, you step out onto the polished driveway, your Louboutin heels clicking against the stone with  rhythm.
The July sun shun off your aviator sunglasses as you approach the security checkpoint. You fidget slightly, adjusting your suit and glasses before speaking to the guardsmen.

One of them, a tall, stern-looking agent, steps forward and asks for your identification. You reach into your bag, pulling out a leather wallet and extracting your ID card. Handing it over, you watch as he examines it closely, comparing the photograph to your face before nodding to his colleague.

Next, you extend your arms slightly as they conduct a meticulous scan with a handheld metal detector, ensuring nothing is amiss. Another agent inspects your bag, carefully sifting through its contents before returning it with a polite nod.

Once cleared, you continue your journey towards the iconic entrance, each step carrying the weight of your responsibilities. Pausing just before the main door, you take a moment to absorb the significance of your surroundings, your chest rising and falling with a deep, steadying sigh.

an FBI agent you worked with Ross, suddenly appeared. His face was plastered with urgency. "You can't seriously just be arriving now?" he exclaims, his eyes narrowing in frustration. He glances at the other security guards, quickly adding, "She's with me."
"Do you have any idea what time it is? We've been waiting for you! This isn't some casual meeting," he snaps, his voice rising with each step you both take down the stairs.

You try to keep your balance, gripping the railing tightly. "I'm sorry, I got here as fast as I could," you manage to say, but he cuts you off.
"Sorry isn't going to cut it," he retorts, glancing back at you with a mix of anger and concern.

Without another word, he grabs your shoulder and begins to lead you at a hurried pace through the corridors of the White House. The sound of your heels echoes against the marble floors as you struggle to keep up. "I get it. It's your first time here, alright?" he says, his tone softening slightly, though his urgency remains. He pauses briefly, still gripping your shoulder before patting it in a gesture meant to be reassuring. "But don't... mess this up for me," he finishes..

As he pushes open the door to the briefing room, the murmur of conversation inside halts abruptly. All eyes turn to you and the agent, the weight of their scrutiny making the room feel even smaller. You take a deep breath, ready to step into the challenge ahead.

As you step into the bustling briefing room, the initial hush quickly dissipates. Men and women in sharp suits resume their frenetic activity, some typing furiously on laptops, others scrutinizing geographic satellite images displayed on large screens while speaking urgently into intercoms. The air is thick with the hum of overlapping conversations and the rapid clatter of keyboards.
Ross clears his throat, commanding immediate attention as he walks briskly towards the executive chief standing at the head of the room. "This is Agent Olive," he announces, glancing at you pointedly. You take a step forward and extend your hand, your grip firm and confident.

The chief, a stern-faced woman with an air of authority, shakes your hand with a measured nod. "Agent Olive, welcome," she says, her tone stern but not unkind.
Once the formalities are over, you are gestured to follow him to a nearby table. He hands you a thick dossier. "Here's your documentation," he says, his earlier frustration now replaced by a sense of urgency. "Everything you need to know is in here."

You take the dossier, its weight solid in your hands, and nod. The room around you continues its chaotic dance, but your focus is now entirely on the task at hand.
You open the dossier, your eyes scanning the dense text and detailed reports. The first page immediately catches your attention: "President's Son, Jack Schlossberg - Escaped Rehab." You quickly flip through the pages, absorbing the gravity of the situation.