Press

Chapter 2: Scandal

Damon took a long, slow sip of his coffee, savoring the warmth that spread through his chest. The aroma of the dark roast swirled through the open-plan living room of his apartment, mixing with the faint scent of the autumn air seeping in through a crack in the window. Outside, the Washington skyline stretched out before him, gleaming under the early morning sun. It was a rare moment of quiet—a brief pause before the chaos of another day at the White House.

Dressed in a simple white T-shirt and a pair of well-worn boxers, Damon allowed himself a few moments of peace. His apartment, minimalistic but tastefully decorated, was his haven away from the formality and scrutiny of his job. Here, in the soft light of the morning, he wasn't the polished, impenetrable Press Secretary. He was just Damon.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, taking another sip, letting the bitterness of the coffee linger on his tongue. He glanced at the small stack of unread briefings on the coffee table, but for once, he allowed himself to ignore them. The morning felt calm, almost too calm, like the eye of a storm he couldn't yet see.

His phone, resting on the counter beside him, vibrated abruptly, shattering the tranquility. Damon's brow furrowed as he glanced at the screen. Bryson. He exhaled sharply, a familiar tension creeping into his neck. Bryson rarely called this early unless something was wrong. His mind immediately raced to the worst-case scenarios.

With a resigned sigh, Damon set his coffee down and picked up the phone. His tone shifted, professional and guarded, as though flipping a switch.

"Damon here," he answered, voice steady but cool.

On the other end, Bryson's voice was clipped, laced with urgency. "We've got a problem."

Damon's stomach sank. Of course, there's a problem. "What is it this time?"

"The First Lady. There's a photo of her with that luxury bag—taken at that fundraiser last night. It's all over social media." Bryson's words came out fast, tense. "They're spinning it like a bribe. I need you at the White House. Now."

Damon's jaw clenched as the weight of the situation sunk in. There goes the morning. He glanced once more at the peaceful skyline outside, already feeling it slip away. "I'll be there in twenty," he replied, his voice taut, already slipping into crisis mode.

As he hung up the phone, he ran a hand through his hair, fighting off the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Another scandal, another mess to clean up. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the couch, his relaxed morning routine now a distant memory.

Across town, Parker's bathroom was filled with steam, the hot water from the shower cascading over his body, his mind blissfully free of the stress that Damon had just been thrust into. The sound of the water hitting the tiled floor drowned out the clutter of his apartment—the strewn clothes, the empty pizza boxes. He ran his hands through his wet hair, letting the warmth relax his muscles. Parker wasn't one for order or routine. His mornings were usually a chaotic mix of last-minute decisions and half-finished thoughts. But here, under the water, he let everything fall away.

His body, lean and toned from casual workouts, glistened under the spray, the steam rising around him like a haze. He massaged shampoo into his scalp, humming softly to himself, enjoying the brief stillness before the day really began.

Then, faintly, through the fog of water and steam, he heard it—a vibrating sound. His phone.

He ignored it at first, thinking it could wait. Whoever it was, they could call back. He wasn't in a hurry. But then it buzzed again, more insistent this time. And again. And again. Parker sighed, turning off the water and stepping out of the shower, beads of water still clinging to his skin. He grabbed a towel, wrapping it loosely around his waist as he wiped a streak across the fogged mirror with the back of his hand.