It's Political Not Personal

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Donald's POV

"Dammit!" I angrily yell, kicking over a $4,000 dollar cylinder vase. "Get that out of my face." I grit my teeth at Jeff, a staff member who is helping with my campaign. He picks up the newspaper who's headline reads 'Donald Trump: Toupee or Just rly bad hair?'

"Also, Mr. Trump-"

I'M PISSED, "What did I tell you about calling me that!"

"Sorry, Mr. President." Geoffrey corrects himself. "You're behind in the polls." Geff then informs me.

"Dammit!" I angrily yell, pushing over a $40,000 dollar square vase.

"Sorry, Mr. president." Jef tries to apologize but I fire him.

My palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy
There's vomit on my cashmere sweater already, head-cooks spaghetti
I'm nervous, but on the surface I look orange and ready to drop bombs (on ISIS)

I need her more than ever. I crave her like I crave that green

Money.

Hilary. Her name sounds like honey on a hot day. My finger clicks the contact button on my rose gold 6S iPhone. After 2 minutes of scrolling, I finally get down to the H's. It's the first one, and I click on it.

The contact reads, 'Hilary Clit😂😂' and I don't hesitate to press dial.

I smirk, remembering the day I changed her contact name from Satan's Asscrack.

Ring, ring, ring. "Hello, banana phone," I can hear her giggle through the speaker. "Just kidding, it's Hilary." I love her.

"Hilary," I say in hot, breathy tone. "I need you."

"Donald," she speaks in a professional whisper. "I'm in a debate, not now."

"Ugh, you're no fun." I pout.

"No, Mr. Trump. I disagree. We will discuss this at our meeting tomorrow night." She loudly proclaims, making her intentions known.

"Bye sexy."

"Goodbye, Mr. Trump, I love America." She speaks harshly but her words are soft.

I. Love. Her. And I shall make her know just how much.

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WARNING: there will b smutt next chapter! Mature readers ONLY!

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