"Don't play dumb with me, Jane. You didn't land a senator by accident. I know you know exactly what I'm talking about," Ross said, his voice thick with implication, laced with a smug arrogance that made Jane's skin crawl.
"..."
It took Jane three steadying breaths to process the venom behind his words.
She wasn't slow—far from it. In fact, her instincts were usually razor-sharp.
But the sheer audacity of what Ross was suggesting caught her off guard.
Her fingers tightened around her phone. "Are you insinuating that you'll help free my husband... if I sleep with you?" she said, her voice trembling with fury and disbelief. "You're really a fucking lowlife, Ross. Go to hell!"
She hung up, slamming the phone down on the kitchen counter so hard that it bounced slightly.
Her chest was heaving now, not from fear, but from raw indignation.
"The guts of that man..." she muttered through clenched teeth, pacing the room.
"I should sue his ass off. Sexual coercion, blackmail—he's asking for a goddamn lawsuit!"
Jane's pulse pounded in her ears.
She wrapped her arms around herself, not because she was cold, but to stop herself from shaking.
Ross's words had been a slap to the face, an insult to everything she had fought for.
Yes, she was beautiful. Striking, even. Her curves turned heads.
Her smile could melt the hardest of men. And yes—she knew it. She had always known it.
She wasn't born into power or privilege.
She had clawed her way out of poverty with her wit, her charm, and her unshakable will.
She played the game the way it was meant to be played, using every asset she had.
But never—not once—had she compromised her dignity.
She had slept with one man in her life: her husband.
It hadn't been about love at first. It was about survival, about security, about making sure she would never be that poor, helpless girl again.
Over time, affection had bloomed. She had grown to respect him, even admire him.
He gave her a life she could only dream of as a child.
And now, Ross wanted to reduce it all to a filthy transaction.
She walked over to the mirror in the hallway and stared at her reflection.
Her eyes, still fierce. Her lips, tight with anger. She looked like a woman ready to fight back.
"No," she said aloud, her voice calmer now, but steel beneath the surface.
"You don't get to use me like that, Ross. I'm not some trophy you can buy with power."
Her phone buzzed again—another message from Ross, no doubt.
She didn't even look at it. Instead, she picked it up, calmly deleted the number, and then set the phone aside.
If he wanted a game, she'd show him what it was like to play against someone who had everything to lose—and nothing left to give.
Jane held out longer than most people thought she could.
For an entire month, she fought tooth and nail to survive the aftermath of the scandal.
She cut expenses, sold jewelry, even pawned her designer bags—anything to scrape together enough to buy time.
But time wasn't on her side.
The silence from her so-called social circle was louder than any condemnation. Her name—once spoken with admiration—was now a punchline in political satire shows.
She reached out for help, swallowing her pride to call old friends and even one time acquaintances she hadn't spoken to in years.
She begged—something she never imagined herself doing.
But all she heard was the same rehearsed line:
"I'm sorry, Jane. I really am. But it's too risky."
They were afraid. Afraid of being associated with a fallen senator's wife.
Afraid of subpoenas, frozen accounts, and guilt by association.
No one wanted her burden.
That was when the vultures started circling.
Wealthy men she'd once scoffed at suddenly reappeared, cloaked in concern and false empathy.
They invited her to "private dinners" or offered "help" with a knowing smirk.
Their eyes didn't see her pain—only her body.
Her beauty had always drawn attention, but now it attracted something worse: opportunists. Predators.
They offered money. Not loans. Deals. One man even slid a black card across the table, whispering that it would be hers—if she became his.
She had slapped him. Walked out in tears. But the thought lingered, cruel and persistent.
She didn't just need money. That wouldn't fix anything.
She needed power. She needed her husband free. She needed her life back—the life she had built through grit and beauty and calculated charm. The power couple image.
The respect. The access to circles only the elite could enter.
She needed Ross.
As much as she loathed him, he was the only man who had both the influence and lack of morality to make things move behind the scenes.
He had connections in many places. He had leverage. And worst of all, he knew it.
"I shouldn't have deleted his number," she muttered for the tenth time that week.
She sat curled up on the couch, wearing an old oversized sweatshirt, hair messy, makeup smudged from yesterday's tears.
She stared at the blank screen of her phone like it might magically display his name.
But it never did.
Day after day passed with no message, no call, no email. The silence felt cruel.
Intentional. As if Ross was punishing her for rejecting him the first time.
Or worse—testing how far she'd fall before she came crawling back on her own.
Another week passed.
Jane found herself standing in front of the mirror again.
Her reflection stared back—tired, thinner, but still undeniably beautiful.
She was a woman who had spent years learning how to use her looks, how to disarm, how to win.
But right now, she looked like a queen in exile. And no one came to save queens who had been dethroned.
The thought came unbidden, and it disgusted her: Maybe someone else could help. Not Ross... someone else. Someone who wouldn't make me beg.
Her stomach churned.