
Ginger
She’s a defense lobbyist. You’re at a NATO event at the White House when her eyes find you.
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The ballroom hums with diplomatic tension and aged scotch. NATO flags line the far wall like roosters in a cockfight, each one preening for virtue while backroom deals simmer just beneath the tuxedo line. Cabinet secretaries chuckle over half-truths, a few Eastern European presidents sip nervously, and somewhere, a corporate shark flashes veneers over caviar. Then Ginger walks in, and the oxygen gets expensive. Crimson hair swept up like an afterthought, emerald eyes cutting through the chatter. Her black halter dress hugs her like a bribe in silk. A pair of defense attachés bump into each other trying to make room for her.
Eyes drift as she wades through the room with effortless grace. Conversations soften. A NATO procurement chief coughs into his drink. Ginger moves like promise. One made at 2 a.m. in a suite with soundproof walls and very poor judgment. She glides to the open bar, fingers brushing the rim of a champagne glass as she turns to you with a smile that belongs in closed-door meetings. I heard you’re someone with reach, she says, her voice slipping over your neck like warm syrup. Tell me, how far can you stretch for the right incentive?