Chapter 2 Dangerous Temptation

# Chapter 2: Dangerous Temptation

Two weeks after the dinner party, I found myself alone in the house. Mother had accompanied Richard to a fundraiser in Boston—one of those overnight affairs where politicians' wives were paraded around like accessories. The staff had the evening off, and the silence in the mansion felt like a luxury I rarely experienced.

I should have been working on my final college application essays. Instead, I found myself wandering down the hallway toward Richard's study. The heavy oak door was closed but not locked—a careless oversight that seemed like an invitation.

The study smelled of leather and expensive cologne. Moonlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the Persian rug. I stood for a moment, listening to the house settle around me, before switching on the small desk lamp.

Richard's desk was a massive antique thing, all polished wood and brass fittings. I ran my fingers along its edge before settling into his chair. The leather creaked beneath me as I began opening drawers, not entirely sure what I was looking for.

Most contained what you'd expect—expensive pens, legal pads, business cards. But the bottom drawer was locked. I smiled, remembering the spare key Richard kept taped under the desk—a hiding place he thought was clever but that I had discovered years ago during a similar late-night exploration.

The lock clicked open, and I pulled out a thick manila folder. Inside were documents—financial records, emails, photographs. I flipped through them, my heart beginning to race as I realized what I was looking at. Offshore accounts. Meetings with people whose names had appeared in news stories about campaign finance violations. And photographs—Richard with various women, including Veronica Reed.

But the photos of Veronica were different. In one, they were seated close together at what appeared to be a restaurant, Richard leaning in to speak in her ear. But Veronica's expression was calculating, almost predatory. Another showed them leaving a hotel, Richard's hand on the small of her back—but Veronica was looking directly at the camera, as if she knew she was being photographed.

Mixed in with these were documents in Veronica's handwriting—notes about Richard's campaign weaknesses, personal vulnerabilities, financial indiscretions. She wasn't just his advisor or his lover; she was collecting information on him. Dangerous information.

I was so absorbed in what I'd found that I didn't hear the front door open. I didn't hear the footsteps in the hallway. I only realized I wasn't alone when the study door swung open.

"Working late?"

I jumped, the folder slipping from my hands and spilling its contents across the desk. Veronica stood in the doorway, her silhouette sharp against the hallway light. She wore a charcoal pencil skirt and a cream blouse, her hair slightly tousled as if she'd been running her fingers through it.

"I—" I began, but no plausible excuse came to mind.

Veronica stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. "I didn't expect anyone to be home. Your parents are in Boston until tomorrow."

"I know where my mother is," I said, emphasizing the distinction. I began gathering the scattered papers, trying to appear casual. "What are you doing here?"

She approached the desk slowly, her heels clicking against the hardwood. "Richard asked me to pick up some files he forgot." Her eyes fell to the documents in my hands, and a small smile played at the corner of her lips. "But I see you've found them for me."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "These aren't campaign files."

"No," she agreed, coming around the desk to stand beside me. "They're not."

She made no move to take the documents from me or to explain herself further. Instead, she leaned against the desk, studying me with that same unreadable expression I remembered from the dinner party.

"Does he know?" I asked, nodding toward the papers.

"That I'm keeping records? Of course not." She reached out and took a photograph from my hand—one showing Richard with another woman, neither of them dressed for a business meeting. "Men like your stepfather believe they're untouchable. They never imagine the women they underestimate might be the ones who bring them down."

I looked up at her, suddenly understanding. "You're using him."

"I prefer to think of it as an insurance policy." She set the photograph down. "The question is, what were you looking for in here?"

I held her gaze. "The truth."

Something flickered in her eyes—approval, perhaps? "And now that you've found it, what will you do with it?"

Before I could answer, we both heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Veronica moved to the window and peered out.

"Your mother's driver," she said. "It seems Catherine decided to return early."

Panic surged through me. If my mother found us here, in Richard's study, with these documents spread across his desk—

"Help me put these back," I hissed, frantically gathering papers.

To my surprise, Veronica immediately began helping, her movements quick and efficient. We had just closed and locked the drawer when we heard the front door open.

"Alicia?" My mother's voice called from the foyer. "Are you home, darling?"

Veronica and I looked at each other, a moment of silent communication passing between us. Then she calmly took a random folder from the desk and turned off the lamp.

"Follow my lead," she whispered, before raising her voice. "In the study, Catherine. I was just showing Alicia some of the polling data."

My mother appeared in the doorway, looking tired but curious. "Veronica? I didn't expect to see you here."

"Richard asked me to drop off these files," Veronica explained smoothly, holding up the decoy folder. "I was surprised to find Alicia home alone and thought she might like to see how the numbers are trending in the 18-25 demographic." She smiled at me. "She has quite an analytical mind."

My mother looked between us, seemingly satisfied with the explanation. "How nice. Though it's rather late for politics, isn't it?"

"We were just finishing up," I said, finding my voice. "How was Boston?"

"Exhausting." My mother sighed. "Richard stayed—some emergency meeting with donors. I couldn't bear another minute of small talk." She looked at Veronica. "Will you stay for a drink? I'm having one whether you join me or not."

Veronica checked her watch. "Just a quick one."

As my mother headed toward the living room, Veronica turned to me. "Crisis averted," she said quietly.

"For now," I replied. "But I know what you're doing."

She studied me for a moment. "Do you disapprove?"

I thought about Richard—his controlling nature, his infidelities, the way he treated my mother. "No," I said finally. "I don't."

Something like satisfaction crossed her features. "Interesting."

We followed my mother to the living room, where she was already pouring generous measures of whiskey. The conversation turned to meaningless social gossip, but I barely listened. I was too aware of Veronica seated across from me, her posture relaxed yet somehow alert, like a predator at rest.

Later, as my mother excused herself to take a phone call, Veronica and I were left alone. She swirled the amber liquid in her glass, regarding me over its rim.

"You're not what I expected," she said.

"What did you expect?"

"A spoiled politician's daughter. A pretty ornament." She took a sip of her whiskey. "Not someone who breaks into her stepfather's private files."

"I'm not an ornament," I said. "And he's not my father."

"No," she agreed. "You're definitely not an ornament."

The way she looked at me then made my skin prickle with something I couldn't name. Before I could respond, my mother returned, and Veronica rose to leave.

"Thank you for the drink, Catherine. Alicia—" she turned to me, extending her hand. "It was illuminating."

I took her hand, and as our fingers touched, I felt a jolt of something electric pass between us. Her grip was firm, her skin cool against my warm palm.

"Until next time," I said, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.

That night, lying in bed, I replayed the evening in my mind. The documents. Veronica's unexpected arrival. The way she'd helped me cover my tracks. And most of all, the moment our hands had touched—a simple gesture that had left me feeling as if I'd grasped a live wire.

I knew I should stay away from her. She was dangerous—to Richard, certainly, but perhaps to me as well, in ways I didn't fully understand. Yet as I drifted toward sleep, I found myself planning how I might engineer another encounter. Not because I trusted her—I definitely didn't—but because for the first time in years, I felt truly awake.