#rmoskowitz

The buzz around Washington had eventually stilled in the wake of the leaks, the locomotives of the press’ undoubted might had quieted, and yet whispers and traces of it persisted everywhere; no where more glaring than in the corners of Rory Moskowitz’s immaculate office. His eyes moved around the space, an obvious upgrade from her tenure under Wright’s presidency, and grinned that charming, wry grin of his as she entered... brandishing a bottle of wine in his hand. Although the tag had been snipped away, it cost him a pretty penny -- well over three hundred dollars -- and yet he figured she would know that just by glancing at the label. “I won’t pretend we had a meeting you forgot about,” he cleared his throat, “though I was hoping this may make up for that. Got a minute?”

You know he’d love it.

For two women oft quarreling against similar prejudices, Rory and Virginia always seemed to be on opposite sides -- bickering with one another rather than a common enemy. “This,” she spewed, strutting into the Chief of Staff’s office, slamming a folder of files - news clippings, conference recordings, exclusive interviews from Rory’s own lips - atop her cherry wood desk. It didn’t produce the resounding clatter she had hoped, but fuck if it wasn’t cathartic to witness Rory’s dark hooked brows make for her hairline (a less and less jet-black hairline, she may add). She scarcely gave the President’s right-hand a moment to flip through the folder before persisting, “is unacceptable. Unlawful. And if I was still practicing I’d take your ass to court myself.” Perhaps she is overextending things... just a bit. She could hardly contest that personal feelings were not at stake. “He was my client. You connected us. Or did you forget about that when you hired him and made me look the fool for this God damn bill?”

answered here!