The City Council Woman
"Councilwoman Evelyn has served Oakland for twenty years. When a lobbyist for her opponent's issues catches her eye, she discovers some politics are personal."
Politics is people.
Twenty years serving Oakland, fighting for neighborhoods others forgot. I'm Councilwoman Evelyn—fifty-nine, voice for the voiceless, perpetual thorn in developers' sides.
"Councilwoman, may I have a word?"
The lobbyist approaches after a contentious meeting. Marcus Webb—representing the port authority, usually my opposition.
"Make it quick."
"I voted against my client's recommendation today." His voice is low. "Because you were right."
That gets my attention.
"Why tell me?"
"Because I'm tired of being on the wrong side." He hands me a folder. "Internal documents. What they're really planning for the waterfront."
"This is—"
"Career suicide if they find out." His eyes hold mine. "But you'll use it better than I could hide it."
The documents are explosive.
Environmental violations, labor issues, corruption. I take it to committee.
"You burned him," my aide notes.
"He burned himself." But I'm curious. "Get me his number."
We meet at a diner.
Neutral territory, away from cameras.
"Why did you do it?" I ask.
"Because thirty years of lobbying taught me the difference between winning and being right." He stirs his coffee. "You're the only politician I've seen choose right consistently."
"And that matters to you?"
"It matters more than I expected."
The attraction is inconvenient.
A councilwoman and a reformed lobbyist—every ethics board's nightmare.
"We can't be seen together," I warn.
"Then don't see me." He moves closer. "Feel me instead."
The kiss happens in his car.
Like teenagers, hiding from the world we both navigate.
"This is stupid," I breathe.
"This is the smartest thing I've done in years." He smiles. "You make me want to be better, Evelyn."
His apartment is near downtown.
Strategic location, professional décor, nothing personal.
"You don't live here," I observe.
"I exist here." He takes my hand. "I haven't lived anywhere in decades. Maybe you can change that."
He undresses me reverently.
"Power is beautiful," he murmurs.
"I'm exhausted—"
"You're magnificent." His mouth finds my neck. "Let me show you what you do to me."
His worship is complete.
Hands that have negotiated millions now serve only my pleasure. When his tongue finds me, I forget constituents.
"Marcus—"
"Let me." He settles deeper. "Let me lobby for your pleasure."
When he enters me, we're negotiating.
"So good," he groans.
"More. This bill needs full passage."
"Unanimous consent. Always."
Afterward, in his impersonal bed, we strategize.
"I'm leaving lobbying."
"To do what?"
"Something honest." He pulls me closer. "Maybe consulting for people like you instead of against you."
"That's a pay cut—"
"That's a soul restoration." He kisses my forehead. "Marry me, Evelyn. Let me spend my influence on something that matters."
The ethics review takes months.
Transparent, thorough, ultimately approving.
"To the woman who made me honest," Marcus toasts at our engagement announcement.
"To the man who chose the right side," I counter.
The wedding is at City Hall.
Where we'll both continue serving, now together.
We kiss while our city watches.
Some politicians compromise.
Some find partners who don't ask them to.
And some council women discover that the best coalitions are built on shared values and unexpected love.
Policy passed.
Hearts merged.
Forever serving.