My Milf Conqueror System-Chapter 87: The Potomac Gala

Thursday, 10:00 PM. Capitol Hill.

The bar was called The Hawk & Dove, a dimly lit, wood-paneled establishment located just a few blocks from the Capitol building. It was the kind of place where the beer was overpriced, the lighting was intentionally poor to hide the identities of the patrons, and the air was thick with the smell of expensive cologne and cheap political ambition.

It was the unofficial living room for the junior staff of the United States Senate.

Ethan sat at a corner booth, a half-empty glass of scotch in front of him. He was wearing his tailored linen suit, looking effortlessly handsome and completely at ease. He had been here for three hours, buying rounds of drinks, laughing at terrible jokes, and seamlessly blending into the ecosystem of overworked, underpaid twenty-somethings who actually ran the government.

I was sitting in the back of the black SUV parked two blocks away, listening to the audio feed from the microscopic wire Nia had planted in the lapel of Ethan’s jacket.

"You’re doing great, Ethan," Nia’s voice crackled over the secure comms channel. She was back at the Georgetown townhouse, monitoring the feed and running real-time facial recognition on the people Ethan was talking to. "The blonde sitting next to you is Sarah Jenkins. She’s a junior legislative aide for the Senate Finance Committee. She works directly under Harrison Croft."

"Copy that," Ethan murmured, taking a sip of his scotch, the microphone picking up the clink of ice against glass.

I listened as Ethan turned his attention back to Sarah. She was young, pretty, and clearly exhausted, her eyes slightly glazed from the alcohol Ethan had been steadily supplying.

"So, Sarah," Ethan said, his voice dripping with that easy, magnetic charm. "You work for the Finance Committee? That sounds intense. I’m just a boring consultant for a European energy firm. I can’t imagine the kind of pressure you guys are under, especially with Senator Hale running the show."

Sarah let out a long, dramatic sigh, leaning closer to Ethan. "You have no idea. The Senator is... she’s a force of nature. But she’s rarely in the office. She’s always at fundraisers or closed-door meetings. The person who actually runs the committee is Harrison."

"Harrison Croft," Ethan said, feigning mild interest. "I think I’ve heard the name. Chief of Staff, right?"

"Chief of Staff, Chief Executioner, Chief of Ruining My Life," Sarah slurred slightly, taking a large gulp of her martini. "He’s terrifying, Ethan. He doesn’t yell. He just looks at you with these dead, shark eyes, and you know that if you make a mistake, your career in D.C. is over before it even starts."

"Sounds like a fun boss," Ethan chuckled, sliding his arm casually along the back of the booth, resting it just behind Sarah’s shoulders. "What’s his deal? Is he just a workaholic, or does he have a life outside the Hill?"

"Harrison doesn’t have a life," Sarah whispered, leaning into Ethan’s space, clearly enjoying the attention of the handsome stranger. "He’s a machine. He used to be intelligence, CIA or something. He handles all the Senator’s... sensitive matters."

"Sensitive matters?" Ethan prompted gently.

"The slush funds," Sarah said, her voice dropping to a barely audible whisper. "The asset forfeiture accounts. It’s an open secret on the committee. The Senator uses the seized corporate assets to fund her super PACs and buy loyalty. But Harrison is the one who actually holds the keys. Literally."

In the SUV, I leaned forward, my pulse quickening. The keys.

"What do you mean, literally?" Ethan asked, playing the part of the fascinated outsider perfectly.

"It’s a biometric lock," Sarah explained, her inhibitions completely lowered by the alcohol and Ethan’s charm. "A multi-signature protocol. Harrison has one of the retinal keys. The other two are held by... well, I don’t know who holds the other two. But I know Harrison goes to a private, high-stakes poker game every Friday night at a brownstone in Dupont Circle. He meets with the other keyholders there. It’s where they do their real business."

"A high-stakes poker game," Ethan mused. "Sounds very House of Cards."

"It’s worse," Sarah said, shivering slightly. "It’s real."

"Nia," I said into the comms. "Did you get that?"

"Got it," Nia replied instantly. "I’m running a cross-reference on high-end properties in Dupont Circle owned by known political fixers or lobbyists. I’ll find the brownstone."

"Good work, Ethan," I said. "Extract yourself. We have what we need."

"Actually, Jake," Ethan’s voice came over the wire, sounding slightly muffled as he turned his head away from Sarah. "I think I’m going to stay a little longer. Sarah was just telling me about her apartment. It has a great view of the monument."

I rolled my eyes in the dark SUV. "Don’t compromise the mission, Ethan."

"I’m building rapport, boss," Ethan chuckled. "Deep cover. I’ll see you in the morning."

"Jake-"

Nia did not finish her sentence the audio feed immediately cut out.

I leaned back against the leather seats, a cold smile touching my lips. The ground game was working. We had a location. We had a target.

Harrison Croft thought he was the apex predator of Capitol Hill. He thought his CIA background and his biometric keys made him untouchable.

He was about to find out what a real monster looked like.

Saturday, 7:30 PM. The Kennedy Center.

The Potomac Gala was the crown jewel of the Washington D.C. social calendar. It was a bipartisan masquerade where the most powerful people in the country gathered to drink expensive champagne, pretend they liked each other, and quietly carve up the nation’s wealth behind closed doors.

The Kennedy Center was bathed in floodlights, the massive white columns glowing against the dark night sky. A fleet of black SUVs and armored limousines lined the circular driveway, disgorging senators, cabinet members, and billionaire donors onto the red carpet.

I stepped out of my own rented Maybach, adjusting the cuffs of my midnight-blue tuxedo.

Evelyn Cross stepped out behind me.

She looked stunning, and completely terrified. She was wearing a floor-length, backless gown of dark crimson silk that clung to her athletic frame. Her dark hair was styled in elegant waves, and she wore a diamond necklace that probably cost more than her annual government salary.

But beneath the glamour, I could see the tension vibrating in her jaw. She was the Director of Enforcement for the SEC, a woman who usually attended these events to hunt for insider trading. Tonight, she was attending as the plus-one of the man she was supposed to be investigating.

I offered her my arm.

She hesitated, her dark eyes flashing with a mixture of humiliation and submission. Then, she placed her hand on my forearm, her grip tight.

"Smile, Evelyn," I murmured, leaning in close so my breath brushed her ear. "You’re on a date with a very wealthy, very charming European consultant. Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself."

"If anyone from the DOJ sees me with you..." she whispered, her voice trembling.

"They’ll assume you’re running an undercover sting," I said smoothly, leading her up the red carpet toward the massive glass doors. "Or they’ll assume you’ve finally decided to enjoy the perks of your position. Either way, they won’t say a word. Because you’re the Inquisitor. And nobody questions the Inquisitor."

We reached the security checkpoint. Two massive Secret Service agents in dark suits and earpieces stood behind a velvet rope, checking invitations against a digital manifest.

Evelyn handed over the heavy, embossed invitation she had extorted from a terrified hedge fund manager the day before.

The agent scanned the barcode. He looked at the screen, then up at Evelyn. "Director Cross. Welcome. And your guest?"

"Julian Vance," I said, projecting the passive Authority aura, letting the [Silicon Ghost] skill smooth over any inconsistencies in my fabricated identity. "Aether Capital."

The agent’s eyes glazed over slightly as the aura washed over him. He nodded, unhooking the velvet rope. "Enjoy your evening, Mr. Vance."

We stepped into the grand foyer of the Kennedy Center.

The room was a sea of power. I saw faces I recognized from the nightly news—governors, tech CEOs, media moguls. The air hummed with the sound of a live orchestra and the low, confident murmur of people who believed they owned the world.

"Where is she?" I asked, keeping my voice low, my eyes scanning the crowd.

"The VIP terrace," Evelyn said, her voice tight. "It’s a cordoned-off area overlooking the river. Only senior committee members and top-tier donors are allowed in."

"Then that’s where we’re going," I said, leading her through the crowd.

We navigated the sea of tuxedos and gowns, Evelyn’s presence acting like a shield. Politicians who might have questioned my presence took one look at the terrifying SEC Director on my arm and quickly looked away, eager to avoid her scrutiny.

We reached the entrance to the VIP terrace. It was guarded by two more Secret Service agents and a man in a sharp, tailored suit who looked entirely too dangerous to be a simple bouncer.

He had short, military-cropped hair, cold, dead eyes, and a posture that screamed lethal efficiency.

"Harrison Croft," Evelyn whispered, her grip on my arm tightening painfully. "That’s him. Hale’s fixer."

I looked at Croft. He was scanning the crowd, his eyes moving with the mechanical precision of a security camera. He wasn’t enjoying the party. He was hunting for threats.

System, I thought. Observe.

[Target Profile]

Name: Harrison Croft

Role: Chief of Staff / Fixer

Threat Level: High (Lethal Combatant)

Stats:

Intelligence: 88

Willpower: 92

Combat Proficiency: 95

He was dangerous. A physical and tactical threat. But he wasn’t the target tonight. He was just the gatekeeper.

I walked straight toward him, Evelyn on my arm.

Croft’s cold eyes locked onto me. He stepped forward, blocking the entrance to the terrace.

"Director Cross," Croft said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone. He didn’t sound intimidated by her title. He sounded annoyed. "This area is restricted to committee members and Tier-One donors. I don’t see your name on the list."

"I’m here as a guest of Mr. Vance," Evelyn said, her voice remarkably steady, though I could feel her trembling against my arm.

Croft shifted his dead eyes to me. He looked me up and down, analyzing my suit, my posture, my threat level.

"Julian Vance," Croft said, his tone flat. "Aether Capital. You made quite a splash in Silicon Valley this week, Mr. Vance. But this is Washington. We don’t care about your tech money unless it’s attached to a super PAC."

"I’m looking to make a donation," I said, my voice smooth, projecting the [Emperor’s Presence] directly at him. "A very large, very quiet donation. I was told Senator Hale is the woman to speak to about... strategic investments."

Croft felt the aura. I saw his jaw tighten, his combat instincts flaring as his brain registered the invisible pressure. But his Willpower was 92. He didn’t submit. He just became more suspicious.

"The Senator is busy," Croft said, crossing his arms. "If you want to make a donation, you can speak to her fundraising director on Monday."

"I don’t speak to directors," I said, my voice dropping into a cold, absolute register. "I speak to the Kingmaker. Now, step aside, Mr. Croft. Before I decide to invest my capital with the opposition."

Croft’s eyes narrowed. He was weighing the risk of angering a massive potential donor against his instinct to protect his boss.

Before he could make a decision, a voice called out from the terrace behind him.

"It’s alright, Harrison. Let them in."

Croft stiffened, then slowly stepped aside, gesturing for us to enter.

I walked past him, feeling his cold, murderous glare burning into the back of my neck.

I stepped onto the terrace. The air was cool, the view of the Potomac River breathtaking. But I didn’t look at the view.

I looked at the woman standing at the edge of the balcony, a glass of champagne in her hand.

Senator Margaret Hale.

The D.C Kingmaker.

The final boss of the Capital Game.