Chapter 1
"This way, please. Follow me; I'll show you to your office."
I follow the woman guiding me through the labyrinth of the White House to my office while trying to keep a mental map of the path.
"So, you'll be in here when President Harris doesn't need assistance. You can use the space however you like—feel free to make it your own. Although most presidential assistants barely have any time to themselves; it's really a full-time gig. How did you get the position, anyway?"
I look around the room, buying myself some time to come up with a believable response. The truth is, I have no idea how I ended up here. I feel completely unqualified for the job. Being inside the White House alone is so surreal. If someone slapped me told me this was a dream, I'd believe them in a heartbeat, but when the President personally offers you the job with those sparkling eyes and that captivating smile, there's no way you'd turn it down. Honestly, I'd do anything she asked me to do.
"Miss Fields?"
I snap out of my reverie.
"Sorry, yes. I met Miss Harris during one of her campaigns in New York before she got elected." I say not really answering her question. I consider elaborating further but decide against it until I see the woman's puzzled look. She wasn't satisfied with that response.
"We got along." I say with a tone of finality.
She looks at me with curiosity but doesn't ask any further questions. I release a small sigh of relief at the small victory.
"Alright, well, I'll be heading off. Oh! I don't think I ever introduced myself. I'm Katherine Baylor," she says, extending her hand, which I shake.
"You'll probably be seeing a lot of me. I'm the head of economic advising"
"It's a pleasure. Thank you for your help," I say.
She walks off, closing the door behind her.
I walk around the desk, running my hand over the surface and feeling the texture of the wood in my fingertips. I sink into the chair with a heavy sigh.
This is still so insane to me. A few months ago, I was a journalist covering low-level stories about the failures of the MTA. Now I'm sitting in a room a few feet from the Oval Office, an executive assistant to the first female President of the United States. How did this even happen?
My mind drifts back to that day.
It was just a normal day. My boss had sent me to the rally in the Apollo Theater to report on any major announcements for the upcoming issue. Fortunately, I managed to stand front row in Kamala Harris's direct line of sight.
Her speech was incredible—powerful and commanding. Not to mention, she looked amazing in that form-fitting navy-blue pantsuit. I'd never really noticed how beautiful she was. It made it hard to focus on my task. I barely took any notes, and her eyes kept meeting mine every so often during the speech.
"Probably just my imagination," I thought.
When the rally ended, I saw Miss Harris gesture to one of her security guards from the podium. She looked at me for a moment, then whispered something in his ear. Her entire team of guards approached me and offered to escort me to one of the many black cars stationed outside.
There was little conversation. I didn't ask any questions because the whole interaction was intimidating enough. For all I knew, I'd violated some code of conduct and was about to be executed backstage. A bit dramatic, I know, but what could they possibly want from me?
The door to the backseat was opened for me, once inside, I was surprised to find Kamala Harris seated there with that million-dollar smile sitting right across from me.
"Hello, dear," she said in a low voice that sent an immediate shiver up my spine.
I felt my words get caught in my throat and my face getting hot from the eye contact.
"Pull it together," I thought to myself.
"Hi, it's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Harris,"
I managed to spit out after what seemed like an eternity.
She chuckled lightly.
"It seems the pleasure is all mine."
"How so?" I said, slightly confused by the statement.
"Well, you caught my attention out there, dear," she smiled softly.
"What's your name?"
"I'm Emily, Emily Fields." I start fiddling with my fingers, picking at the skin around my nails to ease the nerves.
"…I work for The Weekly Chronicle, but you probably haven't heard of it. It's a really small publication," I say with a sheepish smile.
She laughs. "That's where you're wrong, Miss Fields."
That stopped me dead in my tracks. For some reason, my last name coming out of her mouth made my stomach shift.
"I'm very familiar with your work. You ran that story about female harassment on the subway, correct?"
"Uh... yeah, that was me," I say puzzled while tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
"I thought so. I remember reading it during a budget meeting a couple of months back. Not very presidential of me, right?" she says playfully with a chuckle.
"Those things get so boring sometimes. I find ways to entertain myself."
"Wow, I—really? That's—what'd you think?"
"I was impressed. Your report was refreshing, especially your solutions for making women feel safer during their commute. I could use some of those ideas when I get elected."
Her confidence was intimidating. It was only August; the results of the presidential election wouldn't be decided for another three months, and she spoke as if the job were already given.
"Of course—I mean, thank you. You can use them anytime," I look down at my thighs for a moment, riddled with goosebumps at the compliments. Why the hell did I wear a dress today? The damn AC in this car isn't helping either.
"I was just brainstorming them. I don't think our government would ever implement any of those changes anyways."
She smirks and leans a little closer.
"Not if I can help it, dear."
Just then, someone knocks on the outside of the glass. She glances, then looks back at me with a sigh while running her hands through her silky dark hair.
"Miss Fields?"
"Yes?"
She scoots closer and places a hand on my exposed thigh. The warmth of the touch immediately makes my brain go foggy.
"I need more women like you on my team. I don't have a position to give yet, but in a few months, I'll need someone with a brain like yours by my side. What do you say?"
She gives my thigh a slight squeeze at the proposition.
By now, her perfume is suffocating me; the proximity and the touch, it's all too much. I can't even muster up a response quick enough if my life depended on it. I can't think. I mean, I can't turn it down, right? Who says no to the future president? And why the hell is she looking at me like that. And why in god's name can't I think of anything to say I'm embarrassing myself. Say something idiot! anything!
She removes her hand and leans back to her side of the car after a few moments pass with no response from me.
I instantly miss the touch.
"I know it's a lot to take in, but I sure hope you'll consider it, dear." she said with a small wink.
"Yeah, I—um—I mean—I don't know—I'll have to think about it."
I need to get out of this car NOW. A few more minutes, and I'm sure to pass out, then she'll never give me the job. Not that I even want it. Do I? No that's insane, I don't even know what the job is. Pull it together Emily.
"Good g—Great." She looks at me with intensity and a sparkling smile.
I could've sworn she almost said, "good girl," which amplified the pulsing between my legs. It was probably my imagination, but good lord, what the hell is happening right now? Is this real life? Where are the cameras?
A few months come and go, and I almost forget about the instance entirely.
Almost.
She could not have been serious about giving me a job. What job would I even get? I don't think they need a journalist at the White House. They have publicists, writers, and reporters at their fingertips. By now, I'm not even sure that actually happened. Probably just one of those hyper-realistic dreams I keep having and confusing for reality. I should really get that checked.
As I'm laying in bed running through the events of that day, my phone rings.
"No caller ID. Funny."
I roll my eyes and decline the call.
It's probably Henry. I don't even know why I gave him the time of day, well night; I don't even like men. It was a drunken moment of weakness…or two. To be fair, he's very feminine; it was like kissing a girl.
Doesn't even count.
The phone rings again.
"AHHR." I pick up the phone in a fury.
"Stop calling me! IT WAS A KISS GET OVER IT!"
"Hello to you too, Miss Fields."
My heart sinks. Is that who I think it is?
"Uhh, sorry, who is this?"
I knew the answer, but there was no way, right? There's no way the President of the United States was calling me at 11 o'clock on a Tuesday night.
"Have you forgotten me already, dear? That's quite disappointing."
I sit up and start fussing with my hair and my shirt as if she could see me through the screen.
"No, I—Miss Harris?"
"It's Madam President now. I quite like the sound of that, don't you?"
"…Uh I- It's a very powerful title, yes. Congratulations on the win, Madam President."
She chuckles. "Thank you, dear. Have you given any more thought to my proposal?"
I consider my response, weighing the consequence of every word.
I sigh. "Can I be honest?"
"Please."
"I wasn't even sure that really happened. It felt so surreal I half convinced myself it was a dream," I say in a lighthearted tone.
"That's probably my fault. I shouldn't have waited so long to contact you, I apologize."
"No, no, it's alright. No apology needed"
I get up and pace back and forth around the room with the phone to my ear.
"No, it's not. The truth is I had to work out some logistical setbacks before I could speak to you again—government stuff. Boring. It took longer than I expected."
I open my mouth and close it, unsure of how to respond. What does she mean by that?
"...did you work out the kinks?"
She laughs once again, a little louder this time, and I kick myself for the poor choice of words.
"Well, I called you, didn't I?"
How did she even get my number? Well, duh, she's the president. But still, if it was anyone else, I'd be extremely creeped out.
"In full transparency I wasn't sure where to place you at first, but I knew I needed you by my side after our talk. I have a good feeling about us working together, Miss Fields…don't you?"
Thank god she can't see me because my face is ten different shades of pink right about now.
"...working on what exactly?..." I say,
scratching my head. "I don't think I have much to offer you."
"Doubt kills more dreams than failure ever will, Miss Fields."
I furrow my brows at that. Why is she so confident in me? We only met once, and I was a rambling mess.
"I know your background is in journalism, but I explored your entire body-" she clears her throat "-of work."
"I told you in the car I need someone with great ideas, a sharp mind. It's not necessarily a writing job, but I'm sure you'll be doing a lot of paperwork eventually if that's your thing. I need an assistant."
"Explored your entire body?" Why the hell does she speak like that? It makes it hard to focus. The pause in between that sentence didn't help at all. Was that intentional? No, definitely not, get your head on straight stop being gay Emily.
"An assistant?"
That caught me off guard.
"Like get you coffee and take your calls kind of thing?"
She laughs loudly at that.
"Sometimes, perhaps, but mostly you'll help me problem-solve while I run day-to-day issues and ideas by you. You're young and intelligent; most of the people around me are out of touch."
"Isn't that what the vice president is for?"
She ignores the question. "You're hard to convince, aren't you? Cautious, I like that."
There was a pause.
"So, what do you say?"
I bite my lip, "I don't think I have a choice, do I?"
"You always have a choice, dear."
Something tells me I didn't. I can hear her mischievous grin through the phone. She has her eyes set on me and I'm not sure I can refuse, even if I wanted to, which I don't. This is too good to pass up.
"When do I start?" I say decidedly.
"That's my girl. I'll have a plane ready for you tomorrow. You'll get all the flight information in the morning."
My stomach does a flip at the term of endearment.
"Pack light. We'll get you a new wardrobe once you're here. You'll be representing me after all, you must look the part."
"...Sounds great. Looking forward to it, Madam President."
"Good night, dear," she says as the call ends.
Nervous is an understatement. Shitting bricks is more like it. Am I really going to uproot my entire life to D.C. after one call? And what's with all the banter? Does she speak like that to everyone? Jesus Christ. If I didn't know better, I'd call it flirting. But she's the president, for God's sake, and she's married. I keep forgetting that small detail. Keep it professional Emily, keep it cute. Definitely just her way of being. I can't dwell on it too much.
Author notes
Idk if anyone will ever read this let alone like it lmfao, but if you're here is because you're one of the many lesbians drooling over Kamala Harris atm. I've never written any fanfic before so be gentle and patient with me pls :**. The TikTok edits inspired this so don't come for me secret service it's what the people want. Suggestions and comments are more than welcome I'd love to hear what you guys think. I have so many ideas for where this story will go, chapter 2 is done and I'm currently working on 3 so buckle in ladies (and gentlemen?).
P.S. I was originally going to upload this story to Ao3 but theres like a 2week waiting period to uploading after creating an account. Ill probably switch over once my acct is cleared but i just couldn't wait. I wasn't sure what category to put this story under since its abt real life-ish? I put it under OUAT as an homage to what got me into reading fanfic in middle school lmfao #swanqueen4life.