Note to self, she thought. Next time order the black car.

At the front of the line, one of a phalanx of valet attendants leaped forward to open her door. She looked up to see a sprawling brown Tudor Revival home that was either brand-new or very recently and aggressively renovated, complete with a perfectly trimmed faux English garden.

As she stepped onto the cobblestone walkway, she felt a sizzle race through her veins. She was about to parade into the epicenter of DC power. She was missing her mom’s rehearsal dinner, but any guilt she’d been feeling vanished.

Throwing her shoulders back, she envisioned herself cutting a path, unimpeded, into the house. In reality the cobblestones were so crowded with partygoers she found herself inching, rather than marching, into her future.

Making her way forward. Natalie caught a snippet of the conversation in front of her—

“I just started on an anti-obesity campaign for Nestlé. If that’s not a contradiction wrapped in a Hot Pocket.”

“At least when Nestlé buys your soul, they make it worth your while. I’m trying to get LipoGone FDA approval, and they don’t want to pay more than thirty a month. I mean, who does FDA approval for less than fifty?”

Natalie marveled at how precisely these people conformed to a certain Washington stereotype. Political insiders measuring their worth by the company they keep and the companies that, basically, keep them.

She turned and came face-to-face with Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg.

“Oh excuse me,” the justice said, stepping aside to make way for Natalie.

“No, you first. I insist,” Natalie said, wide-eyed, as she gestured for the judge to pass.

She was gaping in her wake when Matt materialized at her side. “Jesus, don’t eye fuck Ruth Bader Ginsberg,” he said.

She hadn’t considered the possibility Matt would be here, but she was too starstruck to care. “This is amazing,” she gushed, nearly giggling with delight as she watched Justice Ginsberg walk away from her. She could still smell her perfume.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I’m great,” Natalie enthused, spying her personal reporting heroine, Dana Bash, getting out of a car. “Anyway, what are you doing here?”

“Oh sad, you thought you’d be the only reporter invited?” He looked at her, feigning pity. “I was White House correspondent for Beltway before I became your Svengali, remember?” His tone shifted to worried older brother. “Can we be serious for a moment? You know you are about to physically enter the belly of the beast. You’re walking into the actual echo chamber. You have to be chill. You can’t embarrass yourself in there.”

“Got it,” she said and, shivering, nudged Matt forward.

They reached the entrance and Matt pushed open the door. Natalie stood at the edge of the vestibule, gaping.

The wall of sound hit her first, then a smell that reminded her of something from the past, the scent of—