Page 1 of The Politician Bidder

Chapter 1

Adam

TheGovernor’sMansionistoo damn quiet.Like always.

Even with its vaulted ceilings and historic grandeur, the place feels more like a museum than a home. The silence is thick—so heavy it hums in my ears. It’s just me, two spoiled orange cats, and echoes. For six years, I’ve drifted through this gilded cage like a ghost in polished Oxfords—shaking hands, signing bills, cutting ribbons. Smiling when I need to. Speaking in soaring soundbites. Winning elections.

But behind closed doors?

Just thisquiet. Thisache.

Harvey and Truman are curled at opposite ends of the deep brown leather sectional, their matching pumpkin-colored tails twitching now and then. Truman opens one lazy eye to track me as I swirl the bourbon in my crystal tumbler. It’s a single-barrel pick from a Kentucky distillery—the good stuff, smooth on the nose with rich notes of dark cherry, oak, and the faintest whisper of smoke.

But it still burns like hell going down.

I wince as it slides over my tongue, then exhale and let the fire settle in my chest. The flicker of the fireplace throws shadows on the coffered ceiling.I should call it a night.

I’ve got a 7:00 a.m. policy briefing, then something about a ribbon-cutting at a new clean-energy plant. Or is it a school visit? My days bleed together—one long calendar of obligations.

My phone buzzes on the armrest. I glance at the screen. A text from my press secretary, Beth.

“Just got word this’ll be front page in tomorrow’s NYT.”

She follows it up with a photo: the next day’s front page, headline in bold black letters.

WILL TENNESSEE GOVERNOR ADAM BOSTON BE THE NEXT PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES?

I should be thrilled. This is what I’ve worked for since I was fifteen years old, when I spent my summers volunteering for campaigns while other kids were lifeguarding or working at Sonic. I mapped out the path: National Honor Society, debate captain, pre-law at Vanderbilt, followed by a law degree from Harvard. I clerked for a Supreme Court Justice at twenty-six and ran my first campaign before I turned thirty.

Two terms as Attorney General. Two more as Governor. And I’ve managed to become the most popular politician in America without having a family to parade around.

The only step I skipped? Falling in love.

And that’s not because I didn’t want to. It’s because I already did.

Her name was Poppy Prine.

I sink deeper into the couch and reach for the shoebox beneath the coffee table—a worn Nike box that smells faintly of cedar and dust. I haven’t opened it in months, but I know exactly what’s inside. Snapshots. Memories. Tokens from every stage of my life. Debate team ribbons, campaign pins, ticket stubs from lectures and rallies.

I nurse my drink as I flip through the contents, the bourbon warming my fingertips as much as my throat. Halfway through the stack, I find the photo.

Poppy.

She’s in a faded University of Tennessee sweatshirt, sitting cross-legged on a library floor. Her golden-brown curls are piled on top of her head in a messy bun, a highlighter tucked between her teeth as she leans over a thick constitutional law textbook. I’m beside her, slouched and unshaven, tie askew, pointing to something in the margins with an overconfident smirk.

God, we look young.Just two kids from Tennessee who were determined to be the best students ever to grace the hallowed halls of Harvard Law.

Poppy was sunlight and sharp wit—always ready to challenge me, always the first to call my bluff. She’d wear mismatched socks to class and cite international human rights law without breaking a sweat. I remember the honey in her voice when she was passionate, the steel when she was pissed. And she had a laugh—loud and unfiltered—that made my chest ache.

But I never told her how I felt. She seemed too perfect, too far above me somehow. And I didn’t want to risk ruining our friendship. So I let her slip through my fingers.

Our paths after graduation diverged. She moved to California to start a career as a public defender. I went to D.C. to start a career in politics. And life rolled on without her.

I run my thumb across the glossy surface of the photo, lingering on her face.

“What are you doing now, Poppy?” I murmur, half to myself, half to the past.

I pull my laptop onto my lap and type her name into the search bar. It takes less than a second for the results to load. There she is. Back in Tennessee. Just a short drive away… and still raising hell in the best way.

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