I was amped up from late night trivia so yeah of course I’m on a random curb singing all the parts of random Hamilton songs with my finger guns drawn. My performance is for that one security guard who has to watch the cameras, this one goes out to you!
On an unrelated note, if you’re a security guard and just watched a random goth in a Hamilton hat march up and down a curb singing Hamilton songs, I’m sorry.
Fandom: Hamilton
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Major Character Death
Summary: Modern AU, where the Reynolds affair is between between Maria and Eliza, not Alexander. When James Reynolds threatens exposure, Alexander makes a calculated decision to take the fall himself, rewriting the truth in the process and leaving Eliza to live with the consequences.
Chapter 1: Private Meetings
Eliza moves through the gala with effortless grace. She knows every important face by name. She knows which prefer a firm handshake and which expect an air-kiss, which ones feel their philanthropy deserves to be praised, and which feel most superior when their donations are treated as an afterthought. She remembers contribution histories, children’s names, any recent weddings or funerals. The Schuyler-Hamilton Foundation has hosted dozens of events like this over the years, and Eliza has mastered the art of working the room.
The room is lush with subtly flaunted wealth. Crystal glasses clink together in cheers, diamond necklaces sparkle, laughter rises and falls in quiet waves as impressive names are sprinkled sideways into conversation. Every detail has been curated, from the string quartet in the corner to the lighting chosen specifically to flatter aging faces. Eliza glides between couples and cliques, thanking donors for their continued support, assuring them their contributions are making a real difference, promising follow-ups and future invitations. She does it all with the same composed smile, the same steady cadence.
But Alexander is the real magnet.
Even from across the room, she can feel his presence. People angle themselves toward him instinctively, drawn by his energy. With Eliza there to quietly remind him of the most essential names and faces, he takes care of the rest on charisma alone. People aren’t drawn to his official position as Secretary of the Treasury, but to his unofficial role as right-hand man to the President, architect of policy, someone who seems to understand where the country is going before anyone else does.
Eliza’s career is in the Foundation. It was originally the Schuyler Foundation, founded and run by her father, but its recent success is almost entirely due to Alexander’s visibility. Adding his name to the letterhead, his face in the press photos, made worlds of difference. This is a blessing, she reminds herself, as she always does. Her life’s work is showing success on a global scale. They are doing real good. If the cost is sharing the spotlight, then so be it.
They don’t work the room together anymore, not like they used to. Eliza grew tired of politely smiling along to conversations Alexander dominated, tired of being the gracious side story to his brilliance. Besides, these events function better when they can cover more ground.
Divide and conquer. Efficient. Professional.
She finishes her conversation with an elderly couple who have been supporting the Foundation for over two decades, promising to connect them with a program director next week. When she turns to make her exit, her shoulder catches the hand of a woman she hadn’t seen approaching. Her champagne flute tilts dangerously, bubbly sloshing toward the rim.
By what feels like divine intervention, only a few drops spill, splashing harmlessly onto the marble floor. Eliza’s pulse spikes anyway, and she flies into panic-response mode automatically.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Please excuse me, I didn’t see you at all, Miss—”
She looks up.
The woman in front of her is not a regular donor. Eliza is certain of it. She would remember a face like this.
She wears a scarlet gown that clings unapologetically to her curves, the color bold enough to feel almost defiant in a room dominated by neutrals and earth tones. Her skin is a rich walnut brown, luminous under the lights, her features sharp but not severe, with a gentle beauty about her. Her hair is a cascade of dark, voluminous curls swept to one side, spilling perfectly over her shoulder.
The woman sizes up Eliza in a single glance, then smiles fully as she takes Eliza’s offered hand.
“Mrs. Reynolds,” she offers smoothly. “Maria. No worries. Nothing on the Versace.”
Relief loosens in Eliza’s chest. “That’s very gracious of you.” She releases her hand. “I’m Elizabeth Schuyler-Hamilton. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Is this your first event with the Foundation?”
“It’s my first time attending for this foundation,” Maria replies, her tone cool but not distant. “My husband, James, appears at events all over D.C.”
James and Maria Reynolds, Eliza makes a mental note. She hasn’t heard of them before, but Washington is full of people who appear suddenly. They could be rising stars on the political scene.
They exchange pleasantries, the conversation light at first. Maria asks surprisingly thoughtful questions about the Foundation’s work, without sounding performative. When Eliza answers, she listens, her attention unwavering in a way that is almost startling.
After a bit, she tilts her head slightly. “You handle this beautifully. Rooms like this can eat people alive.”
It’s not a compliment Eliza has gotten before, at least not framed that way. Something about it sticks in her chest.
“My husband is sure to be off schmoozing somewhere,” Maria says after a moment, rolling her eyes. “Why don’t you help me get a new glass of champagne, and we’ll entertain ourselves while the men make useless conversation?”
Eliza hesitates, instinctively calculating the best move. Maria nudges her shoulder lightly, conspiratorial.
“It is a party, isn’t it? Besides, you owe me a new glass.”
Eliza chuckles despite herself. “I suppose I can step away for a few minutes.”
They retrieve fresh champagne from a passing waiter and drift toward one of the balconies that line the outside of the building, glittering lights of the city stretching out below them. The conversation slips into something easier there, less guarded. Maria talks about art installations and fundraisers that seem more about performance than the cause. Eliza admits to herself that she sometimes envies people whose work doesn’t require constantly playing politics and creating palatable soundbites.
There is an ease between them that feels almost intimate. Maria has a way of speaking that makes everything sound easygoing and natural, as if she’s never had to rehearse herself to death for public appearances. She smiles widely, laughs easily.
By the time they exchange numbers, it feels inevitable.
“I could always use new girlfriends in the city,” Maria says lightly, like they’re twenty-one and trading Instagram handles in a bar bathroom instead of standing on a balcony above a room full of donors.
Things happen fast after that.
It starts with the occasional text. A meme sent late at night, a comment on a news article they’ve both read. One night, Maria invites Eliza out for dancing and drinks, nothing overtly dangerous. The music is loud and the crowd is tight, and Maria’s hand settles on Eliza’s waist.
Eliza freezes for half a second, breath catching. Maria leans in, her voice warm against Eliza’s ear. “Tell me if I should stop.”
The answer never makes it to Eliza’s mouth.
The kiss comes suddenly, heat and surprise colliding in a way that makes Eliza’s head spin.
After that, the momentum is impossible to stop. They meet several times a week.
In Eliza’s car parked a few blocks from the Foundation, the windows fogged, the radio prattling softly. Maria’s fingers trail along Eliza’s wrist, up her arm, deliberate and exploratory. Eliza laughs under her breath, nervous and thrilled all at once, pressing her forehead briefly to the steering wheel before turning back.
“We shouldn’t,” she murmurs.
Maria smiles. “You already know that won’t stop us.”
Eliza exhales, grinning, then nods once.
They grab at each others’ clothes instinctively; Maria unbuttons Eliza’s cardigan while Eliza unfastens Maria’s bra.
At Maria’s apartment, shoes kicked off hastily by the door, hands everywhere all at once. They pause only long enough for Maria to cup Eliza’s face, thumb brushing gently beneath her eye.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
Eliza nods again, more certain this time. “I want this.”
Maria smiles. “Say that again.”
Eliza exhales. “I want this.”
Maria moves her hand to cup the back of Eliza’s head, mouth brushing her neck. “What do you want?” She kisses her neck lightly. Eliza shivers. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”
“I want you to fuck me.”
Maria responds with a passionate kiss to Eliza’s neck, wrapping her arms around her and pulling her closer.
Eliza learns the shape of Maria’s body in the dark, the way she sounds when she laughs into Eliza’s shoulder, the quiet intensity of her focus. Later, tangled together in cooling sheets, Maria traces idle patterns along Eliza’s arm.
“You think we’re reckless?” she asks quietly.
Eliza considers it, then shakes her head. “I think we’re careful.”
Soon, Eliza is deleting texts. They establish rules together, murmured in the aftermath, half-serious but necessary. Fake names in each other’s phones. Certain messages erased immediately. No photos. No overlap between their professional lives.
Maria presses a kiss to Eliza’s collarbone. “This stays ours,” she says.
“Yes,” Eliza agrees, meaning it.
Alexander doesn’t suspect anything. If anything, he’s pleased Eliza has found a new friend. Their sex life remains intact, steady and familiar. This, Eliza tells herself, is something that belongs only to her.
Maria needs this more than I do, she thinks sometimes. James is so awful to her. The belief soothes her conscience, sort of.
Six Months Later
Alexander hunches over his desk, late afternoon light slanting through dusty office windows. It’s nearly five, the official end of his workday, though he already knows he’ll be here long into the night. He almost always is.
Three sharp knocks sound at his door. He looks up, irritation flaring. His secretary is usually better than this.
The man who enters is well dressed, confident in a way that almost emulates a used car salesman. He has a broad nose and sharp eyes. He steps inside and closes the door without being invited.
“Can I help you?” Alexander asks, barely hiding his annoyance.
“Mister Hamilton,” the man says with a polite smile. “My name is James Reynolds. You and I met briefly at a fundraiser for your wife’s Foundation, though I doubt you remember me.”
Alexander opens his mouth, but Reynolds continues. “I’m here regarding my wife. And your wife. Together.”
The last word lands wrong.
Reynolds pulls out his phone and turns the screen toward Hamilton, flipping through photos that aren’t explicit, but don’t need to be. Eliza leaning forward to touch Maria’s arm at a café. The two of them in an apartment, half-dressed, embracing in a way that leaves no room for doubt.
“Let me be clear,” Reynolds says calmly. “I don’t give a fuck who my wife sleeps with. But my silence? That comes at a cost.”
Alexander contains his fury. Who the hell is this man to come and blackmail him with this? He doesn’t have time to process Eliza’s betrayal. He has to contain the immediate threat.
“This is extortion,” he replies flatly. “What makes you think this will work?”
“I’m simply offering you a choice, Mister Hamilton.” Alexander can’t tell if he’s imagining James’s smirk or not.
Alexander runs calculations in his head. A scandal like this coming out would publicly destroy both him and Eliza. The public might embrace her for being lesbian or bisexual; Alexander suddenly isn’t sure. But people show so much more vitriol toward women who have affairs than men. And Alexander’s image, after being cuckolded by a woman? He’d be a national laughing stock. Americans who barely stay informed enough to know who’s in the White House would suddenly know the Secretary of the Treasury, and not for the reasons he’s worked so diligently for.
After a long moment, he meets Reynolds’s gaze. “How much?”
They finalize an agreement, with ongoing payments for as long as the affair lasts. Hamilton holds onto the hope that Eliza will end it. He writes the check.
Reynolds holds out his hand. “So?”
Alexander hands him the check. “Nobody needs to know.”
Hours later, Hamilton paces the carpeted floor of his home office, the house quiet around him, Eliza and the children long asleep. His thoughts loop. My wife is cheating on me. With a woman. I’m being blackmailed. I’m being blackmailed because my wife is cheating on me with a woman. He tells himself the payment is temporary, that Eliza will end the affair. They will survive this.
Two Months Later
Eliza wakes to the sound of traffic outside Maria’s apartment. She watches Maria sleep for a moment, memorizing the softness of her expression, wishing for impossible things. Sleeping in. Having breakfast. Chatting about the day ahead. But it’s six a.m., and she needs to get to the office, to real life. She slips into her clothes with quiet grace.
Maria stirs. “Sneaking out again?”
“I’d stay if I could,” Eliza murmurs. “You know I would.”
“I just want to make sure we’re good,” Maria says, hesitating. “I have a weird feeling.”
Something makes Eliza’s gut twinge. It’s not like Maria to be unsure. She leans over the bed and presses her forehead to Maria’s. “There’s nothing to worry about,” she says, giving Maria a tender kiss. “I promise.”
That night, Alexander sits alone in his office, another late night at the White House. He racks his brain for answers. He had been certain this affair would fizzle out, that Eliza would come back to him. But he can’t just wait for that anymore, while James bleeds him dry. And he can’t let Eliza be destroyed.
He doesn’t know why she’s doing this, but he loves her. And he knows she still loves him.
He can save them both by falling on his sword. The world can forgive an adulterous man. They've done it a thousand times before.
I’ll write my way out.
He has exhausted every other option. He can’t do it. He has to do it.
He opens a blank document.
This is the only way I can protect our legacy.
He begins to type.
Chapter 2: Collateral
The morning begins in its usual state of low-grade chaos. Philip and Angelica argue over something inconsequential but loud, backpacks abandoned in the hallway as they bicker across the kitchen. Alexander doesn’t look up from his paper. Eliza moves between the children on autopilot, redirecting attention, smoothing hair, pressing lunches into hands with gentle urgency. Soon the front door closes behind them, and the house falls quiet again.
She heads into the kitchen for coffee and a quick bite before leaving for the office, where she sees Alexander still seated at the breakfast nook. This alone is strange, as some mornings he’s out so early they don’t even see each other. Now, it’s almost eight, and his coffee sits untouched on the quartz countertop beside him, no longer steaming. The newspaper is open in front of him, but his eyes aren’t moving.
Eliza pours her own mug, then leans back against the counter. He still doesn’t look up. She frowns.
“With all that drama between Philip and Angelica,” she ventures, “I never got the chance to say a real good morning.” Alexander exhales.
“Siblings argue,” he responds dryly, folding the paper closed. He sets it aside and looks at her. “Come have a seat.”
Tension coils in Eliza’s gut. “I’d love to sit and catch up over a coffee, hon, but I’m in and out of meetings all day. The new clean water project—”
“Your morning is clear,” Alexander interrupts, tone firm but not forceful. “I asked Carol to move some things around for you.”
She stares at him. “You contacted my secretary.”
“Yes.”
“And she listened to you.” Disbelief sharpens her tone.
Alexander shrugs, almost sheepish. “People tend to.” He offers a faint smile, which does little to ease Eliza’s growing dread. She brings her coffee to the breakfast nook and sets it beside her husband’s, sitting down slowly, as if approaching something that might detonate. She folds her hands in her lap.
“What is this about?” she asks.
Alexander pauses. “There’s a situation,” he says slowly. “But you don’t need to worry. I’ve handled it.”
Her pulse begins to race. Alexander handling things can go… Many different ways. “What kind of situation?” She fights to keep her voice steady.
“I know about Maria.” He says it without drama. He doesn’t raise his voice, his hands don’t shake. He speaks like he’s presenting a revised budget to the President.
Heat floods Eliza’s face. Her mind scrambles, memories colliding all at once. Wandering hands, soft laughter, carefully deleted texts, the rules they thought would keep them safe. Where had they slipped up? And why is Alexander so calm about her betrayal?
‘’I’m not the only one who knows,” he continues in her silence. “But you don’t need to worry. I’ve ensured your actions won’t be exposed to the public.”
She turns to him fully now. “What does that mean?”
Alexander recounts his meeting with James Reynolds. The photos, the money, how he hoped the affair would simply fizzle out. And how when it didn’t, he had to act before things could spiral.
“Because I still love you,” he goes on. “Everything I’ve done has been to protect you. I laid on my sword to save your image. To save our marriage.” He takes a breath, then continues. “I leaked it. Anonymously. Digitally. It’s already circulating.”
Eliza shakes her head, trying to follow. “I don’t understand,” she says. “That doesn’t make any sense. How did you expose the affair without exposing my actions? Aren’t my actions half of the affair?”
Alexander pinches the bridge of his nose. “I kept your secret.”
Her stomach drops.
“The public would never forgive you for this,” he explains, his tone bordering on condescension in that signature Hamilton confidence. “Not really, not in a way that matters. But they will forgive me.”
She stares at him. “You’re saying…”
“I framed it as my affair with Maria Reynolds. You aren’t mentioned at all, aside from how I regret hurting you.”
Eliza studies him. “What about Maria?” she asks.
Alexander almost scoffs. “Respectfully, Eliza, I don’t care about that woman or her reputation. This is about us, about our marriage.”
Eliza rises abruptly, pacing the length of the kitchen. “You didn’t ask me.”
He looks up sharply. “You didn’t ask before dropping a bomb on our marriage.”
She stops pacing and turns back to face him. “That’s not the same thing and you know it.”
“You betrayed me,” he snaps back, his composure finally cracking. “And yet I’m the one cleaning up from the fallout.”
“No,” she responds, her voice rising, “you are rewriting the story. You’re just shifting my humiliation!”
“Into something you can handle. Something we can survive.”
“So instead of being outed,” she says bitterly, “I get to be publicly cheated on. And that’s better?”
“Yes,” Alexander insists. “Stories like this are a dime a dozen in D.C.”
“That doesn’t make it any better,” she argues. “It drags us down to everyone else’s level. We were supposed to be… better than this.” Her voice softens. “We were supposed to be better. Now we’re just another D.C. scandal.”
He reaches for her arm. She recoils instinctively.
“I… I need some air,” she whispers. She grabs her coat and leaves before he can respond.
The drive across town is a blur of tears and numb dissociation. By the time she reaches the apartment, she feels hollowed out.
Maria opens the door and freezes. “Eliza,” she breathes. “What happened?”
Eliza pushes past her. “Don’t play stupid, just tell me the truth.”
Maria turns around, closing the door behind her. Eliza plops her purse on a side table and folds her arms.
“I don’t know what—”
“Your husband!” Eliza snaps. “Did he send you to sleep with me?”
Maria pales. “I—no. It’s not like that.”
Eliza takes a step forward. “If anything we had was even remotely real, tell me the truth.”
Maria does. She explains that James had sent her to seduce Alexander, but he was always so busy at Foundation events that she could barely get a nod hello. They were considering waiting until one of them traveled for work, but then Eliza bumped into each other. When it became clear they were both bisexual, James suggested seduction. Maria insists she was against it at first, but caught real feelings. She hadn’t planned on falling in love. She thought this was a compromise, a way for her to be with Eliza.
“I’m not the villain here,” she says desperately.
“No,” Eliza responds quietly, tears welling. “But you’re not innocent either.” She takes a shaky breath and gathers her purse. “We’re done,” she says flatly, and leaves, not allowing tears to fall until the door shuts behind her.
Late that night, Alexander sits on the couch watching the news. The children are in bed, too young to be fully aware of what’s going on, while he watches pundits dissect his character. He already spent the day getting reamed by the President, hearing thinly veiled comments from James Madison, and watching Thomas Jefferson all but break out in song when he walked by Hamilton’s office. He takes it all in stride, comforted by one thing: Eliza is barely mentioned.
Close to eleven, the front door opens and shuts quietly. Eliza comes into the living room, arms folded across her chest in a way that’s not defensive, but almost resembles the way a child might stand while being scolded, like she’s hugging herself.
“It’s over,” she says quietly. “With Mariah.”
Alexander nods once. “I’m sorry this is what it took for it to end.” He stands, angling himself toward Eliza. “For what it’s worth, I forgive you. And I’m ready to work on our marriage together.” He opens his arms as if he expects an embrace.
Eliza hesitates. “I… Thank you. For forgiving me. But, Alexander, I don’t know if I’ve forgiven you.”
“...Forgiven me?”
Their voices stay hushed as they argue in circles again, careful not to wake the children, the distance between them growing.
The next morning, Alexander goes to the office early, locking his office door. He places a call to James Reynolds and lets him know: the payments stop now. The affair is over.
James hardly admits defeat. “Goodbye, Mister Hamilton, for now at least. You’d be surprised what people remember.”
Chapter 3
Weeks after the fallout, things settle into something vaguely resembling routine. Not peace, but a rhythm Eliza can function through. She wakes early, dresses carefully, her appearance recently under more scrutiny than ever. She glides through work on shaky confidence with a smile that makes it look effortless. At public appearances, she glows. She laughs at the right moments, takes compliments in stride, like a woman untouched by scandal.
At night, she sleeps in the guest room. The separation is quiet and mutual, Alexander doesn’t argue when she gathers a few things and closes the door behind her each night. But he doesn’t ask her to stay, either.
They speak about the children, about schedules and meals and logistics, carefully keeping the household functioning. Anything with more emotional substance is avoided.
Eliza continues to grieve what she thought she had with Maria, once the shock fades. Soon, the heartbreak fades too, and she’s left hollowed out and numb. But the numbness is what makes it possible to move forward without collapsing. She does not cry anymore.
One evening, she stands alone in the kitchen, tidying the last remnants of the day. The house is quiet, the children now tucked into bed upstairs. Footsteps sound behind her.
Alexander comes down the stairs slowly, finally having gotten the kids to sleep. He stops a few feet away. “Can we talk?” he asks, his voice low.
Eliza turns toward him, her expression neutral. After a moment, she gestures toward the living room. They sit on opposite ends of the couch, an intentional distance between them. Silence stretches between them, awkward and weighted.
Alexander breaks it first. “I want you to know,” he begins thoughtfully, “that everything I did, I did because I was protecting the family.”
Eliza doesn’t interrupt, but her mouth tightens. Alexander continues.
“I know we’ve said all this before. And I don’t want to repeat myself if—”
“Then don’t,” she interrupts quietly.
He pauses, and rethinks for a beat. “I support you,” he says after a moment. “Whatever your identity is. Whatever you decide to call yourself. That was never the issue.”
Eliza looks down, then back at him. “But?”
“But I didn’t—still don’t, frankly—think the public would survive it,” he admits. “Not you being queer, not you being a woman who had an affair. And the combination of those two things together…” He shakes his head. “They would have torn you apart. They practically already do. You know that.”
She exhales slowly. “I do.”
“And I couldn’t let that happen,” he insists. “I wouldn’t.”
“So, you decided for me,” she replies. There is no venom in her voice, there doesn’t need to be. Alexander’s shoulders sag.
“Yes.”
Eliza leans back slightly, taken by surprise. Something inside her softens at the honesty.
“I should have come to you,” he continues. I should have trusted you with the risk. But I didn’t. I thought I could fix it on my own. That if it was my mistake, then I could br the one to contain it.”
Eliza leans back against the couch. “But you didn’t contain it. You redirected it.”
“I know.”
She swallows, then speaks, working to keep her voice steady. “I… I am sorry. For the affair. For betraying your trust. I don’t think I ever really apologized before… Not sincerely, anyway.”
Alexander looks at her, surprised. “Thank you.”
She continues, more steady now. “And I mean that. But, the worst part of what you did isn’t the article itself. It wasn’t the humiliation, or the lie. It was the fact that you turned our marriage into a public performance without even speaking to me. You erased me from my own story.”
He opens his mouth like he might interrupt, but thinks better of it.
“You decided my silence was preferable,” she says. “That disappearing me was safer than letting me speak. And maybe you’re right about how I would have been treated, about how society in general treats queer women. And how it punishes women for the same things it forgives men. But that was my risk to take. Not yours.”
Alexander thinks for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is low, like he can barely get the words out. “I was afraid.”
“What were you afraid of? Me?”
“Of losing you,” he admits. “And I was arrogant enough to think I knew better than you how to prevent it.” He pauses. The admission hangs between them. “I don’t want that anymore,” he says. “I don’t want to be the one who decides alone. I don’t want to control the narrative if it hurts you.”
Her heart aches. She desperately wants everything he’s saying to be true, to throw herself into his arms and believe him and pretend everything is okay.
“Words are easy,” she says instead.
“I know. But I mean them,” he promises. “And I will prove it, if you let me.”
They stay silent for a long moment. Eliza looks down. Finally, Alexander speaks.
“What would reconciliation look like to you?”
Eliza thinks about it, about the state of their marriage now. Cracked, yes, but not collapsed. She thinks about what she needs to feel whole inside it again.
“No more unilateral decisions. Ever,” she says, her voice gentle but unyielding. “No controlling the public narrative about us or me without my consent. And no secrets dressed up as protection.”
He immediately nods in agreement. “Of course.”
“And in public,” she adds, “we implement a ‘no comment’ policy. No explanations. Our private lives stay private. And in private, complete honesty with each other. Even when it’s uncomfortable.”
Alexander slowly reaches for her hand, giving her time to pull away. She doesn’t.
“And I know that goes both ways.” She takes his hand. “You have my full and complete transparency from now on.” Their fingers interlace.
“Are we a team again?” he asks.
She considers his question before answering. “Yes. But, we’re still rebuilding. And we’re not pretending anymore.”
They sit like that for a long moment, hands joined, breathing in sync. Finally, he leans in, waiting for her to meet him halfway. She does.
The kiss is gently, exploratory. Nothing like going through the motions before. It’s no longer an escape. It’s a reunion.
They kiss again, slowly moving together upstairs, unhurried, hands playing at shirt buttons and pant buttons. In the bedroom, they undress each other slowly, rediscovering familiar bodies with new attention. Eliza guides him this time, setting the pace. When they finally come together, it is deliberate. Intimate. A quiet reclamation.
They wake before dawn, light just beginning to seep through the curtains. For the first time in weeks, Eliza is in her own bed. Alexander’s arm is draped over her waist. It doesn’t feel the same as before, but it feels real. She shifts, and he presses a kiss to her temple.
“Last night…” he starts.
“Was nice,” she finishes for him, smiling, “but it was just a start.”
“Just a start,” he agrees. He kisses her again, on the lips. “But a good start.”
Later that morning, Eliza sits in her office, papers spread neatly across her desk. The television murmurs in the background, some panel dissecting old news. Alexander’s name surfaces occasionally, paired with recycled jokes and tired commentary. She half-listens, until a familiar image flashes on the screen. Alexander’s polished headshot, next to a photo of Maria taken at a gala months ago.
Her stomach twists sourly. She reaches for the remote and turns the TV off. The silence that follows is heavy and bitter, but it’s hers.
She opens her laptop and scrolls through old files until she finds it. The article. The document that hardly mentions her, that rewrote her life without her consent.
She doesn’t read it again.
She deletes it.
Then she opens a new document. Eliza rests her hands on the keyboard and begins to write. Not a statement, not a defense. Something true, private. Something that belongs only to her.
And for the first time since this all began, the silence feels like a choice.
Eliza moves through the gala with effortless grace. She knows every important face by name. She knows which prefer a firm handshake and which expect an air-kiss, which ones feel their philanthropy deserves to be praised, and which feel most superior when their donations are treated as an afterthought. She remembers contribution histories, children’s names, any recent weddings or funerals. The Schuyler-Hamilton Foundation has hosted dozens of events like this over the years, and Eliza has mastered the art of working the room.
The room is lush with subtly flaunted wealth. Crystal glasses clink together in cheers, diamond necklaces sparkle, laughter rises and falls in quiet waves as impressive names are sprinkled sideways into conversation. Every detail has been curated, from the string quartet in the corner to the lighting chosen specifically to flatter aging faces. Eliza glides between couples and cliques, thanking donors for their continued support, assuring them their contributions are making a real difference, promising follow-ups and future invitations. She does it all with the same composed smile, the same steady cadence.
But Alexander is the real magnet.
Even from across the room, she can feel his presence. People angle themselves toward him instinctively, drawn by his energy. With Eliza there to quietly remind him of the most essential names and faces, he takes care of the rest on charisma alone. People aren’t drawn to his official position as Secretary of the Treasury, but to his unofficial role as right-hand man to the President, architect of policy, someone who seems to understand where the country is going before anyone else does.
Eliza’s career is in the Foundation. It was originally the Schuyler Foundation, founded and run by her father, but its recent success is almost entirely due to Alexander’s visibility. Adding his name to the letterhead, his face in the press photos, made worlds of difference. This is a blessing, she reminds herself, as she always does. Her life’s work is showing success on a global scale. They are doing real good. If the cost is sharing the spotlight, then so be it.
They don’t work the room together anymore, not like they used to. Eliza grew tired of politely smiling along to conversations Alexander dominated, tired of being the gracious side story to his brilliance. Besides, these events function better when they can cover more ground.
Divide and conquer. Efficient. Professional.
She finishes her conversation with an elderly couple who have been supporting the Foundation for over two decades, promising to connect them with a program director next week. When she turns to make her exit, her shoulder catches the hand of a woman she hadn’t seen approaching. Her champagne flute tilts dangerously, bubbly sloshing toward the rim.
By what feels like divine intervention, only a few drops spill, splashing harmlessly onto the marble floor. Eliza’s pulse spikes anyway, and she flies into panic-response mode automatically.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Please excuse me, I didn’t see you at all, Miss—”
She looks up.
The woman in front of her is not a regular donor. Eliza is certain of it. She would remember a face like this.
She wears a scarlet gown that clings unapologetically to her curves, the color bold enough to feel almost defiant in a room dominated by neutrals and earth tones. Her skin is a rich walnut brown, luminous under the lights, her features sharp but not severe, with a gentle beauty about her. Her hair is a cascade of dark, voluminous curls swept to one side, spilling perfectly over her shoulder.
The woman sizes up Eliza in a single glance, then smiles fully as she takes Eliza’s offered hand.
“Mrs. Reynolds,” she offers smoothly. “Maria. No worries. Nothing on the Versace.”
Relief loosens in Eliza’s chest. “That’s very gracious of you.” She releases her hand. “I’m Elizabeth Schuyler-Hamilton. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Is this your first event with the Foundation?”
“It’s my first time attending for this foundation,” Maria replies, her tone cool but not distant. “My husband, James, appears at events all over D.C.”
James and Maria Reynolds, Eliza makes a mental note. She hasn’t heard of them before, but Washington is full of people who appear suddenly. They could be rising stars on the political scene.
They exchange pleasantries, the conversation light at first. Maria asks surprisingly thoughtful questions about the Foundation’s work, without sounding performative. When Eliza answers, she listens, her attention unwavering in a way that is almost startling.
After a bit, she tilts her head slightly. “You handle this beautifully. Rooms like this can eat people alive.”
It’s not a compliment Eliza has gotten before, at least not framed that way. Something about it sticks in her chest.
“My husband is sure to be off schmoozing somewhere,” Maria says after a moment, rolling her eyes. “Why don’t you help me get a new glass of champagne, and we’ll entertain ourselves while the men make useless conversation?”
Eliza hesitates, instinctively calculating the best move. Maria nudges her shoulder lightly, conspiratorial.
“It is a party, isn’t it? Besides, you owe me a new glass.”
Eliza chuckles despite herself. “I suppose I can step away for a few minutes.”
