Prologue: Wesley
Author's Note: Rules of Power can be enjoyed on its own, but it fits best when read after the Shattered Rules series. Starting with Shattered Rules gives you the full emotional arc and context behind the characters’ choices.
The building is finally quiet.
That rare hour in D.C. when the city exhales. Lobbyists at their dinners, staffers halfway through their second overpriced cocktail, the Hill lit up like a stage set waiting for tomorrow’s performance. I’ve sent my people home hours ago. The floor outside my office is dark. It’s just me, the desk lamp, and the faint whirr of the city bleeding through the windows.
I loosen my tie, pour two fingers of bourbon into the same glass I’ve been using all week, and open the day’s media packet. It’s a ritual more than a necessity. The comms team pulls articles, op-eds, mentions, social media chatter. Most of it is noise. Every day, the same parade of think pieces pretending to understand Gen Z, usually written by someone twice their age who’s never spoken to one outside of a campaign internship.
I flip through the PDFs on my tablet with the detachment of someone scanning weather reports for a storm that isn’t coming.
Then a subject line catches my eye.
We Grew Up Watching Institutions Fail.
I almost skip it because it sounds like another sanctimonious tirade from a junior activist. But the name below the headline stops me. Georgetown Policy Review.
I open it.
The first paragraph lands like a blade. She doesn’t waste words. Doesn’t pad her argument with empty outrage. She writes like someone who’s been paying attention for longer than she should have had to, like someone who’s learned that disappointment is a more useful teacher than hope.
I take a sip of bourbon and keep reading.
“We were told to trust the process. To believe the system corrects itself. But we also watched markets crash, promises collapse, leaders fail in public and get rewarded in private. We didn’t inherit cynicism. We studied it because we had to.”
I underline that line.
She doesn’t end with a call to arms. No self-righteous manifesto. Just a challenge disguised as a question.
“If we know the rules are broken, how long do we keep playing before we rewrite them?”
A dangerous thought. And one worth feeding.
I glance back at the byline. Ashleigh Sullivan.
Sullivan… common enough. But something about it sticks.
I open another tab, type her name into a search bar. Her LinkedIn is easy enough to find. Graduated early, magna cum laude from Georgetown. Now a first-year grad student in public policy, with a couple of student leadership projects, youth policy forums, and worked on a congressional campaign in Georgia.
She’s still green, still believing in meritocracy if this op-ed is any indication. The kind of résumé that says hungry without realizing it also says pliable.
I find a news article with a photo from a charity gala. The caption lists her alongside Senator Andrew Harrington and Landon Sullivan.
That’s where I place him. Atlanta finance. Sullivan Knight Advisory. He’s got influence in Georgia. His name floated around after the Georgia Economic Renewal Bill. It turned a few heads in D.C. He’s kind of man who doesn’t run for office but knows exactly which hand to shake to make the right bill pass.
I sit back, smirking. The daughter of money, writing like she just discovered corruption. I should be laughing. Instead, I’m curious.
She has enough ambition to make her interesting, enough gaps to make her reachable.
I scroll back to her LinkedIn, my thumb hovers over her profile picture. It’s a professional headshot, but not so polished it looks coached. Clear-eyed. Pretty.
She’s raw, but there’s something in the way she writes with clarity, conviction, the kind you don’t usually see this early. That kind of instinct doesn’t come along often. I could work with her.
Reaching out directly would be too obvious. It’s better to position her where the conversation’s already happening, let her prove herself without realizing the stage was set. If she falters, no harm done. But if she holds her ground… then she’s someone I want to keep close.
I pick up my phone and make a call.
“Tom,” I say when my contact at the Hamilton Institute picks up. “I saw the invite list for your youth policy roundtable next week. Add a name, Ashleigh Sullivan. Georgetown grad student. She just wrote a piece for the Policy Review that’s worth a read.”
He laughs. “You recruiting now?”
“Just making sure you’ve got a mix of voices in the room. Consider this a personal request from one of your biggest donors.”
When I hang up, I can already see how the evening will play out. The room will be full of eager grad students, think tank staffers, a couple of mid-level agency types. I’ll make my way over when she’s talking to someone else, wait until she notices me. I’ll mention her op-ed, tell her I liked it, but also that she’s wrong about something. Challenge her just enough to see if she pushes back.
If she’s smart, she’ll think she impressed me. If she’s ambitious, she’ll want to prove me wrong. Either way, I’ll have her attention.
And from there? Well. Attention is the first step toward loyalty.
I finish the bourbon, the burn settling low and warm in my chest.
I glance at the underlined sentence again on my screen.
We didn’t inherit cynicism. We studied it, because we had to.
I smile. “We’ll make a leader out of you yet, Miss Sullivan.”
