Chapter 11: Beneath the Marble Skies
Jane had always believed that love, true love, came quietly. Not with fireworks or poetic declarations, but with stillness—the kind that settled into your bones when you were finally safe in someone's presence.
She had spent most of her adult life skeptical of romantic ideals, guarding her heart like a relic she didn't quite believe in. That was until she met Elias Carter, a man who changed everything with nothing more than a smile.
They met by accident on a rainy evening in Washington, D.C., under the grey shadow of the Lincoln Memorial. She had just finished a speaking engagement at a nonprofit summit, her blazer damp, her hair uncooperative, when she ducked into the marble halls to find shelter.
He was already there—leaning against a column in a navy-blue suit, his tie loosened, his eyes on the falling rain with the focus of a poet.
"I'd offer you an umbrella," he said without looking at her, "but I forgot mine too."
Jane glanced at him, amused. "Then I guess we're both bad at planning."
He turned, and that's when she noticed how young he was maybe early thirties. Handsome, in a sharp, understated way. And his eyes calm, unreadable, but kind.
"You're not from here," he observed, studying her.
"No," she replied. "You are?"
He smiled. "Born three blocks from Capitol Hill. Elias Carter."
She took his hand. "Jane McAllister."
"You're not the Jane McAllister who writes those blistering op-eds about federal transparency?"
She gave a short laugh. "Guilty."
"Well," he said with a gleam in his eye, "I guess this makes me one of your villains."
Elias Carter was not what Jane expected from a politician. He was sharp, yes—Harvard-educated, heir to an old political family, fast rising in the Democratic Party.
But unlike most men in power she had met, he wasn't performative. His brilliance wasn't loud; it was woven into his compassion, his restraint, the way he spoke only when he had something worth saying.
They saw each other again a week later. This time over coffee, then dinner, then another walk through the monuments. What began as curiosity quickly turned into connection. He asked questions that made her think. He listened. And when he disagreed, he did so with honesty, not ego.
For the first time in years, Jane felt seen.
They became inseparable.
D.C. was their backdrop—its sharp suits and sharper tongues, its power dinners and whispered rumors. Yet in the privacy of his apartment above Dupont Circle, they were just Elias and Jane. No headlines. No party lines. Just quiet music, shared wine, and endless conversation.
One evening, as the city shimmered outside his balcony, he turned to her and said, "You know, I think I love you."
She didn't know how to respond. Love had always frightened her, not because it wasn't real, but because it was. Because it asked for surrender. Vulnerability. She looked at him, saw the sincerity in his eyes, and whispered, "Then I'll try not to break it."
He kissed her gently, like he understood the weight behind her words.
But being in love with a politician was not a fairytale. Jane quickly learned that the closer she got to Elias, the more exposed she became.
There were moments of jealousy, of second-guessing, especially when his name lit up headlines and her inbox flooded with press requests. His campaign team wasn't thrilled about her background ,her independence, her sharp words, her refusal to be reduced to a plus-one.
"They want me to fit in a box," she told him one night. "To be pretty and quiet and nod in the right places."
"You don't have to be anyone but yourself," Elias said, taking her hand. "If they can't handle that, then they're in the wrong business."
"But they're not wrong, are they?" she asked. "You're aiming for something bigger. I could be a liability."
He sighed. "You're my compass, Jane. You keep me honest. I need that more than I need perfect optics."
They had their fights—small ones, explosive ones. Sometimes over the absurd things, like missed dinners and long silences. Other times over real fears.
Jane feared losing herself in his world.
Elias feared losing her to hers.
"I can't be the woman behind the curtain," she told him once. "I've worked too hard to have a voice."
"And I would never ask you to quiet it," he replied. But the strain showed.
One evening, just before Elias was scheduled to announce his candidacy for Senate, they stood in the kitchen, the city lights cold behind the glass. His team had just sent her a dossier, a list of things she should say, wear, and avoid doing.
She dropped it on the table.
"This isn't me," she said.
"I know," he answered.
"Then why are they trying to reshape me?"
He looked tired. "Because they're afraid."
"I'm afraid too, Elias. But I'm not going to disappear to make you shine."
He came toward her, voice softer now. "Jane, I don't want you to disappear. I want you beside me. Fully. Even if it costs me."
She searched his face for a lie. Found none.
The night he won his seat in the Senate, the crowd erupted with cheers. Flashbulbs. Speeches. Campaign staff crying.
But his eyes searched the crowd until they landed on her.
She wasn't standing in the wings. She was in the center.
And when he pulled her into the spotlight, hand in hand, he whispered, "Thank you for not letting me lose you."
Jane smiled, her heart finally still.
"I think I love you too," she whispered.
He grinned. "Took you long enough."
They would face more challenges—scandals, distance, policy battles but one truth remained unshaken: their love had not come to tame either of them.
It had come to challenge, to deepen, to soften the edges of ambition with the warmth of something real.
And beneath the marble skies of Washington, in the city of power, two hearts had found a place beyond politics, beyond fear where love, raw and uncertain, had dared to begin.