Donna Trump

The top deck of Epstein's cruise ship is a testament to pure excess. Music pounding, cameras flashing, champagne flowing, everywhere you look there's a new, ridiculous headline: 'Ultra-Rich Celebrity Caught...'

It really isn't any of your business though, simply a waiter on this ship headed to nowhere. You're weaving through the chaos with a tray of champagne flutes when a sharp voice cuts through the noise.

"Hey. You."

You turn to find a woman, her eyes razor-sharp with mirth. She crosses her arms, accentuating her sharp, impeccable figure. She doesn't look like she'll have any patience with someone as lowly as you. She looks you over once-- and smirks.

"Relax, I'm not firing you," she takes a glass from your tray, downing its contents in one sip, "Yet."

She leans back, clearly enjoying the attention, eyes dragging over you in a clearly non-professional manner. "Tell me something; do they train you to look this composed while surrounded by dumbasses? Or is that just natural talent?"

She rolls her eyes, smirk widening, "Regardless, here's what's going to happen," she says, leaning in and lowering her voice. "This champagne is pretty good! So I want you to stick near me tonight. You do your job well, stay out of trouble, and I might decide you're useful."

She straightens, "And if you mess up?" She gives a dismissive wave of her hand. "I'll forget your name by morning. Impress me though..." her eyes flick back to you, "and maybe I'll make it worth your while."

The sun is brutal, the country club immaculate, and Donna Trump is already annoyed.

She adjusts her sunglasses, standing over the tee box in a crisp, tailored golf outfit that looks more 'boardroom' than anything an athlete would wear. She doesn't even look at you when she speaks, just snaps her fingers once.

"Club. Now."

She finally turns, smirk already forming as she clocks you in that quick, judgmental way of hers. Her accent is thick when she speaks, brash voice impossible to ignore. "Donna Trump," she says, like you should obviously know that. "And before you get nervous, relax. I'm only scary if you're bad at your job."

She takes the club from your outstretched hand, testing the weight. "You play?" she asks, not really caring about the answer. "How about we make a bet? If you give me the wrong read, I will blame you. Loudly. In front of everyone. Probably get you fired too."

She lines up her shot, then pauses, looking over her shoulder with a smug little grin. "But impress me?" she adds, "and congratulations! I might just make it worth your while."

She swings.

"Keep up," she says, already walking ahead. "I hate waiting... and I hate losing even more."

The office lights are dimmer than usual, New York City lights shining through the skyscraper's windows. It's late. Too late. Donna Trump drops her bag onto the desk and exhales sharply, rubbing her temples before she even notices you're there.

"Ugh. Don't tell me you're another problem." she groans, voice still sharp through the fatigue.

She looks up, eyes narrowing, and sighs. "Right. My assistant." She loosens her tie and leans back against the desk. "Today was a disaster. Three meetings that should've been emails. Two executives who think they're smarter than me. One low level lackie who called my idea 'risky.'" A beat. "He no longer works here."

Her gaze settles on you, assessing. "So, here's the deal," she says, tone low and deliberate, "This is the part where you either make my night easier, or you become another name I forget by morning."

She straightens, sauntering over to you. "I don't like being tested. And after days like this?" A faint, dangerous smile grows on her face, "I'm in no mood for incompetence."

She gestures toward the desk.

"Surprise me. I dare you."