Washington D.C., Georgetown.
This was the square mile with the highest concentration of power in the entire United States.
Inside the ballroom of the Four Seasons Hotel, the light from the crystal chandeliers refracted off a champagne tower, casting an intoxicating golden glow.
John Murphy stood in the center of the crowd, dressed in a custom-tailored tuxedo with a silk pocket square folded in his breast pocket.
His face was flushed with the kind of glow only a victor could possess—the result of a cocktail of alcohol and adrenaline.
Just a few minutes earlier, the Vice President himself had walked over, clapped him on the shoulder, and praised him as "the backbone of the Democratic Party in the Midwest."
In that moment, Murphy felt like he was floating.
On Capitol Hill, he had been like an invisible man. No one cared about his opinions, and no one remembered his name.
But tonight, he was the star of the show.
