I’ve never been soaware of a tuxedo in my life.
Every stitch feels too tight, every collar point like it’s angling toward my jugular. I tug at the cuff links and try to focus on my breathing: slow, deep, even. The same kind of breath you take before walking into a press conference, a courtroom, or, apparently, a political coronation wrapped in designer florals and jazz quartet renditions of Bruce Springsteen.
The Carmichael estate is a masterpiece of optics tonight. Lanterns line the driveway. Champagne flows like water. There’s a red, white, and blue step-and-repeat in front of the koi pond because subtlety has never been my father’s strong suit.
This is the official launch of Logan Carmichael’s gubernatorial run.
And I’m drowning in it.
I shake another hand, smile for another photo, nod at another donor with teeth that are too white and a handshakethat’s too smooth. The press is kept in a velvet-roped corner, sipping catered cocktails while trying not to look like they’re recording everything. The documentary crew is less discreet; their cameras roll freely as Dylan circles the perimeter like a well-dressed hawk.
I see Sophia and Grant arrive. Alex is here somewhere, probably making snide remarks in a corner and texting me memes from ten feet away. The guest list is a carefully balanced mix of power, press, and plausible deniability.
And then there’s him. My father. He’s working the room like a man running for president instead of governor. Perfect posture. Crisp smile. Every word tailored to his audience. It’s disgusting how easy it is for him.
“Lucas!” he says, gripping my shoulder like we’re starring in a campaign ad together. “Glad you could make it.”
“I was on the invite,” I say dryly.
He claps my back with mock affection. “Just remember to look happy for the cameras, son. The voters like seeing a united family.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
And then I see her.
She stands just inside the main entrance, and my heart stops. She’s wearing a deep blue dress that makes her eyes look like sapphires, and her hair is swept up elegantly, exposing the graceful curve of her neck. Even after weeks apart, even from across the room, the sight of her still knocks the breath from my lungs.
As she shifts her weight and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, something silver glints at her wrist. The bracelet. Mybracelet. And just below it, her fingers catch the light, and I see that her gold wedding band is still there.
She could’ve taken them off. But she didn’t.
My heart races. I’ve spent weeks rehearsing what I’d say when I finally saw her again, but now that she’s here, all those carefully crafted phrases evaporate.
Our eyes meet from across the crowded room, and everything else fades away. For a heartbeat, we’re both perfectly still, suspended in this moment of recognition. Then she begins moving toward me, weaving through the crowd with purpose, and I find myself doing the same.
We meet in the middle of the room, stopping just a foot apart. We’re close enough to touch, but neither of us is quite brave enough to bridge that final gap.
“Hey,” she says, her voice soft but steady.
“Hey, yourself,” I reply, drinking in the sight of her. “You’re here.”
Her lips curve in a careful smile. “I said I would be.”
“You look beautiful,” I tell her, because it’s true and because I’ve spent weeks thinking about all the things I should have said.
A blush touches her cheeks. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Carmichael.”
“Not working tonight?” I gesture to her outfit and her lack of press credentials.
“No.” Something vulnerable flickers in her expression. “Tonight, I’m just here as, well, as your wife.”
The word sends a rush of warmth through me. “Does that mean I get to keep you by my side all evening?”
“If you want to.” There’s a question in her eyes, hesitant and hopeful.
“More than anything,” I admit, offering my arm. When she takes it, her hand warm against my sleeve, everything feels right for the first time in weeks.
As we move through the crowd together, I’m acutely aware of her presence beside me. The subtle scent of her perfume. The way her fingers occasionally tighten on my arm when someone approaches. The small, secret smiles we exchange over particularly ridiculous political small talk.
