“Senator Reynolds has been telling me about his golf handicap for ten minutes,” she whispers, leaning close enough that her breath tickles my ear.
“Amateur mistake,” I murmur back. “Never let him start on golf. I once missed an entire Lakers game because he cornered me about his new putter.”
She laughs, and the sound ripples through me like sunshine. God, I’ve missed her laugh.
My mother approaches, elegant in midnight blue that uncannily matches Jess’s dress. “Lucas! And Jess, how wonderful to see you both.” She embraces each of us quickly before being pulled away by another guest, leaving us in our own bubble once more.
Dylan spots us from across the room and makes a beeline for us, camera crew in tow. His expression is delighted.
“There you are! Our star couple.” He gestures to his cameraman. “We’re getting some fantastic B-roll tonight. This event is perfect for the documentary’s final chapter.”
Jess glances at me with a hint of nervousness in her eyes. I place my hand gently on her lower back in silent support.
“Actually,” Dylan continues, “while I have you both, we just need a few staged moments by the garden. Some intimate conversations, maybe a dance? And I wanted to confirm our final interview tomorrow afternoon, say around three? We’re wrapping principal photography this week.”
“The story drops in the morning,” Jess says, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of tension.
“Even better,” Dylan replies. “We’ll capture the authentic aftermath. The real conversations. It’s what makes this documentary special.”
I look at Jess, searching her face. “That works, right?”
She nods, and her eyes meet mine with unexpected warmth. “Right.”
Dylan directs us toward the garden, where he positions us near blooming roses with strategic lighting. “Just act natural,” he instructs. “Talk to each other like we’re not even here.”
As soon as the cameras start rolling, we fall into position easily, muscle memory from months of being filmed. But something’s different tonight. The way Jess leans slightly into me when I place my hand at the small of her back. The way her eyes linger on mine a beat longer than necessary.
“You know,” I say quietly, our faces close enough that the microphones won’t catch it, “tomorrow’s going to be intense.”
“I know.” Her expression is a mix of determination and regret. “The story has to run, Lucas.”
“I understand.” And surprisingly, I do. “You’re doing the right thing.”
Surprise flickers in her eyes. “You think so?”
“Truth matters,” I tell her simply. “Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it hurts.”
Something shifts in her expression, a softening that makes my heart race. Before she can respond, Dylan calls out, “Perfect! That chemistry is exactly what I’m looking for. Could you two move toward the fountain?”
As we follow his direction, I lean close to her ear. “After the interview tomorrow, would you stay for dinner?”
She looks up at me, searching my face. “Dinner?”
“Just to talk. About us. About what happens next.”
She hesitates, and for a moment, I fear that I’ve pushed too far, too fast. But then she nods, and a small smile plays at her lips. “I’d like that.”
Hope blooms in my chest, fragile but real. Before I can say more, a campaign aide appears at my elbow.
“Mr. Carmichael, your father is requesting all family members for a portrait by the main staircase.”
“We’ll be right there.”
The aide glances at Jess and then back at me. “Family only, sir.”
Something protective and defiant rises in me. “Jess is my wife. She is family.”
Jess touches my arm lightly. “Lucas, it’s ok. Go ahead.”
