Chapter 40
forty
. . .
Lucas
I’ve never been so aware 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 handshake that’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. My bracelet. 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.
“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.”
“No.” I cover her hand with mine. “If they want a family photo, you’re in it.” I turn to the aide. “Tell my father we will be there momentarily.”
As the aide walks away, Jess looks at me with a mixture of surprise and something deeper. “Are you sure? Your father won’t be pleased.”
“I’m not concerned with what pleases him.” I hold her gaze steadily. “I care what pleases me. And having my wife by my side pleases me very much.”
Her eyes widen slightly at the conviction in my voice. “Lucas…”
“Come on,” I say, offering my hand. “Let’s go crash a family portrait.”
She takes my hand, and as her fingers interlace with mine, the simple contact sends warmth spreading through me. “Lead the way.”
Hand in hand, we cross toward the staircase, where my family is gathering. My father’s expression tightens when he sees Jess with me, but my mother makes a point of shifting to make space for us right beside her.
As the photographer arranges us, I lean close to Jess. “Thank you for coming tonight. For being here as my wife.”
“I had to make a choice,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper. “Tonight, I chose us.”
The simple words send hope soaring through me. “I choose us, too,” I tell her. “Tonight, tomorrow, for as long as you’ll have me.”
Her eyes widen slightly, but before she can respond, the photographer calls for our attention. “Everyone, smile please!”
Jess and I turn to face the camera, smiling not because we’re told to, but because, for the first time in weeks, there’s something real to smile about. As flashbulbs pop, I feel her fingers intertwine with mine, a silent promise for tomorrow.
Tomorrow, everything will change: my father’s reputation, the Carmichael name. But with Jess’s hand in mine and the promise of dinner tomorrow night, I find myself looking forward to it.