Chapter 19 Alina
ALINA
Itie off another gold balloon, my fingers aching from the countless others I've already done. The campaign office is transformed—streamers drape from every surface, balloons bob gently in the air conditioning, and a nervous energy runs through me as we finish the last-minute details.
"Is this centered?" Sarah asks, holding up a "Happy Birthday Marco" banner.
"A little higher on the left," I say, checking my watch. He'll be arriving soon.
The office is packed with a strategic mix of guests.
Local reporters drink coffee and thumb through their notebooks.
IG and TikTok influencers adjust their ring lights, prepping for the perfect shot.
I fought hard for their invitations. Young voters scroll through social media, not newspapers, and young votes can swing an election.
I breathe in deeply, savoring the scent of fresh-baked cakes mingling with the crisp smell of new campaign posters, all wrapped up in that subtle latex balloon smell. Heck, there are enough of them in here to kill someone.
My phone buzzes. A text from Gio:
Five minutes out.
My heart leaps into my throat. "Places, everyone!" I call out, my campaign manager voice cutting through the noise. "Phones ready, but remember, no flash photography until after the surprise."
I adjust my blazer and give myself one last look in the mirror. A local influencer catches my eye and waves. I wave back, already imagining the Instagram stories: Senator Candidate's Fiancée Throws Surprise Party - #RelationshipGoals #ChicagoPolitics.
"He's coming!" someone hisses from near the door.
"Lights!" I command.
The office plunges into darkness, and a hush falls over the crowd. I hold my breath, straining to hear Marco's footsteps in the hallway. In the darkness, I can almost pretend this is real—that I'm surprising a man I genuinely care for.
The door handle turns, and I push those dangerous thoughts aside.
But as the door swings open and Marco's silhouette appears, backlit by the hallway lights, I can't quite squash the little flutter in my chest. Damn him and his stupidly perfect jawline.
"SURPRISE!" I yell with the others as the room erupts into cheers and popping party favors as the lights flick on and music starts playing.
Marco's face is a picture of genuine shock for a split second before that trained smile slides into place—all warmth and charm as he laughs and waves to the crowd.
Our eyes lock across the room, and he mouths a silent, "You?" at me. I can't help but smile at the question, feeling a rush of something. Pride? Affection? I don't know; it just feels good.
I watch as Marco makes his way through the crowd, shaking hands and exchanging hugs. I just can't seem to tear my eyes away from him. He moves with an easy grace, his smile lighting up the room.
"Senator Bonventi, what's your stance on education reform?" a young reporter asks, notepad at the ready.
Marco's eyes light up. "I'm glad you asked," he says, launching into our carefully crafted response about increased funding and innovative teaching methods. I give him a subtle thumbs-up as he nails every talking point.
The questions keep coming, each one softer than the last. It's exactly what we wanted—a chance for Marco to shine without any real pressure. I sip my champagne, savoring the bubbles on my tongue and the sweet taste of success.
Marco's response is smooth as silk, emphasizing accessibility and affordability. I feel a warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with the champagne. This is what I live for—the thrill of a perfectly executed political strategy.
As I watch him, I can't help but admire the way his suit hugs his broad shoulders, the way his eyes crinkle slightly when he smiles. I shake my head, trying to clear those thoughts.
"Thank you, thank you. Now I have one question," Marco says, his voice carrying across the room. "Where's my beautiful fiancée? I think it's time we thanked her for this amazing surprise."
My heart leaps into my throat, and I almost choke on my champagne as all eyes turn to me. Marco's gaze finds mine, and he extends his hand, beckoning me over. My legs move of their own accord, carrying me through the crowd.
As I reach him, Marco's arm snakes around my waist, pulling me close. Before I can react, his lips are on mine. The kiss is deep, passionate, nothing like the pecks we've shared for the cameras before. It's like being struck by lightning, every nerve in my body coming alive at once.
The crowd cheers and whistles, but I barely hear them.
All I can focus on is the heat of Marco's body against mine, the taste of him on my lips.
It's intoxicating, overwhelming, and suddenly I'm aware of my hands in his hair and his hands venturing below my waist. We're clearly caught up in the moment, maybe a little too much.
"Guys, are you seeing this? One of these days, I better have me a man that kisses me like that," an influencer says through her ring light into her camera phone.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless, my head spinning.
"Alina's brilliance has transformed this campaign," Marco says, his voice carrying that hint of pride that makes my chest tight. "Her strategic mind is unparalleled, but more importantly, she reminds me every day why we're fighting for Chicago's future."
There are some cheers, and Marco nods his head.
"Yes, that's right. And, of course, thank you for this amazing surprise. It's just wonderful, honey."
There's more cheering, and Marco leans in and pecks me on the lips again. "Thanks, Firefly."
When he pulls back, I finally feel my skin burning everywhere he touched.
God help me, I'm in trouble.
My cheeks hurt from smiling as another reporter asks about Marco's infrastructure plans. The party is going perfectly well, and suddenly, I hear someone call my name.
"Ms. Carter," a voice cuts through the crowd. "I have a question for you."
The room goes quiet as I plaster on my most professional smile, but my heart rate kicks up a notch.
"Of course," I say smoothly. "And you are?"
A man I don't recognize steps forward. His pressed suit and polished shoes tell me there's something off about him. His eyes are too keen, his smile too sharp.
"John Doe, Independent Press," he says, and alarm bells start ringing in my head.
Obviously not your real name.
"Ms. Carter, how do you sleep at night knowing you silenced those women in the Governor Harrison case?"
The room goes eerily quiet, and I stare at the man, noticing his press badge is missing. His eyes are cold, predatory.
How the hell did he get in?
"I'm sorry?" I keep my voice steady, professional, even as my stomach knots, trying to buy time.
"I said, how do you—"
"I don't—" My voice cracks. I clear my throat, trying to maintain composure while my world threatens to crumble. Again. "I think there's been a misunderstanding—"
"Is it true you personally threatened one of the victims?" He presses forward, voice rising. "That you told her no one would believe her over the governor?"
My hands start to shake. I can hear the soft beeps of recording devices starting, see the hungry looks in the influencers' eyes as they angle for the perfect shot of my downfall.
Marco pulls me back as he steps forward, coming between me and the man.
"That's quite enough," Marco's voice cuts through the haze, sharp and authoritative. "I'd be careful if I were you about making unfounded claims and accusations, Mr. Doe."
The man tries to speak again, but Marco silences him.
"This is a birthday celebration, not a witch hunt. If you have legitimate questions, you can direct them to our press office during normal business hours."
The man won't let up, and I see Marco step forward as Gio quickly approaches. They exchange words, but my chest is so tight, and I can't breathe. It feels like I'm underwater, everything muffled and distorted. I can't make out anything anyone is saying.
Gio appears out of nowhere, and his solid frame forcibly ushers the man away as the crowd cheers.
Marco turns to me. "Alina," he says low and urgent in my ear. "Breathe. You're okay. We've got this." He takes my hand and walks me to the corner of the room.
"Get music playing now," he says, and the speakers pump out dance mixes as people slowly start chatting and dancing again.
"Here, drink this," he says, opening a water bottle and handing it to me.
I take a few sips as Marco rubs my arm. "Are you okay?" he asks.
"Yes, I just wasn't expecting that."
Marco shakes his head. "Yeah, he's an asshole. Didn't even have press credentials. I think he snuck in."
"Snuck in?" I ask, pausing before taking another sip of water. "Why?"
He shrugs his shoulders. "I'll find out, but fuck him. Are you sure you're okay?"
"You don't have to pretend when the cameras aren't on us, you know," I say.
I can see a bit of frustration flash in his eyes. "I'm not pretending."
"Not pretending? The kiss? What was that?" I ask, surprising even myself. It must be the adrenaline coursing through me from that reporter's question.
Marco gets flustered again, and he clenches his hands into fists. I notice he does that from time to time.
"The kiss was—"
"You guys need to see this," Sarah says, running over with her phone open.
Sarah holds her phone between Marco and me, and I lean in close, my heart still racing from our interrupted conversation about that kiss.
"Holy shit," I whisper as I watch the video play.
"Look at the comments," Sarah says, her voice breathless with excitement. I take her phone and scroll through the comments, Marco close to me, looking at the phone.
"OMG, did you see how he defended her? That's husband material right there."
"Protect your woman like Marco protects his! "
"Marco Bonventi is the hero we didn't know we needed."
"Alina Carter is so lucky. I'd kill for a man like that."
"This is the kind of leadership we need in the Senate. Someone who stands up for what's right."
"The way he looks at her though... I'm dying! #CoupleGoals"
Marco's hand finds the small of my back as he leans in closer to read, his breath warm against my neck. The touch sends electricity through me, and I have to force myself to focus on the phone screen.
"It's going viral," Sarah says excitedly. "Look at these numbers!"
The video's view count is climbing by the thousands. Each refresh brings a flood of new notifications, hearts, and shares. Young voters are particularly vocal, praising Marco's protective instincts and condemning the reporter's tactics.
Marco's brooding, protective act has turned him into a modern-day knight in shining armor, and I'm the damsel he's saving.
"This is..." I trail off, watching another surge of notifications pop up.
"Perfect," Marco finishes, his voice low and intimate near my ear. "Sometimes the best moments aren't planned, Firefly."
I turn to look at him, and for a moment, I can't see anything except the intensity in his dark eyes. The way he's looking at me makes me weak.
"The young demographic is eating this up," Sarah continues, oblivious to the tension between us. "Your approval ratings with voters under thirty just shot up by double digits."
I force myself to look back at the phone, trying to ignore how Marco's thumb is now gently running along my lower back where his hand still remains.
More comments flood in:
"A real man stands up for his woman! Marco Bonventi for Senate! "
"The way she looked at him after though That's not fake!"
That last comment makes my cheeks burn because they're right—it wasn't fake. None of this is anymore, and that terrifies me more than any reporter's questions.
"Should I have our team boost this?" Sarah asks.
I nod, finding my professional voice again. "Yes, but let's wait. Let it spread organically first. We don't want it looking manufactured."
"Got it, boss." Sarah hurries off, already typing on her phone.
I turn back to face Marco, ready to maybe admit something I know might be reckless.
"Marco..." I start, but I don't know how to finish that sentence.
His phone buzzes, breaking the moment. He checks it, and his expression darkens slightly. "I'll be back."
His face softens, and he reaches up to brush a strand of hair from my face. "Enjoy the party, Firefly. I'll come find you soon."
I smile, and he walks away. As the party continues, I'm trapped in the moment, caught between terror and exhilaration as I realize I'm falling for a man I promised myself I'd never truly want.