Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rayne
As soon as my segment ends, the adrenaline in my veins hums louder.
That was intense.
My mouth was so dry I thought my lips might stick together.
Even the nerves I felt before going on air were nothing compared to the wave that hit under those hot studio lights.
But I remembered what DK said about being myself, and Anika’s advice to talk directly to the viewers.
Both helped. For fifteen minutes, I answered questions and laid out why I should be mayor—broadcast to thirty-eight thousand potential voters.
The more I spoke about the issues and shared my personal stories, the more the nerves eased.
But now my bladder’s on fire from the buildup of stress. When an assistant relieves me of the mic, her movements quick and efficient, I make a dash to the restroom.
On my way out, I pass DK and Diablo huddled inside the greenroom. DK glances up, and the glint in his eyes says what he can’t in words. I recognize both the support and the heat—
You nailed it.
I want you.
I pucker my lips in an air kiss, letting him know how much I appreciate his support… and how badly I want him, too. Then I meet the car that Anika arranged to take me back to the campaign office and catch Diablo’s interview.
Just two weeks ago, this was a storefront for lease on the boardwalk.
I pause on the sidewalk to take in the embossed glass: Elect Rayne Webber for Mayor.
My ten-year-old self, who dreamed of being president someday, would be so proud.
The inside still smells like fresh paint, and the space is a skeletal version of my vision, but it’s alive with my campaign colors: reliable navy, trustworthy light blue, and the fresh simplicity of white.
Four folding tables line the back wall, draped in Make It Rayne banners.
Three volunteers are on the phones, their voices a low buzz as they read from the voter script taped to the wall.
I wave to them, and they wave back. Corrugated plastic yard signs sit in a corner.
A giant map of Bayside is tacked to a corkboard with yellow pushpins marking the neighborhoods we start canvassing next week.
A mounted TV is tuned to The Bayside Brief, the news wrapping up before Diablo’s segment.
“Hey, queen,” Anika greets me with an exaggerated curtsy, because she’s ridiculous and extra like that, which is why I love her.
“You are blowing up. There are already ten thousand views on your clip, and thousands more who watched your interview live. Did you see #DiabloDisrupted is trending? You knocked that man off his throne.”
I usually avoid social media. It can be too much.
Comments picking apart my body, my skin, my clothes, my smile—or lack of one.
Criticism about my campaign is fair game.
The rest of it can go. Even the positive comments come with pressure.
Likes, shares, views. Expectations to keep the numbers climbing.
I’d rather focus on my messaging and let Anika handle the internet.
“We’ll see,” I say, knowing how fleeting popularity is. “Diablo’s a good politician, and he’s got the advantage of the last word.”
“Social media never sleeps,” she says, turning up the volume. “There’s no such thing as the last word. Now stop being a downer and let’s watch this man squirm.”
I study Diablo on the screen with an analytical eye. Navy suit, no tie—going for that man-of-the-people look. His responses are tighter than usual. Still policy-driven, but there’s more care behind his words.
He doesn’t use my name, not giving me any extra airtime. Instead, I’m referred to as “my opponent,” the one who misspoke about his waterfront plans.
“Adjusting your approach when new information comes in and listening to your constituents is not waffling, it’s good leadership,” he tells Kane. “My opponent, suggesting that her plans have never wavered, speaks to a lack of flexibility. That should concern voters.”
“Oooh, nice try with that hit.” Anika feigns ducking a blow. “But nowhere near a TKO.”
When Kane grills him on childcare, Diablo doesn’t get defensive. He takes ownership, offers a solution, then moves on.
Smart. Effective. DK’s coaching.
“Diablo did a good job,” I say when it’s over.
“I’d give him a solid eight,” Anika replies as if she’s being generous. “Yours was a ten.”
I think we were more evenly matched, but it still feels satisfying to have held my own against a strong candidate.
The rest of the afternoon blurs into constant motion. Donations spike. Volunteer applications roll in. Anika drafts response posts using clips from the interview. My phone buzzes nonstop with personal messages and campaign business.
Best of all, Women Rising offers their endorsement ahead of the scheduled brunch.
Like… what?
Anika and I slap palms. We understand what a major coup that is.
When I make it over to the tourism office, the staff greets me with cheers.
“Madam Mayor!” Natalia calls out.
I grin, waving her down, not letting the title get too comfortable until I’ve earned it.
My dad had sent a bouquet of flowers with a congratulatory note.
I call to thank him, then hole up in my office with Symone to go over the transition plan.
She’s ready to assume the interim director role next week.
By the time we wrap up, the sky outside the window has turned that soft gold that means the workday is over—unless you’re juggling two jobs.
I stay until eight, then head home, thinking about kicking off these shoes that are pinching my toes, pouring a generous glass of wine, reheating last night’s pasta, and doing absolutely nothing but catch up on RHOA until DK calls.
When I reach my front steps, I find a wooden box leaning against the door. I tuck it under my arm and carry it inside. Curious, I slide open the lid.
A bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
Of course I know the champagne’s from DK. It’s the one I told him I loved for the apple and pear notes, and the history behind it. Madame Clicquot, one of the first businesswomen in France, pioneered the clarification process still used today.
He didn’t just listen to me gush—he remembered because it mattered to me. And that means more than the gift itself.
I tap out a message:
Me: Thanks for the champagne, boo. Very sweet and thoughtful. I’ll save it for us to open on the night of my win.
The bubbles appear.
DK: And if I win? Do I still get a glass?
Me: Not a chance. I’m a sore loser. Get your own champagne.
DK:
DK: Tonight at 10:00?
Me: Always.
I smile as I place the bottle in the fridge, already looking forward to his call.
Something stirs in my chest, brushing up against feelings I’m not ready to name. I’ve rushed into love before—fell too fast without knowing if they’d be there to catch me. I have the bruises to prove they weren’t.
But I don’t think DK’s like that.
And that makes it harder and harder to heed the speed bumps.