Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
DK
“When it comes to the North Pier project, I think the better play is hitting back with the fact that this save-the-shores idealism isn’t rooted in real numbers,” Diablo says, pacing the length of my office. “She doesn’t understand the scale needed for growth.”
“I’m telling you, Gabriel, if you keep trying to frame Rayne as an emotional activist, it’s not going to land,” I state flatly, bringing him back to reality. “She’s already proven she understands the numbers. She ran them frontwards, backwards, and sideways in yesterday’s Harbor Herald interview.”
Diablo scoffs. He’s always been more comfortable on offense. “I’ve handled multimillion-dollar capital portfolios. Rayne managed a tourism budget.”
“And you should lean into your executive experience,” I say. “That angle worked when you secured the Chamber of Commerce endorsement. But dismissing her as passionate without substance is a losing move. The voters who like Rayne hear that as criticism of their judgment. You risk alienating them.”
“So I’m not supposed to call out her inexperience?”
“Call out the experience gap, just don’t conflate it with incompetence.” Luna has eaten into his lead over the last two weeks, but he’s still holding the majority. “Keep the focus on your long-term vision—economic growth. Don’t attack Rayne’s intelligence. Attack the limitations of her approach.”
He nods slowly. “I appreciate that you challenge me, Dakarai, instead of just telling me what I want to hear.” He settles back into the chair across from my desk.
“I don’t think I’ve properly told you how much I value your straightforward advice and counsel.
You’re rock solid. Steady. Exactly what I need to keep me on track. ”
His praise curdles into guilt.
“I appreciate that, Gabriel,” I say, not quite meeting his eyes.
“It’s true. You make me a better candidate.”
Damn. I pride myself on integrity, but I’m lying to him every single day. Not about the work. Never that. I coach him to sharpen his message and strengthen weak points. Every strategy I give him is honest. Every recommendation is my best professional advice.
But I’m still withholding the one truth that would change everything.
Diablo thinks I’m steady. He has no idea that lately I feel like a man pulled apart at the seams. Trying to do right by my candidate, while I’m missing Luna more with each passing day.
Not casually. Not in some manageable, background-noise kind of way.
I miss her with the physical ache of withdrawal.
I miss the soft weight of her draped over me in sleep.
The way she curls into my chest like she’s claimed that space beneath my collarbone.
I miss hearing her laugh in the same room.
I miss the scent of flowers on her neck.
I miss the feel of her mouth moving sensually against mine.
Going from waking up wrapped around Luna to waking to an empty bed every morning feels like a daily cold plunge.
Nine days.
Nine days since I’ve touched her.
Nine fucking days since the Bayside Truth Watch launched a smear campaign against her.
I made sure nobody on my team touched any of it as ammunition.
We still don’t have definitive proof of who’s behind the page, and any connection to our campaign could blow back on Diablo.
That’s the line I hold onto—the razor-thin line that lets me stay loyal to my candidate without betraying my woman.
Luna and I agreed to a temporary lockdown. No secret meetups in Bayside. No slipping away in the wee hours because we’re desperate to share the same space.
The posts from Bayside Truth Watch are mutating.
They started as generic accusations about Luna’s public image being fake.
Now the tone is getting increasingly personal.
Suggestive. It’s becoming clear that whoever is running it is less interested in attacking her politics than dismantling her character.
One post from last night read: PSA: Rayne Webber’s wholesome community image is nothing but smart branding.
Another followed this morning: Beware of people who build campaigns on transparency while hiding who they really are behind closed doors. Rayne Webber, we see you.
The followers, shares, and comments are growing. Not massively, but enough. This is Bayside. Drop a pebble into a small pond, and the ripples travel fast.
I hate it.
I hate the insinuations.
I hate the insidiousness.
I hate standing down.
Luna drew the boundary: be my man, not my strategist.
So I stay informed without intervening. Anika’s on it. But the deeper she digs, the more calculated the whole thing feels. Whoever built the backend buried it beneath layers of encryption and proxy servers sophisticated enough to frustrate tracing attempts.
Hollis.
That’s who keeps circling.
Luna was reluctant to name him at first without hard evidence. His IT background isn’t proof on its own. But the tone is deliberate. Vindictive. Timed ahead of the first debate. And getting bolder by the hour.
The itch beneath my skin has become a constant siege on my nervous system.
It keeps me awake long after my calls with Luna end, watching the threads spread across my screen, fighting every urge to break our own rules and show up at her door just to hold her.
Instead, I’m confined to words of comfort through a damn phone.
Being forced to stand still while someone tries to chip away at Luna’s sense of safety stirs something violent in me. Something primitive I’m forced to keep tightly leashed.
Mo feels the same. Her dad and I have been talking, forming a coalition that Luna might not appreciate.
“Dakarai?”
Diablo’s voice cuts through. The way he’s looking at me says my head’s been gone from the room longer than I thought.
“My apologies.” I straighten in my chair, dragging my focus back into place and slipping into that steady image he values, despite the pressure tightening around my chest.
“Let’s run through the closing statements again,” I say, “so you’re sharp and ready for tomorrow.”
Grand Harbor Lights, affectionately known as simply the Grand, is a Spanish Revival theater.
Today, it’s a political battleground.
Diablo stands in front of the vanity mirror of his assigned dressing room, adjusting his cuffs.
This is his arena. He’s a podium politician, infinitely more comfortable beneath stage lights than trudging through diners or knocking on doors.
Give him a camera, an audience, and a microphone, and he can sell a message.
But debates are duets. Tonight, he won’t be alone on that stage. He’ll be sharing it with Luna.
For all of his dismissive posturing, he knows she’s a formidable opponent. While he projects authority and institutional experience, Luna possesses something rarer—something that can’t be taught—the ability to make a crowded theater feel like a private conversation across a kitchen table.
A short rap sounds at the door before a voice crackles over the intercom: “Ten minutes to air. Candidates to the wings, please.”
Adrenaline surges through my bloodstream. Not for the debate, but for the sheer fact that I’m about to see Luna in-person after a ten-day drought.
Diablo turns away from the mirror, fastening the single button of his tailored suit jacket. “Let’s do this.” He flashes a camera-ready smile.
I follow him into the narrow backstage corridor. The Grand’s underbelly is a maze of exposed brick, hanging sandbags, and coiled cables. The air hums with the energy of a local TV crew trying to ensure the live broadcast goes off without a hitch.
We stop just inside the stage-left wing.
Through the small gap in the heavy crimson curtains, two identical wooden podiums stand ten feet apart.
The four-hundred-seat auditorium is split down the center aisle like a fault line.
Our supporters fill the left side, sporting coordinated green pins, waving Progress with Purpose signs.
Luna’s supporters dominate the right in shades of soft blue.
Their placards read: Make It Rayne. Vote Sustainability.
At a small table directly in front of the stage, the moderator performs a final mic check. Carmen Morales is a respected figure in local journalism. She’s a sharp, straight-shooting, non- partisan, who both sides agreed could play an impartial referee.
Diablo and I exchange a few words about turnout when the crisp click of heels echoes down the corridor behind me. My pulse kicks so hard I can feel it in my throat. I turn my head. And there she is.
Her suit is midnight-blue. Structured shoulders. Tapered waist. Wide-leg trousers that move like liquid when she walks. Her curls are pinned back on one side, gold hoops glinting against her skin. The opal pendant rests perfectly between her collarbones.
And her face—
Berry-painted lips and soft, rounded cheeks flushed with that warrior glow she carries into battle. It takes every ounce of self-control to stand here and pretend she’s merely the opposing candidate.
Anika marches beside her, tablet in hand, all sharp efficiency. She’s speaking rapidly, likely running through last-minute rebuttals, but the moment Luna’s gaze lifts, it bypasses Diablo and lands directly on me.
The backstage noise dissolves into static. Heat crawls under my shirt collar.
I see the exact second her breath catches because mine does too.
Her expression remains composed for the benefit of everyone around us, but I know her face too well not to pick up on the micro shifts. The softness that touches her mouth, the warmth flickering through her eyes before she locks it down with ruthless discipline.
“Gabriel. Dakarai,” she greets, balancing herself on a tight professional wire.
I force myself to meet her there. “Hello, Rayne. Anika.”
Anika acknowledges Diablo, then directs her gaze at me. There’s no visible disapproval in her expression. She’s accepted Luna’s choice. But her stiff posture radiates vigilance. It’s a silent warning for me not to fuck up.
“Ladies,” Diablo says, but he’s looking at his opponent. “Rayne, welcome to your first debate. Nervous?”
“Not at all, Gabriel. I’m gassed and ready.”
I love her fire. Fortunately, Diablo is too wrapped in his own confidence to notice the pride on my face.
Before he can respond to her, the stage manager gestures them toward the stage. “We’re live in sixty seconds. Candidates, walk now, please.”
I don’t get to wish her good luck. Not here. But I did this morning. Over the phone. It’s all we have in the in-between.
Diablo squares his shoulders and steps out first, his leather oxfords striking the polished wood as the audience on the left erupts into applause and cheers.
Luna inhales once and smooths the front of her blazer before following him into the brutal white blaze of spotlights.
She waves, and the right side answers with a thunderous grass-roots ovation, their placards high in the air.
Anika steps into the shadows on her side, and I retreat deeper into mine. I pull out my phone to monitor the rapid-response feed, but my gaze keeps drifting toward the slit in the curtain where I can see Luna on the stage.
Across the distance, Anika catches my eye. We exchange the briefest nod, then resume our positions like rival coaches backing opposing teams—
Except I’m rooting for hers, too.