nineteen #2
It wasn't working.
Because across the room—half hidden by a column of white orchids—I finally spotted him.
Brooks stood near the center of a small knot of men and women, every line of him immaculate in his black tuxedo. His bowtie was perfectly straight. His hair combed back with just enough softness to keep it from looking severe.
Even from this far, I could see it: how easily he slipped into this role.
The measured smile. The careful tilt of his head when someone spoke. The effortless way he accepted a handshake or laid a steady palm on someone's shoulder.
He looked like he'd been born here, in rooms like this.
He looked like he belonged.
And God help me, it made something twist low in my stomach—something that felt a little too much like wanting.
The bartender set the glass in front of me with a quiet clink.
I murmured my thanks and wrapped my hands around it, needing something cool to ground me.
I took a slow sip and forced myself to look away.
But even when I turned my gaze to the nearest arrangement of orchids, I felt it—that pull.
The quiet gravity that only he ever seemed to have.
I traced the rim of my glass with one fingertip, the condensation slick under my touch. A soft murmur rippled through the room, swelling into polite applause as the lights near the stage brightened.
I looked up—because I couldn't not look—and there he was.
Brooks stepped up onto the low platform, a discreet mic clipped to the lapel of his jacket. Someone passed him a sheet of paper he didn't bother to glance at. He stood there for a moment, gaze sweeping the crowd, calm as if he were alone in a room.
The hush settled deep, expectant.
I felt it in my chest—the quiet certainty that this was what he was built for.
When he spoke, his voice carried without strain: warm, measured, perfectly sure.
"Good evening."
A polite murmur in return. A sea of faces tilted toward him, waiting to be impressed.
He paused just long enough to let the silence stretch—commanding it the way he did everything else.
"Thank you all for being here tonight, and for the generosity you've shown this campaign."
I let my eyes drift over the crowd. Men in pressed tuxedos, women with diamonds winking at their wrists, heads nodding along in solemn approval.
And then I looked back at him.
His gaze moved easily from one table to the next, but every so often, it slipped past them—searching.
For me.
I didn't let myself smile, but my heart did something reckless anyway.
He spoke about infrastructure. Education. About a state that deserved better than half-measures and hollow promises.
It was the kind of speech that could have sounded like theater. But coming from him, it didn't.
Because he believed it.
Because he made you believe it, too.
I held my glass a little tighter, the cool edge digging into my palm.
And when he lifted his chin, looking past the bright wash of the chandeliers—looking straight at me—I felt it like an electric current.
His mouth curved, just barely. So small I might have imagined it.
But I knew I hadn't.
My pulse thumped hard in my throat.
Someone near me sighed, "God, he's good," with a kind of wistful envy.
They had no idea.
He finished to a quiet crescendo of applause, dipping his head in thanks before stepping down into a small knot of waiting hands and eager faces.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
For a second, the room blurred a little at the edges.
Then I blinked, and everything came back into focus.
The applause faded. The conversations picked back up. The donors drifted in closer, all of them angling for a word, a smile, a promise.
I eased a step back, into the soft shadow near a marble column, letting the music wash over me.
I set my glass on the edge of a passing tray, my hand feeling almost too steady.
The music shifted to something elegant and unmemorable. A fresh wave of guests drifted in from the vestibule, all satin gowns and polite laughter.
I edged back toward the side of the room, feeling the need to be somewhere I could watch without being watched.
That's when I saw her.
Brooks's mother.
The First Lady.
She stood beneath a massive chandelier, pale light catching the silver sheen of her gown. Even from a distance, she looked...impossibly composed. Like she'd been carved out of something that didn't bend.
Her expression wasn't unfriendly. Just unreadable.
People came up to her in pairs and small clusters—wealthy men in dark suits, women in tasteful neutrals. They spoke with a kind of hushed reverence, like they were afraid to say the wrong thing. She nodded in that serene, distant way that told me she'd perfected this a long time ago.
I couldn't help thinking that if she ever did look over here, she'd probably see right through me.
Then someone stepped into her orbit—a young woman with sleek blonde hair and a gown the color of new ivory. She moved with this confident ease, one hand brushing lightly over the First Lady's arm as she greeted her.
I didn't know her.
But I couldn't look away.
Because the First Lady—who'd been a statue all night—actually smiled.
Not a polite little tilt of the lips. A real smile that softened the elegant severity of her face.
I watched the two of them exchange a few words I couldn't hear, the blonde laughing at something the older woman said.
Whatever they were to each other, it looked...easy. Familiar in a way that made something in my chest pinch.
I dropped my gaze, pressing my fingertips to the rim of my empty glass.
It shouldn't have mattered.
They were just two people I didn't know, sharing a moment that had nothing to do with me.
But it felt like the reminder I didn't want:
I was never going to belong here.
No matter how good Brooks made it feel to pretend.
I smoothed my dress down my hip and took a breath that didn't settle anything.
Then I slipped back into the flow of the room, looking for the bar.
Just something to do with my hands. Something to keep me from thinking too hard.
I slid onto the nearest empty stool, resting my clutch in my lap like a shield. The bartender appeared almost immediately, polite and wordless as he lifted his chin in question.
"Another club soda," I said, my voice a little thinner than I wanted.
He nodded and turned away.
I let my gaze drift over the crowd. All that quiet money and careful politeness. The clink of glassware, the murmured agreements, the laughter that didn't reach anyone's eyes.
"Long night?"
The voice came from my left—low, practiced, just warm enough to sound harmless.
I turned.
A man in a navy suit was watching me over the rim of his glass, the polite smile on his face just a little too interested.
I kept my expression neutral. "It's fine."
"Fine," he repeated, with a little huff of amusement. "You look like you're afraid of something."
I didn't bother denying it.
He shifted closer on his stool, resting one elbow on the bar. "First time at one of these?"
I lifted a shoulder. "Something like that."
"They're brutal," he said, like we were co-conspirators. "Half these people wouldn't look you in the eye if you passed them on the sidewalk."
I took a sip of my drink, wishing he'd get bored.
"You here with someone?" he asked lightly.
"Just...here," I said.
"It's not so bad once you've had a drink or two." He gestured to my club soda. "Or maybe something stronger."
"I'm good," I said, turning slightly away.
"Come on." He leaned an elbow on the bar, closing the space between us. "It's just a drink."
My jaw tightened. "I said I'm fine."
But he didn't move.
He reached out, brushing the back of his fingers over my wrist—light, but possessive enough that my pulse stuttered.
"Excuse me."
Brooks's voice was calm. Smooth as ever. But something cold simmered underneath.
The man looked up, startled. "Senator—"
Brooks didn't look at him. His gaze was locked on me. Dark. Steady.
"Everything alright?" he asked softly, like there weren't a hundred people just a few feet away.
I swallowed. "I'm fine."
His hand came to rest lightly at the small of my back—just enough to make my breath catch.
The man took a small step back, clearing his throat. "I didn't realize—"
Brooks's eyes didn't waver from mine. "Is he bothering you?"
"No," I lied.
The muscle in his jaw jumped, but he didn't call me on it. He just looked at the man, the smile on his mouth not reaching his eyes.
"I think you should rejoin your table," he said evenly.
There was no argument. The man disappeared without another word.
Brooks waited until he was out of earshot before he spoke again, quieter now.
"You sure you're okay?"
I nodded. My voice was soft when it came. "I'm okay."
His thumb brushed the curve of my hip, grounding in a way I didn't expect. "Come with me."
He didn't wait for an answer.
Just turned, guiding me with a gentle pressure past the bar, toward a narrow hallway lined with tall doors.
And for the first time all night, I felt my pulse start to steady.
His hand stayed warm at the small of my back as he guided me away from the bar, the hush of our footsteps blending with the low thrum of conversation behind us.
I tried not to look over my shoulder, but the weight of all those watchful eyes pressed between my shoulder blades anyway.
When we reached the mouth of a side corridor, I hesitated. "Aren't you worried he'll...say something?"
Brooks didn't slow. He only gave a small shake of his head, his voice low enough that no one else could hear. "No."
"You don't think he'll talk?"
He glanced down at me, and for just a second, the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—something tired, wry. "He doesn't want to explain why he was the one who had to be told to leave you alone."
My breath caught, but I didn't argue.
He reached for a brass handle, pushing open a tall door tucked between two marble columns. The hush inside swallowed us whole—cool air, the faint scent of flowers drifting in from somewhere.