CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sasha
THE CAMERAS START flashing immediately—apparently, this event is newsworthy enough to attract the press. I blink against the bright lights, instinctively moving closer to Marco.
"Smile," he murmurs, his lips close to my ear. "They're watching."
I don't know if he means the photographers or someone more sinister, but I force my lips into what I hope is a convincing smile. Marco's arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side as we walk toward the entrance. The gesture is possessive, unmistakable. I'm his, at least for tonight.
Inside, the mansion is even more extravagant than I imagined—crystal chandeliers, marble floors, flower arrangements taller than me; people in evening wear mill about, champagne glasses in hand, jewels glittering under the lights. I've never felt more out of place in my life.
"Mr. Walsh," a woman approaches, her smile professional but warm. "So glad you could make it."
Marco nods, his public persona smooth and charming. "Wouldn't miss it, Mrs. Brennan. You've outdone yourself this year."
She beams at the compliment, then turns her attention to me. "And who is your lovely companion?"
"Sasha Gillespie," Marco introduces me, his arm still firmly around my waist. "Sasha, this is Eleanor Brennan, the chairwoman of the foundation."
I smile, trying to channel what little social grace I possess. "It's a pleasure to meet you. The venue is stunning."
Mrs. Brennan practically glows. "Thank you, dear. It's all for the children, of course. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must greet the other guests. Your table is near the front, Mr. Walsh."
As she moves away, Marco guides me deeper into the room. I notice several of his men stationed around the perimeter, their attentive gazes sweeping the crowd. Tony is already at our table, as promised.
"Everything secure?" Marco asks him in a low voice.
Tony nods. "All set."
I want to ask what exactly is "all set," but I remember my promise not to ask questions. Instead, I take the champagne flute a waiter offers me, grateful for something to do with my hands.
"Don't drink too much," Marco warns softly. "I need you sharp tonight."
I raise an eyebrow. "I thought I was just arm candy."
His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes hardens. "Just be careful."
Before I can respond, a distinguished-looking older man approaches our table. His silver hair is perfectly styled, his tuxedo impeccable. From the way Marco tenses beside me, I knowthis must be the politician he mentioned.
"Mr. Walsh," the man says, his voice carrying the polished cadence of someone used to public speaking. "I wasn't expecting to see you here tonight."
Marco stands, offering his hand. "Senator O'Neill. It's been too long."
The senator shakes his hand briefly, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Indeed. And who is this charming young woman?"
Marco introduces me, his tone casual, but I can feel the tension radiating from him. "Sasha, this is Senator Patrick O'Neill."
"A pleasure, my dear," the senator says, taking my hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. The gesture feels outdated, performative. "I don't believe I've seen you at one of these events before."
"It's my first time," I admit.
"Well, you couldn't ask for a better escort than Mr. Walsh here," he says, though his tone suggests the opposite. "His family has been…influential in our community for generations."
The way he emphasizes "influential" makes it clear he knows exactly what kind of influence the Walsh family wields. This isn't just political tension—it's personal.
"Senator," Marco cuts in smoothly, "perhaps we could speak privately later? I have a matter I'd like to discuss with you."
Senator O'Neill's smile tightens. "I'm afraid my schedule is quite full tonight, Mr. Walsh. But my office would be happy to arrange a meeting next week."
"I insist," Marco says, his voice pleasant but with an unmistakable edge. "It won't take long."
The senator hesitates, then nods stiffly. "Very well. After the speeches, perhaps. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must greet the other benefactors."
As he walks away, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "So that's him? The one you need to have a 'conversation' with?"
Marco takes a sip of his champagne, his eyes never leaving the senator's retreating back. "Yes."
"What did he do to piss you off so much?"
He glances at me, his expression unreadable. "I told you, the less you know—"
"The safer I am. Right." I sigh, setting down my untouched champagne. "But he clearly knows who you are, and he's not thrilled about it."
"The senator and my family have a…complicated history," Marco concedes. "Let's leave it at that."
The evening progresses with all the expected elements of a high-society charity gala—dinner, speeches, a live auction. I eat little, drink less, and try to appear interested in the proceedings while keeping a watchful eye on Marco. He's tense, coiled like a spring ready to snap, though I doubt anyone else would notice. His public face is flawless—smiling at the right moments, applauding graciously, making small talk with the people at our table. But I can feel the barely contained energy beneath the surface.
After the auction, people begin to mingle again. Marco leans in close, his lips brushing my ear. "I need to speak with the senator now. Stay by Tony's side."
I nod, watching as he rises and makes his way through the crowd toward Senator O'Neill, who is deep in conversation with an elegant older woman. Marco touches the senator's elbow, saying something I can't hear. The senator excuses himself from the woman and follows Marco toward a side door.
Tony moves to the seat Marco vacated, his eyes constantly scanning the room. "Alright there, Miss Gillespie?"
"Fine," I say, though my nerves are suddenly on edge. "Where are they going?"
"Just to talk," Tony says, but there's something in his tone that makes me doubt his words.
Minutes tick by, feeling like hours. The conversation around me blurs into background noise as I focus on that side door, waiting for Marco to reappear. When he finally does, fifteen minutes later, his expression gives nothing away. The senator follows moments after, looking considerably paler than before, but otherwise unharmed.
Marco returns to our table, smoothly reclaiming his seat beside me. "Ready to go?" he asks, as if nothing unusual has happened.
I search his face for any clue about what transpired, but it's like trying to read a blank page. "That's it? We're just leaving?"
"We've made our appearance," he says, rising and offering me his hand. "There's no need to stay longer."
As we make our way toward the exit, I notice Senator O'Neill watching us from across the room. The look on his face isn't fear, exactly, but something close to it. Whatever Marco said to him, it made an impact.
Outside, the night air is cool against my skin after the warmth of the ballroom. Marco's driver already has the car waiting.
"That went well," Marco says once we're inside, the privacy screen raised between us and the driver.
I turn to face him, unable to contain my curiosity any longer. "What did you say to him?"
Marco gazes out the window, his profile sharp in the dim light. "I told you—"
"The less I know, the safer I am," I finish for him, frustration coloring my tone. "But it's over now. The 'conversation' happened. What was this all about?"
He's been quiet for so long; I think he might not answer. Then he sighs, turning to look at me directly.
"Senator O'Neill is pushing legislation that would significantly restrict private gun ownership in Ireland," he explains, his voice neutral. "Such legislation would directly impact certain aspects of my family's business interests."
"So you threatened him," I say, not a question.
"I persuaded him to reconsider his position," Marco corrects.
I shake my head, both disturbed and oddly relieved. At least no one was hurt. "And that's it? That's all you needed me for? To be your cover while you intimidated a politician?"
Something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or something darker. "You played your part perfectly."
"Great," I say, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice. "Glad to be of service."
We fall into silence as the car winds its way back toward Marco's estate. I stare out the window, watching the city lights blur past, feeling both relieved that the night is over and unsettled by how easily Marco moves through this world of power and intimidation.
"You were beautiful tonight," he says suddenly, his voice low in the darkness.
I turn to find him watching me, his expression more open than I've seen it all evening. The compliment catches me off guard, warming my cheeks despite myself.
"Thank you," I say, uncertain how to respond. "For the dress, and…everything."
He nods, and for a moment, I glimpse something almost vulnerable in his eyes. Then it's gone, replaced by his usual guarded expression.
"One day down," he says. "One to go."
One day closer to getting Lily. One day closer to freedom—if Marco keeps his word. But as we drive through the night in companionable silence, I can't ignore the unwelcome thought that maybe, just maybe, a part of me isn't in a hurry to leave after all.