Chapter 25
twenty-five
. . .
Jess
The grand ballroom is already filling with guests when I arrive at the top of the staircase, taking a moment to observe the scene below, where Sacramento’s political elite mingle beneath crystal chandeliers.
There are governors, judges, tech moguls, and old-money families whose combined influence shapes the state.
I’ve covered events like this before, but I’ve never attended as someone’s wife.
I smooth down my emerald gown, feeling unexpectedly nervous.
Last night changed something between Lucas and me.
We crossed a line we’d been dancing around for weeks.
His touch was commanding, deliberate, focused entirely on my pleasure in a way that still makes my skin flush thinking about it—the touch of someone who knew exactly what he wanted and took it.
In his bed afterward, with his arms around me and his heartbeat steady against my back, I’d felt safe. Adored. Content.
I spot Lucas at the bottom of the stairs, standing tall in his perfectly fitted tuxedo, and my breath catches. He’s scanning the room, checking his watch with that slight furrow between his brows that appears when he’s concerned. Then he looks up, and our eyes meet.
His expression transforms instantly to surprise, then to appreciation, and then to something darker that reminds me of how he looked last night on his knees before me.
His gaze travels slowly up my body in a way that’s entirely inappropriate for a political fundraiser and entirely thrilling.
He moves toward the staircase without hesitation, as if drawn by an invisible thread, and I descend to meet him.
“You’re staring,” I whisper when I reach him, unable to keep the pleased smile from my lips.
“Everyone’s staring,” he replies, offering his arm. “You’re breathtaking.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. It’s not the practiced, professional response I’ve perfected for compliments, but something genuine that catches me off guard. “Not so bad yourself. I’ve always had a weakness for men in well-tailored tuxedos.”
“I’ll make a note of that.” His hand covers mine where it rests on his arm, and the simple contact sends warmth up my skin. “Ready to charm the political elite of California?”
“Of course I am,” I say, straightening my spine with determination. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s work a room. “Just point me toward the most intimidating person here, and I’ll start there.”
“That would be California Supreme Court Justice Elena Martinez. Conservative bench, liberal personal politics, suffers no fools.” He nods toward a formidable woman holding court near the bar. “She terrifies most of the men in this room.”
“Perfect,” I say with a grin. “My kind of woman.”
I spend the next hour in my element, moving through conversations with practiced ease.
I discuss constitutional protections with a legal scholar, push back thoughtfully when a tech CEO dismisses traditional media, and find common ground with Justice Martinez over our shared frustration with institutional barriers for women.
It’s the same skillset I use for interviews: listening more than speaking, asking the right questions, and finding the story beneath the surface.
But throughout it all, I’m acutely aware of Lucas and how he watches me from across the room.
The weight of his gaze is a physical sensation.
When our eyes meet over the rim of my champagne glass, heat pools low in my belly at the promise I see there.
This is a side of him I never expected: possessive.
I excuse myself to visit the ladies’ room, needing a moment to collect myself. In the elegant powder room, I’m reapplying lipstick when the door opens and Lucas slips inside. He locks it behind him.
“This is the ladies’ room,” I point out, though my heartbeat accelerates.
“I’m aware.” He moves toward me with intent, backing me against the marble counter. “You’ve been driving me crazy all night.”
“That sounds like a personal problem,” I manage, though my voice catches as his hands find my hips.
“It’s about to become a mutual problem.” His lips hover just above mine. “That dress should be illegal.”
“Then perhaps you should arrest me.” The words come out breathier than intended.
His mouth captures mine in a kiss that’s nothing like the restrained displays we’ve shown in public.
This is hungry, demanding, stealing my breath and my composure in equal measure.
My hands clutch at his lapels, pulling him closer despite the voice in my head warning about wrinkled tuxedos and smudged lipstick.
When we break apart, both breathing heavily, I’m gratified to see he looks as affected as I feel.
“We should get back,” I say, but I make no move to leave the circle of his arms.
“We should,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot just below my ear. “But later…” His kiss continues down my neck.
The promise in those two words sends anticipation spiraling through me. “Later,” I echo, gently pushing him back to straighten my dress and fix my lipstick.
He watches me with dark eyes. “You missed a spot,” he says as his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth. The casual intimacy of the gesture feels more significant than the passionate kiss we just shared.
We return to the ballroom separately, the perfect picture of propriety, though I know my cheeks are flushed and my pulse is racing. When we reconnect, his hand finds the small of my back again, which is somehow both comforting and electrifying.
I’m discussing entertainment industry tax incentives with Governor Williams when Logan Carmichael joins us, his smile practiced and his eyes calculating.
“Lucas,” he says, acknowledging his son. “Jessica, I overheard your fascinating perspective on the state’s approach to entertainment industry tax incentives.”
“Jess,” I correct him again with a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. He’s done this deliberately all weekend, a subtle power play that’s almost admirable in its pettiness.
“Of course.” He nods and then turns to address the governor. “Jess is quite knowledgeable for someone in celebrity journalism.”
The dismissal is so expertly delivered that I almost want to applaud.
Instead, I keep my voice level and my smile fixed.
“Actually, Senator, my work focuses on the business and ethics of entertainment and the economics of content creation, labor practices, and how media shapes public discourse.” I sip my champagne.
“The celebrities are just a bonus that helps pay the bills.”
The governor laughs appreciatively. “She’s got you there, Logan.”
I catch the momentary tightening of Logan’s smile. It’s the same tell Lucas has when he’s been outmaneuvered. Like father, like son in some ways, though Lucas would hate the comparison.
“Indeed. You’ve found yourself quite the match, Lucas,” Logan says, his tone making it unclear whether this is praise or accusation.
“I have,” Lucas agrees as his arm possessively slides around my waist.
The orchestra begins a waltz, and Lucas seizes the opportunity. “If you’ll excuse us, Governor, Dad, I believe they’re playing our song.”
“We have a song?” I whisper as he guides me to the dance floor.
“We do now,” he murmurs back, pulling me into his arms.
I follow his lead easily, and as our bodies sync with the rhythm, I’m struck by how naturally we move together. The memory of his touch from last night flashes through my mind, and I fight back a blush.
“Your father doesn’t approve of me,” I say, meeting his eyes directly.
“My father doesn’t approve of anyone who isn’t useful to his ambitions,” he replies. “But don’t let him fool you. He’s impressed. He just hates that he can’t control the narrative.”
“Sounds familiar,” I say with a knowing smile.
“What does that mean?”
“Just that the apple didn’t fall as far from the tree as you might think.” I soften my expression, tracing small circles on the back of his neck with my fingers. “You’re both control freaks who hate it when things don’t go according to plan.”
“I am nothing like my father,” he protests, though without heat.
“Not in the ways that matter,” I agree, “but in some of the surface stuff? The need to manage perceptions, the strategic thinking, the inability to admit when you’re wrong? Pure Logan Carmichael.”
I say it lightly, affectionately. It’s odd how quickly I’ve come to understand Lucas’s mannerisms, his tells, the subtle ways he operates. Maybe it’s the journalist in me, trained to observe and analyze, or maybe it’s because of how close we’ve become.
“If I’m so like him, why do you put up with me?” he asks, his curiosity evident in his voice.
I pretend to consider this, enjoying the slight uncertainty in his expression. “You’re much better looking,” I decide. “And you have this annoying habit of actually caring about people, not just using them.”
“High praise indeed.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I warn, unable to keep from smiling.
We dance in comfortable silence, turning slowly beneath the twinkling lights on the dance floor.
I’m hyperaware of his hand at the small of my back, his fingers laced with mine, the subtle scent of his cologne.
After last night and feeling his mouth on me, his hands exploring my body with such focused attention, every touch between us carries new weight, new memory, and I want more.
“Everyone’s watching us,” I murmur, noticing the glances directed our way.
“Let them,” he replies with surprising intensity. “They’re just jealous.”
“Of what?”
He pulls back just enough to look into my eyes. “That I get to dance with the most beautiful, brilliant woman in the room.”
I roll my eyes, but pleasure warms my chest. “Smooth, Carmichael. Very smooth.”
“I’ve been told I have my moments.”
As we continue to dance, his arms steady around me, and I find myself counting the minutes until this event ends, until we can return to our room and this dress can join last night’s clothes on the floor.
Below that anticipation runs something deeper, something more frightening: the growing certainty that six months with Lucas Carmichael will never be enough.