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, andcoiled 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, wavingProgress with Purposesigns. 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.
