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.
Chapter Forty-One
Rayne
The heat of the spotlights feels hot enough to bake a pizza, but the roar rising from a sea of blue is pure oxygen.
Beyond the blinding glare, all I can make out are shadows and movement. I can’t pick out individual faces, except for Carmen’s silhouette at the moderator’s table, but I know my people are out there. Dad, Aunt Belinda, Uncle Maurice, Chaz, and Lexie. Lot couldn’t make it in person, but she made her mother promise to prop her up on FaceTime so she could still watch.
My village. My support system.
And backstage, guarding the flanks, are Anika with her fierce pep talks and DK…
God.
The brief sight of him nearly took me out at the knees. After ten agonizing days of physical separation, it felt almost cruel to see him right there, within arm’s reach yet completely untouchable. It was like staring through a glass case at the one thing you want most.
Diablo and I meet center stage for a handshake before taking our places behind matching podiums. I adjust the microphone with stable hands, even though my pulse is climbing up my throat. DK lingers on the fringe of my thoughts.
He was wearing a taupe suit, his signature silk pocket square, and a light-blue shirt. The color was deliberate. Just knowing he’d dressed with me in mind sends my imagination spiraling somewhere wildly inconvenient. I picture him buttoning up the shirt over broad shoulders and warm skin. The scent of cedar and spice clinging strongest near his throat—the spot I love to kiss and bite until a low groan rumbles through his chest.
Jesus, Rayne. Time and place.The last thing I need is some zoomed-in screenshot of me looking thirsty on local access TV.
Carmen begins her opening remarks, going over the format while my mind still won’t quit. It flickers back to last night’s FaceTime dinner date. DK had ordered us matching meal kits. We chopped dried chilies and chicken in our separate kitchens, comparing our curries, and teasing each other on which one looked closest to the recipe card.
DK is a man of real intention. Even from a distance, he finds a way to create intimacy. Shared meals. Shared routines. Tiny, sacred rituals like watchingRHOAtogether on synchronized screens. Even virtual coffee time in the mornings, tolerating my showtunes.
It’s how he loves me.
Which means I know standing down while Bayside Truth Watch bleeds across social media is killing him.
