Jacquie treats the situation like any other crisis as both camps coordinate our press releases. Anika declares us a wreck to her blood pressure. Ash gets to gloat that he clocked it first.
And then…
The initial blast of the news cycle is ruthless. One radio host calls Luna emotionally compromised. Nobody says I am. A columnist writes that her judgment should be questioned, whilemy name barely earns a mention. She’s called a liar. A fraud. Disloyal to her cause for sleeping with the enemy.
Luna, true to her tenacity, keeps focused on showing voters why she deserves to be mayor.
The attacks infuriate me. As the man who loves her, I want to hit back harder than a motherfucker. As a lawyer—and someone who’s spent most of his adult life in politics—I know better. Every response risks becoming another headline. Every headline risks making things worse for her.
So I choose my words carefully. One statement and nothing else.
“Rayne Webber has spent years serving this community and advocating for issues she believes in. To suggest her vision or values have changed because of who she’s dating is absurd. She remains loyal to her cause, and I remain loyal to the mayor.”
Still, for the next two weeks, her every word, decision, and expression is put under a microscope. Diablo doesn’t go easy on her as promised. I push back where I can without crossing the line, and endure his professional ice.
Luna’s team plays defense against traditionalists and Gabriel loyalists alike.Femme Magazinedecides the timing isn’t right to feature her. I want to go to her so badly, but we’ve come too far to be reckless now. So we stay apart during the worst of it, hunkered down in our respective trenches, waiting desperately for the firestorm to burn itself out.
By the end of September, the election review board completes its investigation and finds exactly what we already knew: no leaks, no sabotage, no ethics violations. That quiets some of the speculation.
We let the press catch a few photos of us together in public—contrived, strategic, carefully controlled, intended to defuse curiosity.
Eventually, the noise fades.
It’s a good day when I finally get to walk those ten doors to her campaign office with lunch in hand. And take her on a real date. Luna chooses something simple for our first one.
It’s a crisp Sunday afternoon in October. An early autumn breeze skips off the water but the sun is bright. We aren’t making a grand statement. We’re just getting ice cream on the boardwalk. Luna’s in a soft knit sweater and jeans, the wind stirring her curls. She’s holding a waffle cone with a scoop of chocolate salted caramel. I offer my hand, and smiling, she laces our fingers.
We’ve done that dozens of times. But never like this. It’s not in secret. It’s not a play for the cameras. It’s just for us. Out in the open in broad daylight.
Before, every touch came with an expiration date. Every stolen moment carried a timer—the ticking of minutes until an inevitable goodbye.
Now there’s no countdown. No sand spilling through the hourglass.
Just her hand in mine and an ordinary afternoon.
Later, we take our newfound freedom back to my place. Luna stands at the counter assembling a salad to go with the steak I’m grilling. I step up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and burying my face in the curve of her neck, inhaling flowers.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to just watch you exist in my space.”
“I think I have some idea.” She turns, her fingers curling into my shoulders before she lifts her mouth to mine.
I don’t take anything to help me sleep that night. I know I’m not going to need it this time. I finally have Luna exactly where she belongs. Tangled in my sheets, her lush curves pressed against my skin.
The election is still two weeks away. The fallout is still falling. But holding her in the quiet dark of my bedroom, I’m already holding the win.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Rayne
Election night.
Campaign headquarters is a sea of blue banners. Folding tables are littered with half-empty catering trays, cold coffee cups, and abandoned soda cans. Sixty people pack the space, anticipation hums beneath the constant drone of flat-screen TVs mounted on every available wall, all set to the Channel 10 coverage.
Family. Friends. Volunteers. Supporters. The chair of Women Rising—the biggest surprise of all.
Here for me.
I’m dressed down in jeans and a campaign T-shirt, my suit hanging behind my office door, waiting for whatever speech I’ll be making after the night is over. Members of the press linger near the back, cameras ready to capture the moment. DK is across town at the community center with a much larger crowd. Diablo in his element. Me in mine. Smaller, more intimate.
