Chapter 1: The Mandate
The sound of his voice filled the hallway calm, composed, and dangerously close to breaking.
Sarah paused outside the press room door, her hands clutching the final draft of his statement. The newsroom beyond was chaos. Reporters swarming, lights flaring, whispers flying like sparks before a storm. It was the kind of night when careers could crumble in a single sound bite.
And Ralph del Mar, the country's youngest congressman, was right at the center of it.
She adjusted her glasses, inhaled, and pushed the door open.
The moment she entered, the hum quieted slightly. Ralph stood at the podium, sleeves rolled, his usual poise muted by exhaustion. The cameras weren't rolling yet, but the tension already was. His gaze swept across the room once sharp, assessing, before landing on her.
"Sarah," he said, low and even. "You're late."
Her heart skipped. It wasn't accusation. It was the kind of tone that made people straighten.
She walked toward him, heels echoing against the marble floor. "The legal team revised a few points. I had to align them before release."
He took the paper she offered, scanning quickly. "You softened the language again."
"It's called damage control," she replied quietly.
His brow furrowed. "It's called weakness when the opposition's already out for blood."
For a second, silence filled the room. It wasn't the silence of unease. It was something older, heavier. The kind of silence that came when two people had already fought this battle too many times before.
"Ralph," she said finally, voice steady. "If you sound defensive tonight, you'll only feed the scandal."
"And if I sound too polished, they'll say I'm hiding something." He tossed the papers onto the table between them. "You can't script sincerity, Sarah."
Her fingers tightened. No, but you can save someone from their own pride.
Before she could answer, the press aide entered. "Sir, they're ready in five."
Sarah nodded to the aide. "We'll be out." Then she looked back at Ralph, lowering her voice. "Let me handle the narrative tonight. Trust me on this."
His eyes lingered on hers for a beat too long unreadable, searching. Then he turned away, slipping into his public armor with practiced ease.
The flash of cameras hit her like lightning when they stepped out. Reporters shouted questions; microphones thrust forward. Ralph lifted his chin, calm and untouchable — every inch the man the country believed in.
Sarah stood just behind him, as always, close enough to whisper, far enough to disappear from the frame.
As he began to speak, her chest tightened. Each word he read was hers. Every phrase, every pause, every polished apology had come from her sleepless nights. Yet none of them bore her name.
You wanted this, she reminded herself. You wanted to be invisible.
But tonight, watching him weather the firestorm she'd helped contain, invisibility felt like a wound.
The press conference ended with applause, staged, polite, hollow. The crisis was far from over, but at least the bleeding had stopped for the night.
When the crowd dispersed, Sarah gathered the remaining documents, trying to look busy. She sensed him approach before she heard him speak.
"You did well," he said quietly.
She looked up, startled. He rarely praised. "You, too."
His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile. "You always fix what I break."
Her throat tightened. "It's my job."
"Is it?" He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Because sometimes, it feels like you're saving me from myself."
Her pulse quickened. "Maybe that's the same thing."
For a moment, the space between them was a wire drawn too tight, fragile, humming, one wrong move from breaking.
Then his phone buzzed. The spell shattered.
He turned away to answer, his tone clipped, professional again. "Yes, I'll be at the caucus tomorrow. No statements until I review them."
Sarah exhaled quietly. She shouldn't have felt disappointed. She knew what he was. What they were. He belonged to the people. She belonged to the silence behind him.
Hours later, the office emptied. Only the hum of the city lights filtered through the glass walls. Sarah sat alone, drafting tomorrow's talking points, her laptop glow painting her face pale.
"Still here?"
She froze. Ralph leaned against the doorway, jacket gone, tie loosened. Without the cameras, he looked younger and human.
"I have to finalize tomorrow's agenda," she said without looking up.
He walked in, slow, deliberate. "You could let it wait till morning."
"And give the press more time to twist things? No, thank you."
"Always the responsible one." He stopped beside her desk. "Tell me, Sarah, what would happen if, just once, you weren't?"
She glanced up, meeting his eyes. "Then maybe your career wouldn't have survived three scandals."
He laughed under his breath. "Touché."
But his gaze lingered again. Longer this time. The air between them shifted.
"You've been here since dawn," he said softly. "You look exhausted."
"I'm fine."
He frowned slightly. "You always say that."
"Because it's true."
"No," he said, and his tone softened, almost tender. "Because you don't know how to stop."
Her fingers froze above the keyboard. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The clock ticked somewhere behind her.
Then he stepped closer, too close. She could smell the faint mix of coffee and cologne.
"Why do you do this?" he asked quietly. "Why stay, when you could be working for anyone else?"
She swallowed hard. "Because someone has to remember the man behind the mandate."
The words escaped before she could stop them.
He blinked, stunned, as if she had just said something forbidden.
"Sarah…"
The sound of her name in his voice undid her. She looked away quickly. "Forget it. I didn't mean --"
He caught her wrist gently. "Yes, you did."
Her pulse pounded. Every instinct screamed to step back, to rebuild the professional wall she'd spent years guarding. But his hand was warm, grounding, dangerous.
The air grew heavy with everything unsaid.
Then his phone buzzed again. He hesitated. The moment faltered, and this time, she pulled away first.
"Your driver's waiting," she murmured.
He looked at her, unreadable again. "Right."
When he turned to leave, she exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
By the time she packed up, it was past midnight. The city outside glowed, sleepless, restless, alive.
She walked out to the parking lot, clutching her files, when she saw him standing beside his car, talking to someone on the phone. His expression was sharp, his gestures restrained.
Even now, he looked like he belonged to the headlines.
When he noticed her, he ended the call. "I'll drive you home."
"That's not necessary, Congressman."
He frowned slightly. "Ralph. When it's just us."
She hesitated. Then nodded. "Ralph."
He opened the door for her. She slid in, silent. The ride was quiet except for the hum of the city and the faint rhythm of the wipers brushing against misted glass.
Halfway through the bridge, he finally spoke.
"You said you'd remember the man behind the mandate."
She looked out the window. "Yes."
"Then tell me," he said, his voice low, almost breaking, "if I fall from grace, will you still stay behind me?"
Her breath caught.
Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and rain.
Inside the car, the space between them felt like a confession waiting to happen.
She turned to him and saw the flicker of fear beneath the man the world thought unshakable.
Her answer was quiet. "That depends on whether the man I remember is still you."
He didn't reply.
But the silence that followed was louder than any vow.