The Senator's Feast of Power

The champagne flute hit the floor first. Glass shattered like a gunshot in the middle of the ballroom. Golden liquid sprayed across black marble, splashing up Cynthia Brooks's bare legs and soaking the hem of her borrowed silk gown. She froze. A young waiter, barely twenty, stared at her with wide, horrified eyes. His tray tilted dangerously. The rest of the drinks wobbled but stayed upright. "I'm so sorry, miss," he stammered. "I didn't see... the crowd..." Cynthia looked down. Pale gold liquid darkened the black silk in ugly patches. The fabric clung wetly to her thighs. People nearby turned. Whispers started. She forced a tight smile. "It's fine. Accidents happen." The waiter kept apologizing, bending to scoop up shards with shaking hands. A woman in red sequins stepped back like the spill might burn her Louboutins. Cynthia stepped away from the mess. Her heels clicked too loudly. Every eye in a ten-foot radius followed her now. Perfect. Exactly the kind of attention she didn't want. She scanned for the nearest exit. Terrace doors. Twenty steps. Maybe less. But Senator Andrain James was already moving. He cut through the crowd like a blade through silk. People parted without him asking. His dark eyes locked on her from across the room. Not concern. Not curiosity. Recognition. He knew exactly who she was. Cynthia's stomach dropped. She turned toward the terrace anyway. Better to retreat with dignity than stand here dripping like a fool. Too late. He reached her in seconds. "Miss Brooks." His voice was low, smooth, the kind that made people lean in even when they hated him. "Rough start to the evening." She met his gaze. Up close he was taller than the photos suggested. Broader. The navy suit hugged shoulders that looked built for breaking things. "Just a little splash," she said. "Nothing a napkin won't fix." He glanced at the wet silk clinging to her skin. His eyes lingered one second too long. Not leering. Calculating. "Allow me." Before she could refuse, he signaled a passing server. The man appeared with a stack of white linen napkins like he'd been summoned by telepathy. Andrain took one. Stepped closer. He pressed the napkin against the soaked part of her dress. Right at her hip. Cynthia stiffened. His fingers were warm through the thin fabric. Deliberate. Not rough. Not gentle either. She could smell cedar and smoke on him. Expensive cologne mixed with something darker. "I can handle it," she said through her teeth. He didn't move his hand. "Clearly." The napkin soaked up champagne. His thumb brushed the curve of her hip once. Barely. Enough to make her breath catch. People watched. Phones were probably already out. She snatched the napkin from him. Stepped back. "Thank you, Senator. Very chivalrous." His mouth curved. Not quite a smile. "I like to take care of messes before they spread." The double meaning hung between them. Cynthia forced her pulse to slow. "Lucky for you, I'm not the messy type." "Lucky for me," he echoed. His eyes said something else entirely. She turned away. Needed distance. Needed to breathe. The terrace doors were closer now. She pushed through them. Cool night air hit her face like a slap. The city sprawled below. Lights glittering. Traffic humming. Normal life happening somewhere far from this gilded cage. She leaned against the stone railing. Gripped it until her knuckles whitened. Her dress was still wet. Cold now. Sticky. She wiped at it uselessly. The silk was ruined. Elena was going to kill her. Footsteps behind her. She didn't turn. "Running already?" Andrain's voice carried over the faint music leaking from inside. "Not running," she said. "Just breathing." He stopped beside her. Close enough that his arm brushed hers on the railing. "You shouldn't be here," he said quietly. She laughed once. Short. Bitter. "Last I checked, galas were public events." "Not for you." He turned slightly. Faced her profile. "Not tonight." Cynthia met his eyes. "Why? Afraid I'll overhear something interesting?" His expression didn't change. But something flickered behind it. Dark. Dangerous. "You already did." Her heart slammed once. Hard. She kept her face blank. "I don't know what you mean." He leaned in. Voice dropped lower. "The leaks. The silencing. You heard every word." Cynthia swallowed. "I heard a man talking business. Nothing more." "Liar," he said softly. Almost fondly. She straightened. "Call security if you're so worried." "I don't need security for you." He studied her face like he was memorizing it. "Yet." The word landed heavy. She held his stare. Refused to blink. He finally straightened. Looked out over the city. "You think you're the first journalist to come sniffing around?" he asked. "No," she said. "But I'm the one who won't stop." He turned back to her. Slow. Deliberate. "Then you're going to get hurt." "Is that a threat?" "It's a fact." Silence stretched. Thick. Electric. Cynthia's skin prickled. Not just from the cold. She should leave. Walk away. Call Elena. Write the story from a safe distance. Instead she asked, "Why do you do it?" He raised an eyebrow. "Do what?" "Everything." She gestured vaguely toward the ballroom. "The bribes. The deals. The people who disappear when they get too close." His face stayed calm. Almost amused. "You've done your homework." "I've done more than that." He stepped closer again. Crowded her against the railing without touching her. "You think you know me, Cynthia Brooks." "I know enough." "You know nothing." His voice was velvet. Deadly. She lifted her chin. "I know your public health bill funneled millions to companies that don't exist. Shells. Offshore. Untraceable." His eyes darkened. "I know the money didn't go to hospitals," she continued. "It went to silence. To buy votes. To make problems disappear." He didn't deny it. Instead he said, "Careful how far you dig, little journalist." "Or what?" she challenged. "You'll silence me too?" He smiled then. Slow. Chilling. "I don't like messes," he said. "But I clean them up very well." Her mouth went dry. She forced herself to speak. "I'm not afraid of you." "You should be." He reached out. Tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her skin. The touch burned. She jerked away. "Don't." He dropped his hand. But the air between them stayed charged. "Go home, Miss Brooks," he said quietly. "Write your little articles. Play your little games. But stay out of my way." She laughed. Shaky. "You think you can scare me off?" "I think you'll learn the hard way." He turned. Started back toward the doors. Cynthia called after him. "Senator." He paused. Didn't turn. "One day," she said, "someone's going to bring it all down. And I'll be the one holding the match." He looked over his shoulder. His smile was gone. "Try it," he said. "See what happens." Then he disappeared inside. Cynthia stood there. Breathing hard. Heart racing like she'd run miles. The city lights blurred below. She pulled her phone from her clutch. Hands shaking. No signal? Impossible. She moved along the terrace. Found a corner where the wind wasn't so sharp. Signal returned. She opened her messages. Nothing. Then the screen lit up. Unknown number. She opened it. Three lines. He's watching you now. Run while you can. You won't get another warning. Her blood turned to ice. She looked back toward the ballroom. Through the glass doors she saw him. Andrain James stood near the fireplace. Glass in hand. Talking to Victor Hale. But his eyes weren't on Victor. They were on her. Even across the distance, she felt the weight of that stare. He lifted his glass slightly. A mock toast. Then he turned away. Cynthia shoved the phone back into her clutch. Her dress was still wet. Her skin still tingled where he'd touched her. She walked toward the exit. Fast. Heels clicking. Heart pounding. She didn't look back again. But she knew. He was already inside her head. And he wasn't leaving anytime soon. The elevator doors closed behind her. She leaned against the mirrored wall. Closed her eyes. The champagne stain looked like blood in the dim light. She opened her eyes. Stared at her reflection. Lipstick still perfect. Hair still mostly up. Eyes wide. Too wide. She looked like prey. She hated it. The elevator dinged. Ground floor. She stepped out. Crossed the marble lobby. Ignored the doorman’s polite nod. Outside. Cold air again. Real cold. She hailed a cab. Slid in. "Where to?" "Anywhere but here," she muttered. The driver raised an eyebrow in the mirror. She gave Elena's address instead. The cab pulled away. She watched the hotel shrink in the rear window. Her phone buzzed again. She almost didn't look. But she did. Same unknown number. One line this time. Sweet dreams, Miss Brooks. She powered the phone off. Threw it into her clutch like it burned. The city lights streaked past. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking. She pressed them between her knees. Tried to breathe. Tried to think. He knew her name. He knew she'd heard. He knew she wouldn't stop. And someone else knew too. Someone watching. Someone warning. She closed her eyes. Saw his face again. That slow, chilling smile. The way his thumb had brushed her hip. The way his voice had dropped when he said her name. She hated him. She hated everything he stood for. The corruption. The lies. The blood on his hands. She hated how he'd touched her. She hated how her body had reacted anyway. The cab slowed at a light. She opened her eyes. Looked out at the dark streets. Somewhere out there, he was still smiling. Still watching. Still winning. Not for long, she thought. Not if she could help it. The light changed. The cab moved forward. Into the night. Into the shadows. Into whatever came next. Cynthia Brooks stared straight ahead. And for the first time in years, she wasn't sure who was hunting who.