Ava's POV
The Murphy estate transforms into something from a political magazine spread.
White tents dotting the manicured lawn, string lights reflecting off the same pool where everything began months ago, donors in designer clothing sipping champagne where I once drunkenly confessed my forbidden desires.
I arrive with the other municipal staff, clutching my clipboard and trying to blend into the background while my stomach churns with more than morning sickness.
The irony isn't lost on me that I'm back here as hired help, watching from the edges while Tobias works the crowd with his ex-wife draped over him like an expensive accessory.
"The turnout is incredible," Jordan murmurs beside me, scanning the crowd of potential voters and deep-pocketed donors. "Veronica really knows how to put together an event."
I nod absently, my eyes automatically seeking Tobias across the lawn. He's surrounded by a group of local business owners, looking every inch the future governor in his perfectly tailored navy suit.
But it's the woman beside him that makes my chest tighten with familiar jealousy.
Veronica Tucker is breathtaking in an emerald silk dress. Her hand rests possessively on Tobias's arm as she laughs at something one of the donors says, the sound carrying across the evening air with practiced charm.
"She's really thrown herself into this campaign," Jordan continues, oblivious to my internal turmoil. "Hard to believe they've been divorced for ten years. They work together like they never missed a beat."
The observation hits like a physical blow. They do work together seamlessly, Veronica anticipating Tobias's needs, smoothly redirecting conversations when he looks tired, playing the devoted political partner with devastating effectiveness.
As if he senses my gaze, Tobias's eyes find mine across the crowded lawn. The connection is electric, instantaneous, making my breath catch despite the distance between us.
For a moment, his political mask slips, revealing something raw and hungry.
Then Veronica's laugh pulls his attention back, and he's the composed candidate again, but not before I catch the apology in his expression, the conflict that mirrors my own.
"Excuse me for a moment," I tell Jordan, needing air.
I weave through clusters of donors toward the far end of the garden, but even from here I can't escape the sight of them together.
Veronica's hand slides possessively down Tobias's back when photographers approach, her body language screaming ownership to anyone paying attention.
The worst part is watching him tolerate it. He can't push her away without causing a scene, can't reject her touches without raising questions about their "unified front," but I see the way his jaw tightens each time she gets too close.
See how his eyes immediately seek me out afterward, as if in silent apology.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the DJ announces, "if I could have your attention for just a moment. Mr. Murphy and Ms. Tucker have agreed to share a dance for our photographers."
My stomach drops as applause ripples through the crowd. This wasn't planned, I can tell by the flash of surprise in Tobias's expression, but Veronica is already taking his hand, leading him toward the makeshift dance floor with triumphant grace.
"How romantic," someone near me sighs. "They make such a beautiful couple. Maybe there's hope for reconciliation after the election."
The words slice through me like glass. I want to scream that she's wrong, that he's mine, that I'm carrying his child while this political theater plays out.
But I can only stand there, watching Veronica mold herself against Tobias with practiced familiarity as they begin to sway.
The song is slow, romantic, perfect for the cameras capturing every moment. But over Veronica's shoulder, Tobias's eyes lock with mine, and the torment I see there nearly brings me to my knees.
I know exactly what he's thinking because the same fears plague my own sleepless nights.
How long before my stomach shows? Before someone notices the way I've stopped drinking alcohol, the morning nausea I blame on stress, the subtle changes pregnancy is already making to my body?
How can our arrangement possibly work when I'll be visibly pregnant while he campaigns with his ex-wife, when every public appearance reinforces their connection while ours remains hidden in stolen moments and locked bathrooms?
The impossibility of it all is written across his face even as he maintains his public smile, even as he dips Veronica gracefully for the cameras while his eyes never leave mine.
When the song ends, applause thunders through the crowd, but I can't stay to watch anymore. I push through the clusters of donors toward the dessert table, desperate for something to occupy my hands and my mind.
"Ava, darling!" Veronica's voice stops me cold just as I reach for a petit four. "How wonderful that Chloe's friends are so supportive of the campaign."
She appears beside me with predatory grace, pressing a champagne flute into my hand before I can protest.
"The evening is beautiful," I manage. "You've done an amazing job organizing everything."
"Oh, this is nothing compared to what we have planned for the final push." She takes a delicate sip of her own champagne, studying me with those calculating eyes. "You know, it's fascinating, the way certain people command attention without even trying."
"I'm sorry?" My grip tightens on the champagne flute.
"Tobias, for instance."
Her tone remains conversational, but there's steel underneath.
"He has this unconscious habit of tracking movement in a room, always aware of where everyone is positioned. Security instinct from his early political days, I suppose. Occupational hazard when you've received as many threats as he has."
She pauses, taking another sip while watching my face carefully. "Tonight though, his focus seems rather... singular. Quite different from his usual comprehensive awareness of the room."
"I hadn't noticed," I lie, my voice coming out higher than intended.
"Really? You must have, working so closely with him at the municipal building." Her smile sharpens. "I haven't seen him this distracted since, well, since before our divorce. Back when he was utterly consumed by someone he thought he couldn't have."
The words hit like targeted missiles, each one carefully chosen to inflict maximum damage.
"You must have noticed how his attention tends to... linger," she continues, her gaze never leaving my face. "Particularly on certain members of his staff. It's quite obvious to anyone who knows him well."
"I think you're reading too much into…"
"Am I?" She steps closer, her expensive perfume overwhelming my sensitive pregnancy nose. "It would be rude not to toast his success, wouldn't it? To everything he's worked for, everything he stands to lose if he's not... careful."
The threat is silk-wrapped but unmistakable. She raises her glass expectantly, waiting for me to drink, to participate in whatever game she's playing.
I lift the champagne toward my lips. The bubbles tickle my nose, making my already rebellious stomach lurch dangerously.
"To Tobias."
"To Tobias," she agrees, watching me like a hawk. "And to knowing one's place in the grand scheme of things."
The moment she glides away to work another cluster of donors, I look frantically for somewhere to spit the champagne.
A large potted ficus near the edge of the tent catches my eye, and I move quickly, spitting the alcohol into the soil with desperate relief.
"I already watered them today." Chloe's voice behind me makes me jump, nearly dropping the glass. I turn to find her standing there with an expression that's half amusement, half confusion.
"Chloe! I didn't see you there." Heat floods my face as I realize she witnessed the entire embarrassing display.
"Clearly." She crosses her arms, studying me with those sharp eyes she inherited from her father. "That's Perrier-Jouët, Ava. We've drunk way worse champagne at college parties. What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on." I set the flute on a nearby table, mind racing for a believable explanation. "I'm on antibiotics for a UTI. The champagne tasted off mixed with the medication."
"Antibiotics." Her tone is flat, disbelieving.
"Yes. Dr. Martinez said no alcohol while I'm taking them. Something about liver processing or... medical stuff." I'm babbling now, the lies getting more elaborate by the second.
"Right." Chloe's gaze follows me for the rest of the evening like a searchlight, cataloging every nervous gesture, every time I refuse alcohol, every moment I disappear to splash water on my face in the bathroom.
I can feel her watching, wondering, putting together pieces of a puzzle she doesn't even know she's solving. And as the campaign celebration continues around us, I realize our carefully constructed secret is starting to crack at the edges.
The question isn't if someone will discover the truth.
It's who will figure it out first.