Page 30 of The Bodyguard

She didn’t cry, but she almost did.

This wasn’t about politics anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. It was about survival. And trust. And how much of herself she could give up without losing everything she’d built.

When she finally emerged, hair wet, robe tied tight around her waist, she opened the bathroom door and froze.

Mitch was there. Seated on the floor outside the door, back against the wall, one leg stretched out, the other bent. In his hands was a white mug—her favorite one—the ceramic warm from the tea inside.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t speak. He just held the mug up for her. Andi reached for it, her fingers brushing his.

The warmth of the mug seeped into her palm like permission. Or forgiveness. Or maybe just a reminder that not every choice had to be hers alone.

She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t have to, because he didn’t need her words—just her trust. And, maybe, eventually, her surrender.

* * *

Folding chairs filled the roundtable from edge to edge, and people spilled out of the conference room at the South Side Community Development Initiative. Local organizers, housing advocates, small business owners with weathered hands and furrowed brows. Every single one of them had a stake in what she was proposing. Every single one deserved answers.

And Andi gave them exactly that.

She stood at the front of the room in an unstructured burgundy jacket, silk tank top and black slacks, a sharp contrast to the fraying jeans and rolled-up sleeves around her. But she didn’t posture. She didn’t preach. She spoke like she always had—clear, steady, and with the kind of conviction you couldn’t fake. Her campaign plan was bold. Her tax reform outline was even bolder. But this crowd? Promises did not dazzle them.

“Yes, I’m aware my housing proposal will step on a few high-dollar developer toes,” she said. “And that’s exactly why I wrote it the way I did. No more sweetheart deals that push families out of the neighborhoods they built.”

Applause rippled through the room, but Andi barely acknowledged it. She stayed focused on the woman in the front row, who hadn’t looked away once. A retired schoolteacher. South Side, born and bred. The rising cost of housing had forced the woman’s granddaughter out of her apartment last month.

“I’m not here to maintain power structures that were designed to keep us compliant. I’m here to change them,” Andi said, voice calm but cutting. “If that makes the suits downtown uncomfortable, good. Maybe they’ll finally start listening.”

Another wave of applause, louder this time. She kept her posture relaxed, her expression steady. She answered every follow-up question without hesitation, redirected interruptions with grace, and pushed back when one of the business reps tried to reframe her language into something more palatable.

This wasn’t her first fight; it wouldn’t be her last.

And yet... she felt it. Even standing tall in front of this room, fire in her voice, her body felt like it was running on fumes. The hours were catching up with her. The threats. The constant presence of danger. And then there was Mitch—silent, ever-present Mitch—positioned like a dark pillar near the rear exit, arms folded, gaze fixed not on the crowd but on every door, every shadow, every shifting movement around her.

He didn’t watch her with admiration or pride. He watched her like she was a target.

Andi glanced at him once. Just once. Long enough to catch the way his jaw flexed when a man in the back leaned forward a little too far. Long enough to register the brief, cold assessment in his eyes before he dismissed the man and resumed scanning the room.

She swallowed and turned back to the group.

The meeting wrapped thirty minutes later. The applause at the end was genuine. People lingered, a few stepping forward to shake her hand, share a story, ask about her platform. She gave them everything she had left—smiles, nods, promises. And then, when Maya gave the signal, she stepped out the side door and into the waiting SUV.

Mitch was already there, holding the passenger door open without a word. She didn’t meet his eyes when she climbed in and he closed it behind her.

They rode in silence.

Her phone buzzed on her lap with new messages—donors, staff updates, a fresh article that had already picked up her quote about making “the suits uncomfortable.” She should have felt a spark of pride. It was the kind of line that played well in headlines.

Instead, she just felt tired. By the time they got back to the loft, the sky was dusky, the city humming below them like it didn’t care who lived or died in the towers above.

Andi kicked off her heels the second the door shut behind them. Her feet ached, but not as much as the knot at the base of her skull. The kind that came from too much smiling, too much talking, too much pretending to be fine when she was anything but.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Mitch locked the door, disarmed and reset the alarm, then walked the perimeter with quiet efficiency. It should have annoyed her—the way he checked every corner, like she might be hiding a sniper in her laundry hamper—but it didn’t. Not anymore.

She crossed to the kitchen, opened a cabinet out of habit, then shut it again. Her stomach twisted at the thought of food. What she needed wasn’t something she could find on a shelf.

“Speech went well,” Mitch said from behind her, voice low, steady. Observational.

Andi leaned her elbows on the counter. “Yeah. It usually does when I fake my way through it.”

---