Page 54 of The Bodyguard

She turned slightly, meeting his gaze. "As okay as it can be," she replied, the double meaning not lost on either of them.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Stay close. If anything feels off, let me know immediately. Remember your panic button."

She nodded, appreciating his vigilance, but also feeling the constraints of the invisible leash he kept her on. It was both reassuring and, at times, suffocating.

As the evening progressed, Andi navigated the sea of guests, exchanging pleasantries, delivering heartfelt thanks, and reinforcing her campaign's vision. Yet, a part of her remained tethered to Mitch's presence, acutely aware of his movements, his proximity, the way his gaze never strayed far from her.

Andi stepped away from the conversation with a donor and drifted toward the nearest sculpture, feigning interest in the sweeping iron curves of the installation while forcing her breathing to stay even. Mitch’s presence hovered just behind her, never far, but the warning in his touch earlier had stirred something deeper than instinct.

She was in the midst of a conversation with a prominent philanthropist when a hush rippled through the crowd near the entrance. People exchanged curious glances, and whispers spread like wildfire. Andi's eyes followed the collective gaze, and her heart stilled.

Rick Wexler. The man was a specter from her campaign, a rival whose underhanded tactics had been a thorn in her side more times than she cared to count. His presence here was not just unexpected; it was an affront.

He sauntered in with the confidence of a man who believed himself untouchable. His tailored suit, though impeccable, couldn't mask the predatory gleam in his eyes as they locked onto Andi.

Mitch was at her side in an instant, his body a solid barrier between her and Wexler. "He wasn't on the guest list," Mitch stated, his voice devoid of emotion but laced with underlying menace.

"No, he wasn't," Andi confirmed, her eyes narrowing. “He never is. He just shows up and helps himself to food, drink, and, if possible, donations to his campaign.”

Wexler approached, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Andi," he greeted, his tone dripping with feigned warmth. "Quite the soirée you've put together. Impressive."

She didn't return the smile. “Rick, this event is private. I’m quite certain you weren’t invited.”

“It must have been lost in the mail," he chuckled, unfazed. "I make it a point to stay informed about significant gatherings, especially when they pertain to my favorite opponent."

Mitch's stance shifted subtly, a predator ready to pounce. "State your business, Wexler."

Rick's eyes flicked to Mitch, a glint of amusement dancing in their depths. "Ah, the ever-diligent bodyguard; always in the way." He returned his gaze to Andi. "I merely wanted to offer my congratulations. Your campaign is making waves."

Andi's patience was wearing thin. "Cut to the chase, Rick. Why are you really here?"

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "Careful, Andi. When you swim with sharks, it's hard to tell where the blood is coming from."

A chill ran down her spine, but she refused to let it show. "Is that a threat?"

"Merely an observation," he replied, straightening. "Enjoy your evening." With that, he turned and melted back into the crowd.

Mitch's hand found the small of her back. "We need to talk. Now."

She nodded, allowing him to guide her toward a secluded alcove away from prying eyes and ears.

Once alone, Mitch's facade cracked just enough for her to see the storm brewing beneath. "He's playing games," he said, his voice tight. "But he's tipped his hand. He knows something."

Andi ran a hand through her hair, frustration clear. "I can't let him rattle me. Not here, not now."

Mitch stepped closer, his presence enveloping her. "You're not alone in this. We'll figure out what he knows and shut it down."

Andi’s throat tightened. “This is my campaign. My event.”

“It’s also a security threat. And he’s not here for a drink.”

He wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t make it easier to swallow. Every step she took tonight had felt like walking a tightrope strung over a field of landmines. She felt stretched thin by the rumors of a leak, the surveillance breach, the press speculation, and now this.

“Don’t engage him again,” Mitch added. “Not unless you absolutely have to.”

Andi straightened her spine and forced a practiced smile as another supporter approached, thanking her for ‘standing firm on green zoning exemptions,’ whatever that meant. She nodded, listened, deflected. Her responses were on autopilot now, polished and smooth from years of practice. But her eyes kept scanning the crowd.

Wexler lingered near the champagne fountain, shaking hands, smiling like he owned the building. At one point, he turned, locking eyes with her from across the gallery. He raised his glass. Tipped it once. Then smiled.

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