Page 86 of The Bodyguard

What she felt wasn’t vindication. It was something heavier, quieter. Not the high of a win—but the weight of one. Every face she remembered from the past year—Lacey, Maya, her staff, the people in Jefferson Park, the mothers at the community forums, the kids who’d chanted her name—she carried them all. She had fought for them. Bled for them.

Now she was walking out of the fire, still standing.

Election day arrived cold and dry—sunlight sharp and biting. She’d voted just after dawn, wrapped in a scarf Mitch had thrown around her neck like he couldn’t help himself. The polling station was quiet. No fanfare. Just a slow nod from an elderly volunteer who’d clearly already seen the headlines.

No one asked for a picture. No one interrupted. Everyone knew this wasn’t a photo op.

That night, the campaign headquarters was packed wall-to-wall. Maya had tapped Royce Sanders to manage the floor and handle security. Reporters clustered behind the velvet rope like hungry sharks.

Andi waited in a private room on the second floor, alone but not really. She could feel the pulse of the crowd below like a drum line in her bones. The tension. The possibility. The power.

Mitch stood in the doorway, dressed in black again—button-down shirt rolled to his forearms, watch glinting in the overhead light. He had said little all day. He didn’t have to. He was there. Watching. Holding the line like always.

“You look nervous,” he said quietly.

“I’m not.” She turned to face him, then amended, “Not about the numbers.”

He nodded once. “Good. Because you’re going to win.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the truth matters. Even when people try to bury it.” He paused, then added, “Because they saw you bleed, and you didn’t hide it. You turned around and said, ‘Watch me keep going.’ And they did.”

Andi looked at him. Really looked. He wasn’t just her bodyguard anymore. He hadn’t been for quite some time.

Before she could tell him again what she felt—before she could decide whether the words would come out as a promise or a confession—Maya burst through the door.

“It’s time,” she said, breathless, glowing.

Andi stepped forward. She looked back at him. She knew how she felt; knew how he felt. But he’d only said it that once. She supposed she might have to teach him how to.

Mitch didn’t stop her. He didn’t offer to go first. He just trailed behind—a steady presence just outside the reach of the cameras. A shadow, a guardian, a man who had stood through the worst and was still standing now.

She walked through the crowd as the first wave of numbers hit the screen behind her.

Donato: 68%.

The room erupted. Applause. Chants. Screams. People hugging, crying, laughing. Maya grabbed her hand. Andi stepped up to the podium and raised both palms to quiet them.

She stood tall. Shoulders back. No notes… just truth.

“I was never supposed to win,” she said, and the crowd fell silent. “I was supposed to be erased. Silenced. Rewritten. But the thing about women like me—the thing about people like us—is that we’ve never waited for permission to fight. We’ve had to shout just to be heard. We’ve had to bleed just to prove we’re alive.”

Her voice cracked—not with emotion, but force.

“You’ve seen my bruises. You’ve read the headlines. You know the truth. And still—you showed up. You voted. You believed.”

She scanned the crowd. Eyes sharp. Then lifted her chin.

“So now I’m not just your councilwoman. I’m your next mayor.”

The place exploded in a deafening roar, sending shockwaves of approval and joy through the entire building.

Mitch watched from the side of the stage, arms folded, his expression unreadable. But she saw it—beneath the stoicism, beneath the discipline—pride. Not just in what she’d done. Pride in her.

When the speech ended and the crowd surged forward, she didn’t push toward the cameras.

She walked straight to him.

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