Page 5 of No Longer Mine

Beside me, Benson shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly unimpressed by the senator’s grandstanding. I gave him a subtle nudge under the table, a silent command to stay quiet. This was my game, and I needed to play it my way.

As the night wore on, more faces drifted by, each one a potential ally—or a potential obstacle. I danced the fine line between charm and strategy, making sure to leave an impression without revealing too much.

By the time dessert was served—some elaborate confection I barely tasted—I had a list of names and mental notes about each one. Some would be useful. Others wouldn’t.

As dessert plates were cleared away and coffee was passed around, the evening began to shift. The atmosphere grew looser, conversations more casual—an unspoken invitation to linger and mingle. It was the perfect opportunity to collect more information, to press a few more hands, and plant a few more seeds.

But I knew better than to overstay my welcome. Appearing too eager would draw the wrong kind of attention.

I inclined my head toward Benson. “If you’d like to stay, I’ll get you an Uber?—”

Before I could finish, he was already pushing back his chair, rising to his full height with a decisive shake of his head. “Nope. I’ll catch a ride with you and your driver.”

A faint smile tugged at my lips. Benson wasn’t one to tolerate small talk or pointless mingling. He’d made it through the evening without openly voicing his disdain for the entire charade, which was more than I expected.

“Suit yourself,” I said, standing and smoothing the front of my jacket.

We navigated our way through the crowd, exchanging polite nods and handshakes as we went. Benson followed a step behind, his sharp gaze scanning the room with the precision of someone who trusted no one.

By the time we reached the front entrance, the night air hit like a balm. The sounds of the city buzzed faintly in the background, a reminder that outside these walls, the world kept turning.

Don was already waiting by the car, his posture rigid and professional. As he opened the door, Benson climbed in first, muttering something about how much he hated events like this.

I slid in after him and the door closed with a soft thud.

“Not your scene?” I asked sarcastically. I knew well enough this wasn’t his scene, though I dragged him to it anyway.

“You owe me for this one,” Benson replied, loosening his tie with a grimace.

I chuckled, leaning back in the seat as the car pulled away. “I’ll add it to your tab.”

The museum’s glowing façade faded into the background as the city lights blurred past the windows. Silence settled comfortably between us, the kind of silence that only existed between people who truly understood each other.

I crossed one ankle over my knee and looked at my oldest friend. “What’s going on behind those glasses of yours?”

Benson adjusted his tie, his sharp gaze flicking toward me. “Do you like Senator Bain?”

The question could have thrown me, but I knew Benson better than that. He wasn’t one to ask idle questions. He dissected every person in a room with surgical precision.

I shrugged, loosening the neck of my tuxedo. “I don’t like any of them, but I’d say Bain is the most tolerable of the bunch. Why? Do you have dirt on him?”

Benson smirked faintly, pulling his phone from the inner pocket of his jacket. He tapped the screen a few times before handing it to me.

“Let’s just say Bain’s international relations are a little more... hands-on than you’d like.”

I frowned as I took the phone and scanned the screen. It was a series of transactions—offshore accounts funneling money to untraceable shell corporations. But what caught my eye were the recipients: arms manufacturers and, further down, names tied to known gang factions overseas.

“He’s selling weapons to gangs?” I asked, my voice low.

“Not directly,” Benson said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “That would be too obvious. He uses intermediaries so that nothing can be pinned on him. Officially, it’s all part of ‘defense contracts’ and ‘economic partnerships.’ But dig a little deeper, and he’s arming some of the most dangerous groups abroad.”

I exhaled slowly, handing the phone back. “And you’ve just been sitting on this?”

Benson pocketed his phone, leaning back in his seat. “What can I say? I like to stay prepared. Figured you’d want to know before you get too cozy with him.”

I hummed low in the back of my throat. I wasn’t a good person. I’d killed my fair share of people just for getting in my way but this was different. I could appreciate the hustle. I could even admire it but I couldn’t endorse it. If he went up in flames, I would too. He didn’t have someone like Benson on his side, and I couldn’t risk it, considering everything my father did. Itwould be hard enough to win my place with the Cristof last name. People flocked to us; they wanted to be us, but seeing us in power? I wasn’t so sure the public would want such a thing. I had to paint such a pretty picture that the people would have no option but to vote me in.

Chapter Three

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