Samuel and I aren't the only ones taken aback by Sandro's sudden request. Nearby guests—mainly high-society socialites and their eager daughters—gasp and turn their attention toward our exchange.
I'm not oblivious. I've noticed how the younger, single women at this event have trailed after Sandro with hopeful eyes, but he's politely declined all their attempts for extra attention.
Despite that gentle rejection, a silent line seems to have formed as they hope for their chance to coax him into a dance. Yet here he is, inviting me—a married, older woman, and mother of two—to join him.
Whispers ripple through the crowd. I can't catch all the words, but from the sharp tone and piercing glares sent my way, it's clear they're making comments at my expense.
I'm no stranger to cutting remarks. My husband frequently criticizes me for my weight, age, and even my intelligence. So it's not the insults directed at me that are making my blood boil right now.
What truly angers me is the blatant disrespect these comments imply toward Sandro. He has every right to choose his dance partner, whether it's me or anyone else. Questioning that choice is a direct insult to him.
Still, even with that reasoning, I can't help but worry. Is Sandro only asking me to dance as some kind of mischief aimed at me, Samuel, or both?
Samuel, glowering, looks like he's about to put a stop to it. "My wife is a terrible dancer. Surely you can find someone more suited to your taste."
Shame floods through me. What am I thinking? Samuel would never let me dance with Sandro.
Sandro, still focused on Samuel, narrows his eyes. "I want to dance with Rafha, regardless of her dancing skills."
The eligible women around us start whispering even louder. This time, I can make out some of the cruel words:
"Who does she think she is?"
"Is Sandro into old hags now?"
"Isn't she just staff? Why dance with the help?"
Samuel grips my wrist tightly. "Rafha doesn't want to dance, do you, dear?" The "dear" is laced with a veiled threat. As a dutiful wife, I'm supposed to agree.
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
Samuel's furious gaze sharpens. "Rafha."
"If you allow me to dance with Rafha," Sandro adds coolly, "I might reconsider my decision to reject your company's contracts."
Samuel's grip on my wrist tightens painfully, making me wince. Sandro notices and starts to move closer, but my warning look holds him back.
"Fine," Samuel snaps. But before releasing me, he hisses in my ear, "Apologize and fix this for us. Don't you dare mess up our business further."
"I won't," I whisper.
"And tonight, you will apologize for making Thea cry," Samuel snarls.
Why should I apologize? I didn't even do anything! I'm not the one who tried to embarrass my sister.
Sandro steps in, breaking our private exchange. He extends his hand to me. "Rafha. Shall we?"
If I look at Samuel any longer, I might scream.
It takes little effort to place my hand in Sandro's and allow him to lead me onto the dance floor.
We move past the whispering crowd. Sandro pays them no mind, so I try to do the same, lifting my chin as we go.
Other couples are already swaying to the music. The crooner's smooth voice weaves through the warm notes of the orchestra.
When we reach the center of the floor, Sandro turns and draws me closer. His arm wraps around my waist, his hand resting firmly against the small of my back. His other hand keeps hold of mine, pressing our joined hands to his chest.
At first, I try to maintain a respectable distance, but Sandro insists otherwise. He tightens his grip, pulling me closer until our bodies touch.
Our faces are now mere inches apart. Uncertain where to look, I turn my head away, which brings my ear dangerously close to his mouth. I can feel his warm breath against my skin.
A shiver runs through me as memories flood back. That night, Sandro held me just as close. He clasped my hand when we made love and didn't let go until we were both spent.
I know exactly what this firm chest looks and feels like without clothes in the way. Despite my best efforts, I can't stop my mouth from watering. I left marks on that chest. I wonder if they're still there.
Heat rushes to my face. I feel like I might burst from sheer embarrassment.
"Didn't think you'd run into your plaything again, did you?" Sandro teases.
"You could have told me..."
"I tried," Sandro replies. "I called. You're the one who hung up."
"Oh." I did hang up on him without giving him a chance to explain. "You could have said something that night. Or maybe you enjoyed keeping your identity a secret."
Sandro chuckles. "I enjoyed a lot of things that night."
Shocked, I miss a step and nearly stumble. Thankfully, Sandro's steady grip keeps me from falling.
"Careful," he says with a light laugh. "We wouldn't want another tumble."
"I just don't understand," I say. "Why me?"
His laughter fades, but his bright mood lingers. "Why not you?"
"No, I mean... Why dance with me? The other women here are clearly better suited for you than I am. I'm married and older..."
"You're not making sense, Rafha. Do you want me to dance with someone else?"
"No," I blurt out before I can stop myself.
Sandro hums, obviously pleased. "Rafha. Won't you look at me?"
I really don't want to. Getting an up-close view of Sandro's good looks will only scramble my thoughts, and I need to stay sharp if I'm to avoid embarrassing myself again and worsening things for Samuel's company.
But when Sandro's hand presses more firmly on my back, pulling me flush against his chest, I can't help but take a small peek at his face.
"There you are," he says with a smile. God, he's handsome. He could be a model instead of a congressman. And those dimples... right in the middle of his cheeks.
My heart pounds loudly in my ears. Even though I know it's a dangerously bad idea, I want to kiss him, just to see how he'd react.
Thankfully, despite his overwhelming charm, my willpower wins out, and I manage to hold onto what's left of my senses.
Kissing a congressman in front of all these people, including my husband, would ruin all our reputations. I'm not some love-struck teenager...
I can keep myself in check.
Mostly.
"Tell me again that you don't want me to dance with someone else," Sandro says.
His tone is insistent, but I refuse to answer, knowing it will only expose me further.
He already knows the answer, though. I've given myself away.
My silence doesn't dampen his spirits. He simply looks at me with intent and asks, "Rafha. Are you jealous?"
YOU ARE READING
HIS FIRST LADY(SANDRO MARCOS)
FanfictieRafha's friend took her to a club, where she met the DJ and used him to get back at her husband for cheating on her even though she was the perfect wife. He was just so young and talented. She then fled after leaving a check. Later, when she ran i...
