HIS FIRST LADY(SANDRO MARCOS)

Chapter 25: You Need Looking After

"I can't prove it," James says, cursing under his breath. "I wrote things down, but I didn't take any pictures."

"It's okay," I assure him. "This is a good lead."

"Funny," James says, chuckling. "That's what he said too."

"Who?" I ask.

"Me," Sandro answers from behind, his voice so clear and sudden that I nearly jump out of my skin. My wobbling ankle betrays me, but Miles is beside me in an instant, steadying me with a hand on the small of my back, as if it was meant to be there. "Easy now."

Heat rushes to my cheeks.

James smirks slightly. "I think I hear Mr. Carter calling me..." He quickly makes his exit from the stable.

"It's not...!" I call after him, but he's already gone. I finish weakly, "... what you think."

Sandro arches an eyebrow mischievously. "And what exactly does he think this is, Rafha?"

I ignore the teasing and straighten up, inching slightly away from him. He doesn't try to close the gap.

"Shouldn't you be giving a speech or something?" I ask. "I heard Mr. Carter singing your praises."

"A speech seemed unnecessary," Sandro replies, a hint of amusement still in his voice. "Mr. Carter was more than happy to do it for me."

"He does love his speeches," I admit.

Sandro hums, but his tone shifts, tinged with concern. "I stopped by the medical tent only to find out you were climbing a mountainside."

I roll my eyes. "It was a hill, not a mountain."

"You shouldn't be walking on that ankle. I spoke to the medical staff."

"I'm a grown woman, Sandro. I can take care of myself."

He steps closer, erasing the small distance I had created. "Then why do you keep acting like you need looking after?"

"I'm perfectly independent, thank you very much," I snap back.

"Out of necessity, perhaps—because you chose an ape for a husband—but not because you want to be," he counters.

I try to step back, but my movement is blocked by the closed door of an empty paddock. Sandro steps closer still, boxing me in by leaning his arm on the door to my left and placing his hand flat against the wood on my right.

"You can admit that you like having someone take care of you," he says softly, his eyes dropping to my lips. Instinctively, I lick them. "I already know the truth."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh?" He leans in, his voice dropping even lower. "Do you need me to remind you how you begged for my touch? How you moaned when I spread your legs and—"

"Enough!" I gasp, cutting him off.

His smile turns wicked. "You remember, don't you? The way you writhed beneath me..." His breath is warm against my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

I'm instantly transported back to that night: my legs spread wide, Sandro buried between them, his tongue relentless and demanding. I remember clawing at the sheets, screaming from the overwhelming pleasure, trying to buck away, only for him to hold me down and make sure I was fully satisfied. Cared for.

It's too much—the memory, his closeness, the way I still want him...

But then Ash warning echoes in my mind: *He will never want you.*

I place my hands on Sandro chest and push him back. He steps away easily, giving me space without resistance. He would never force me, and that knowledge only makes it hurt more.

I turn abruptly and head outside, needing the cool, fresh air to clear my head and calm my racing heart.

Sandro follows a moment later. We stand side by side in silence, looking out at the crowd gathered in the clubhouse courtyard. Ash is there, searching the area, likely looking for Sandro . In the distance, I spot Samuel and Kaylee , dancing without a care in the world.

Surprisingly, it doesn't hurt to see them together anymore. Instead, I just feel numb.

It's like I'm living someone else's life—disconnected, adrift in a reality that doesn't quite feel real.

Ten years ago, I thought Samuel was my soulmate. I was such a fool.

I don't know if I'll ever forgive myself for being so naïve.

"Asshole," Sandro mutters. "He's the worst kind of scumbag."

I glance at him, seeing the fierce glare directed at the same spot I was staring at moments ago. He could be talking about anyone in the crowd, but I know he's focused on Samuel .

"How can he be so casual about his affair?" Sandro seethes. "Not to mention the fact that you nearly died today, and he hasn't even checked on you once."

"No," I say quietly.

"No," Sandro repeats, disgust lacing his tone. "Instead, he's parading around with his new trophy like she's something to show off."

"She is," I say bitterly. "She's my father's real daughter."

"His biological daughter," Sandro corrects. "That's not the same as real."

I appreciate his sentiment, but he doesn't fully grasp the complexities of my family or what Samuel values. It's too complicated to explain it all here, to a man I barely know—except for the feel of his body, the touch of his hands and mouth.

"You need to divorce him," Sandro says firmly.

"It's not that simple," I reply.

His eyes flash with frustration. "Why not?"

I give him a sad smile. I remember being twenty-five, full of youthful idealism and black-and-white views of the world. Back then, everything seemed straightforward and uncomplicated. But with age comes the awareness of nuance, of the collateral damage certain choices can inflict.

Sandro has no children; he can't fully comprehend the paralyzing fear of potentially losing mine.

But maybe I'm being unfair by lumping him in with others who don't understand. Sandro is his own person, deserving of his own chance to prove himself.

"I have two daughters" I say softly. "They're so smart, so talented. loves painting." My voice falters. "If I leave Samuel without a solid plan, he could drag me to court, use his status and connections to label me an unfit mother. I could lose everything..."

Sandro remains silent for a long moment, deep in thought. When I glance at him, I see that he's genuinely considering what I've said.

"Do you understand now?" I ask. "Why I can't just walk away? The stakes are too high. I can't risk losing my girls."

Sandro's jaw tightens, and his expression hardens. "He's the worst kind of villain, trying to take your children from you."

I don't respond, because I can't disagree.

He frowns, deep in thought for another moment, before a look of determination settles over him. When he finally meets my gaze again, there's a steely resolve in his eyes.

"I'll help you," he declares.