HIS FIRST LADY(SANDRO MARCOS)

Chapter 29: When The Alcohol Flows

Surprised by Vincent's request, I have no reason to refuse, so I don't.

For the next week, I work behind the scenes to plan Vincent's event. He sends over the guest list as requested. Aside from one shellfish allergy, the list is fairly straightforward. I recognize many of the names—anchors from the news channel, frequent guests, and several prominent politicians. These are people who have attended countless events and know the routine. They expect a certain level of quality, but they're not looking for fanfare. Mostly, they just want to drink beer and golf.

My job is to make sure everything runs smoothly so everyone can network and enjoy themselves.

The only name that truly concerns me is Ash. Given her career as a journalist, I'm not surprised to see her on the list. Thankfully, Sandro isn't. I assume Ash and I can avoid each other entirely. I doubt we'll even need to speak.

By the time the event day arrives, everything is perfect. The wait staff, eager for the generous tips this crowd might bring, show up on time and ready. The greenkeepers are justifiably proud—the course looks lush and pristine.

We've arranged stations throughout the course where golfers can relax under large umbrellas and enjoy refreshments. The bathrooms, scattered around the course, have been meticulously cleaned.

I drive through the course in my golf cart, inspecting every detail. There will be no mishaps like at the mounted shooting event—no stray boars or spooked horses. I even had game wardens sweep the grounds over the past week, ensuring nothing was out of place.

Everything appears to be ready.

The only potential issue that could spoil things is the guests themselves. That's always a concern. People aren't as easily managed as grass length or cart placements—especially once the alcohol starts flowing. Even the most dignified individuals can become unruly after a few drinks, and those corrupted by power are often the worst.

But I stay optimistic.

My worries fade as soon as Vincent arrives. He looks like a professional golfer in his light blue polo and crisp pants. The watch on his wrist probably costs more than my car, though he doesn't flaunt it, often tucking his hands into his pockets.

He's quickly surrounded by guests, greeting each with a warm smile—though I notice he doesn't extend his hand for a handshake, keeping his hands in his pockets instead.

Eventually, he spots me and makes his way over.

"I hope you brought your clubs," he says with a smile.

"They're already on the cart," I reply. Fortunately, Samuel didn't notice last night when I took my golf bag from the garage. He was too busy ogling my sister in her tight yoga pants while she exercised in the living room.

"Great," Vincent says. "Let's get started."

Vincent and I ride in one golf cart, while two of his executive friends, who round out our foursome, take another. The two brothers spend most of their time arguing and largely ignore us.

"They're brothers," Vincent explains as we head to the second tee. "Their mother's complained that they only talk when forced to. I thought pairing them up might help. At least they're talking."

"Arguing, more like," I comment.

"Any exchange of words is a good one, according to their mother."

I chuckle. "You're kind to accommodate them."

"It's really for their mother's sake." He laughs softly. "I'm no hero, Rafha. I just want to stay on her good side."

"Who is their mother?" I ask.

Vincent glances at me as he parks the golf cart near the tee box. "Senator Grace."

I gasp. "That makes sense." Her name had caught my attention on the guest list, but I dismissed it as a common surname.

"Senator Grace is a great advocate for the network," Vincent says. "She's always willing to give soundbites and opinions. The public loves her."

My father would get along well with Vincent—they both see the angles without being malicious.

"If I can keep her happy and get her sons to talk, it's a win-win," Vincent says as he steps up to the tee. He swings, sending the ball sailing in a beautiful arc.

Everything runs smoothly—until we reach the ninth hole.

Ahead of us, a group of rowdy guests stand near a small lake, chipping balls into the water.

"Missed the green again," one of them laughs, swinging his club toward the water. "Go fetch it, caddy."

The caddy, a country club employee, goes pale. I can't blame him. While we try to monitor the wildlife here, there could easily be snakes in those waters, and the depth is unclear.

The caddies are well-paid, but not enough to risk snake bites or drowning.

"What's wrong?" another guest sneers, flashing a wad of cash. "You're supposed to do as we say if you want a tip."

"Stop the cart," I tell Hugo, who complies immediately.

With Carter and Chris away, I'm in charge. These are my employees to guide and protect.

No one disrespects my staff on my watch.

I march over to the group. "No one's going into that water," I tell the caddies, who look relieved. This likely isn't the first run-in these guests have had with the caddies. I'll have to investigate further once we're away from these men—or they're away from us.

"Who do you think you are?" the ringleader snarls, staggering toward me. He's clearly drunk.

Great.

"Trying to ruin our fun?"

"No," I reply calmly. "I'm trying to make sure everyone enjoys themselves."

"Bullshit," another man mutters.

I realize these men won't back down quietly, and without security nearby, I need another approach.

"In fact," I say, "I want to challenge you."

The leader blinks, surprised. "What kind of challenge?"

"We play the next hole together. If you do better than me, you can keep doing whatever you're doing."

One of the guys chuckles.

"But if I win," I continue, "you'll apologize to the caddies and leave the premises quietly."

The four men exchange glances, then smirk at me. "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into, sweetheart."

I could say the same to them.