HIS FIRST LADY(SANDRO MARCOS)

Chapter 30: Challenge Accepted

"This chick really thinks she can win?" one of the guests sneers as I head back to the golf cart where Vincent sits behind the wheel. "Honey, prepare to have your mind blown."

As I settle into the passenger seat, Vincent glances at me. "You've chosen a... unique way to handle this situation."

"Without security, I had to think on my feet," I explain.

Vincent nods thoughtfully. "I appreciate your quick thinking. And your confidence. Are you sure you can beat them?"

"I have to," I reply.

"They could be professional golfers," Vincent suggests.

"They're not," I say firmly. "Professional golfers wouldn't treat their caddies like this."

Vincent hums in agreement and drives us to the next hole.

Our challenge hole is a par 3, meaning it should ideally be completed with two swings and a putt, totaling three strokes.

The distance from the tee to the green isn't long enough to justify using a driver, but the first rude guest insists on it. He swings, and the ball flies past the green, landing in the rough on the other side. He could still make par, but he's at a disadvantage. The rough is much tougher to play from than the fairway.

The next three guests learn from his mistake and choose more appropriate clubs. However, better clubs can't compensate for poor swings. Two of them send their balls wide—one to the left and the other to the right. The last one lands his ball on the fairway, but it's perilously close to a bunker. He'll have to chip it carefully to avoid landing in the sand.

Then it's Vincent turn. He swings with perfect form, and the ball lands neatly on the green, just a few feet from the hole. If he makes the putt, he'll score a birdie—one stroke under par, an impressive feat.

Thankfully, Vincent isn't one of my competitors.

As he returns to the cart, I stand with my club in hand, preparing to take my shot.

"Kick their asses," he whispers as we pass each other, his words lighting a fire within me.

I grip my 7-iron and set my ball on the tee. The distance is 180 yards—well within my comfort zone for this club. I haven't played this specific hole in years, but I know this distance from countless hours at the driving range.

I line up the shot and swing. The connection is flawless. It might be the best swing I've ever executed. The ball soars down the fairway, straight and true. It lands softly on the green, bounces once, and rolls straight into the hole.

My jaw drops. I almost let go of my club.

A hole in one.

"Holy shit," one of the guests mutters.

Another angrily throws his club to the ground.

"Cheater!" the third one shouts, but the fourth guest turns on him.

"Idiot! How could she have cheated? We all saw it go in!"

"I believe," I say confidently, "that makes me the winner."

Since none of them managed to sink their ball in one stroke like I did, they've already lost.

The caddies, who have been hanging back during the whole scene, look relieved. They've been silent throughout, simply carrying bags without offering any advice. I motion them forward.

"As per our agreement, you'll now apologize to these country club employees and leave the premises without causing any more trouble."

"Now listen here," begins the loudest of the guests.

But before he can continue, Vincent steps beside me, arms crossed, glaring at them.

"I provided Mrs. Samson with the guest list," he says, his voice laced with displeasure. "When I did, I didn't realize the list included children. Perhaps you'd prefer not to be invited to future events?"

The guests blanch, the loudest one immediately closing his mouth.

"At this rate, you'll be lucky if I or my network ever want anything to do with you again," Vincent adds. "But your next actions will determine that for sure."

After exchanging anxious glances, the guests reluctantly approach the caddies and mutter a half-hearted "sorry." It's not sincere, but it satisfies the terms of our challenge.

With the apology out of the way, they head toward the clubhouse, the caddies following with their bags. One of the caddies nods gratefully at me as they pass.

Vincent and I return to our golf cart.

"I still need to finish playing through," Vincent says.

On the green, he sinks his putt, scoring a birdie—a strong result for the hole.

With his birdie and my hole-in-one, our scores are tied for the holes we've played so far.

As we compare scorecards, Vincent grins.

"You're truly talented," he says. "I thought I was good, but here you are, matching me shot for shot. I'm impressed." He gives me a subtle, appreciative once-over. "There's a lot about you that impresses me."

It feels good to have my skills recognized after years of Samuel tearing me down. According to him, I'm a failure at everything. Yet here's Vincent , offering genuine praise as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

I accept his compliment with a simple, "Thank you."

But deep down, his words make me miss Sandro. He doesn't even know I can play golf. Would he have cheered for me if he'd seen that hole-in-one? Would he have wrapped me in his arms, spinning me around until we both laughed? Would he have given me compliments that made me blush?

I shake my head, chastising myself. What does it matter what Sandro would or wouldn't do? He's not here. I pushed him away, and now he probably never will be.

I need to stop letting thoughts of him creep into my mind at every opportunity. It's frustrating how he still lingers there.

"Eight holes left," Vincent says, pulling me back to the present. "How about we make things more interesting between the two of us?"

I raise an eyebrow. "What do you have in mind?"

Vincent eyes gleam with mischief as he smiles. Oh, he's definitely up to something.