HIS FIRST LADY(SANDRO MARCOS)

Chapter 32: Your Wish Is My Command

My request takes Vincent by surprise. He stares at me in disbelief, as if I've grown a second head. Clearly, he wasn't expecting this.

"I want to be a reporter for Harbinger News Network," I clarify. I'm not looking for a receptionist or cleaning job—I want a real position with genuine opportunities to interact with people and build meaningful connections.

These connections could be crucial for my upcoming divorce. To win custody of my children, I need strong recommendations. What better way to obtain these than by forming relationships with well-known individuals?

"Typically," Vincent says, "we would require significant background experience for a reporting position. Do you have a degree in journalism or any relevant experience?"

"I do have a degree in journalism," I reply. However, it's been ten years since I last used it. I don't want to mention my father, but his training in building and maintaining relationships is invaluable and could benefit my case here.

"I've been trained by my father since a young age in how to formulate and maintain relationships. I really believe that, if you give me a chance, I can prove myself."

Hugo rubs his chin thoughtfully. "When I proposed this competition, I didn't anticipate this outcome..."

"Are you going back on your word about granting my wish?" I ask.

"No..." He sighs. "This puts me in a difficult position. I can't offer you a high-ranking reporter job right away; you'll need to prove yourself first. However, we can start you as a junior reporter. You'll begin with simpler assignments and gradually take on more responsibility."

My heart leaps. "Does this mean you're considering it?"

Vincent smiles and, placing his hand on my shoulder, says, "Welcome to the Harbinger team, Rafha."

I gasp in joy and surprise. I thought he might resist or require more convincing, but here he is offering me the position—albeit at a junior level. From here, I can prove myself and work my way up. I will be the best reporter at Harbinger News Network before long.

"Thank you, Vincent. I mean it."

Vincent smile softens. "Your wish is my command."

A small blush rises to my cheeks as I become aware of Vincent hand on my shoulder. His touch is strong and steady, even as it remains gentle.

"Thank you," I say softly, unsure of what else to add. My thoughts are a jumble, trying to make sense of what this might mean.

It doesn't mean anything. It can't. Vincent is just a genuinely nice person.

Don't read too much into this, Rafha!

Lost in self-reproach, I don't notice someone approaching until he speaks. "I hope I'm not interrupting something."

Sandro?!

I turn around to see Sandro storming toward us, his hands clenched into fists. His smirk suggests he might be angry despite his outward demeanor. As he draws closer, his eyes reveal a storm of emotions, making me wonder if he's genuinely upset.

Sandro glances at Vincent hand on my shoulder. "Touching Rafha, are you?" he asks with a teasing lilt, though there's an edge to his tone. "Does that mean you've overcome your fear of women, Vincent?"

Vincent quickly retracts his hand from my shoulder and returns it to his side.

"What are you doing here, Sandro?" I ask. He wasn't on the guest list.

"I heard about your hole-in-one victory from the clubhouse," he says. "I thought I'd come and congratulate you in person."

"Yes, but why were you at the clubhouse?" I press. If he was planning to show up, I would have preferred to be mentally prepared. His sudden appearance has me off-balance.

"Ash invited me," Sandro says. "I assumed neither you nor Vincent would mind my presence. I hope I'm not mistaken."

"I—" I start, but my response falters. Sandro's status and power mean he's always welcome at the club.

Sandro and I both look at Vincent . Since this is Vincent's event, the final decision about Sandro's presence rests with him. Vincent seems extremely uncomfortable, both with the situation and Sandro's presence, making me wonder if there's some tension between them.

They clearly know each other well; it makes sense for the heir to a news network to be familiar with the youngest congressman in history.

Sandro doesn't give Vincent a chance to respond. "Vincent doesn't mind. Honestly, man, I'm happy to see you touching Rafha's shoulder. Rumors swirl about you, you know. I'm always defending you, but they can be harsh. Most people think you've never even had your first kiss."

"Sandro," I say sharply, watching Vincent's usually confident demeanor falter. He looks like he wants to disappear. "That's enough."

I need to take control of the situation, both for Vincent sake and because it's my job.

"Let's go back to the clubhouse to discuss this privately," I suggest.

Vincent shakes his head. "It's fine, Mrs. Samson."

Why the formality? Did Sandro really unsettle Vincent that much?

"I'm used to Representative Marcos showing up unexpectedly," Vincent says, finally meeting my gaze. "But you should be cautious around him."

"There's no need for that," Sandro begins. "I'm a perfect gentleman."

"I'm known for keeping my private life private," Vincent says. "This leads to vicious rumors and suspicions. But Representative Marcos doesn't share the same regard for his many... many female companions."

"What exactly are you implying, Vincent ?" Sandro asks, dropping his friendly facade.

Vincent gives him a flat stare. "Exactly what I'm saying, Sandro. You're a known playboy. Just because I can't say that on air doesn't mean I won't warn my friends about you."

"Is that what you and Rafha are?" Sandro asks, incredulous. "Friends?"

I've had enough. I don't know what's going on between these two men, but I am not some prize to be fought over.

"That's enough, Sandro ," I snapped. "If you two won't join me at the clubhouse, I'll excuse myself."

I head to the golf cart to put away my club. "I trust you'll see my bag back to the clubhouse, Vincent ?"

"Of course," Vincent replies.

"Good."

I walk away from both men, heading toward an employee-only area. I need some time alone to process Sandro's unexpected presence and everything that's transpired.

Unfortunately, I don't get far before someone grabs my arm.

I'm behind one of the outbuildings, out of sight from the clubhouse and golf course, but not quite to the employee break area. There, I find myself surrounded by four very drunk, very angry, and distinctly familiar rude guests.

They hold their clubs like baseball bats.

"Where do you think you're running off to, little miss hole-in-one?" one of them sneers.