HIS FIRST LADY(SANDRO MARCOS)

Chapter 33: Rafha Protector

Being attacked at my own workplace by a group of drunk golfers was not something I had anticipated today. Yet, here I am, facing clubs and fists because I outperformed them on the golf course. They're upset because I didn't let them humiliate my employees and instead embarrassed them with my skills.

If they were sober, they might realize how absurd this situation is. When they sober up later, they might even apologize, but I won't be inclined to accept it, regardless of how this plays out.

"Gentlemen," I say, trying to keep calm. "Please, calm down. Let's talk this through."

I've never been much of a fighter. My father taught me to rely on my words rather than my fists. Usually, this approach works. However, this time...

The hostility radiates from the four rude guests surrounding me. They grip their clubs tightly, showing no interest in talking.

I swallow hard, my nerves frayed and fear escalating.

Think fast, Rafh. There must be a way out of this.

Desperately, I look around, hoping to spot someone who can help de-escalate the situation. Unfortunately, this area is fairly secluded. Unless another employee is on break soon, which seems unlikely, I'm in serious trouble.

"This isn't a big deal," I say, raising my hands in a calming gesture. "Let's go back to the clubhouse. I'll buy you all lunch, and we can discuss this."

"Not a big deal, she says," one of the men grumbles. "You made us look like idiots in front of Vincent! You think you can just walk away from that?"

I didn't make them look bad. They mistreated their caddies and underestimated me, likely because I'm a woman. They set themselves up for failure. Even if I hadn't won, Vincent would have disapproved of their behavior.

"Stop talking and hit her, Gary. There's only one way this bitch will pay for what she's done," says another man, the ringleader from before.

Clearly, these men are not open to dialogue.

Maybe I can run. They're drunk and might stumble. Golf cleats aren't great for running, but it's worth a try.

I'm not going to stand here and let them beat me.

With that thought, I spin on my heel, ready to flee.

I nearly collide with a solid chest. An arm wraps securely around my waist, stabilizing me.

A feeling of safety washes over me. Looking up, I see it's Sandro .

Did he follow me?

I should be annoyed, but instead, relief floods through me. Surely these fools wouldn't continue their attack with a congressman present.

"You seem to have a knack for finding trouble, Rafha," Sandro says with a tight smile.

"Who are you?" Gary demands. "Her pretty boy protector?"

Do these idiots not recognize the youngest congressman in history? Where did Vincent find these guys?

Sandro gently guides me behind him. "Stay back. I'll handle this."

With me safely behind him, Sandro cracks his knuckles and steps forward.

"Sandro, wait!" I call out, but he signals me to stay put. I do.

Gary immediately swings his club at Sandro's head like a baseball bat.

I gasp, fearing for Sandro .

Sandro ducks effortlessly and grabs the club on its backswing, tossing it aside harmlessly.

He disarms the other two men in the same smooth manner. Their drunken state makes them sluggish and easy targets. Sandro moves with such fluidity that it looks like a dance.

The last man, the leader, now appears nervous. His club shakes in his hand.

As Sandro approaches him, the leader drops his club. "I'm sorry! I give up!"

Sandro exhales sharply, unimpressed, and turns to walk back toward me. Behind him, the leader reaches for his club again.

Fear strikes my heart. I dash forward, arm outstretched. "Sandro, watch out!"

Sandro ducks just as the leader swings again. The club narrowly misses Sandro but catches me on the back of my knuckles. I wince, cradling my hand to my chest.

Sandro's eyes widen as he watches me. I could swear they flash with anger as he turns back to the leader.

The leader drops his club again, but this time, Sandro isn't stopping. He strides forward, clenches his fist, and punches the leader squarely on the jaw.

The leader collapses, knocked out cold.

"Get him, and yourselves, out of my sight before I have you arrested," Sandro snaps at the others.

The rude guests quickly scoop up the unconscious leader and hurry away, dropping him a few times in their haste.

Sandro doesn't spare them another glance. His focus is solely on me.

"Your hand," he says, extending his hand toward me.

My knuckles ache fiercely, but the injury is minor. Still, Sandro is determined, and I know how stubborn he can be.

I give him my injured hand. He inspects my wounds carefully. One of my knuckles is scraped, but otherwise, I'm fine. Sandro, however, looks at me as though I've suffered a serious injury.

"We need to clean this up," he says firmly. "Now."

That seems a bit excessive, but given the broken skin, it's probably best to be cautious.

"There's a first aid kit near the standalone bathrooms. Follow me," I say, lifting my hand away and starting to walk. Sandro falls into step beside me, vigilant of both me and our surroundings. I appreciate his attention, though I don't expect any further trouble from those men.

To be fair, I didn't expect them to act the way they did either.

Maybe Sandro's caution is justified.

We reach the bathrooms, separated into two halves—one for men and one for women, though each contains only a single-use stall.

I grab the first aid kit from the men's room and head toward the women's room. "I'll be right back," I tell Sandro as I enter.

Sandro follows me in and locks the door behind him.

I raise an eyebrow.

"You'll need help to clean that properly," he says, guiding me to the sink and turning on the water. Gently, he takes my hand and places it under the running water. As I hold it there, he opens the first aid kit, removes the cleaning ointment and a bandage.

"Here," he says, handing me the ointment. I give him my hand, and he dries it carefully with a towel before applying the ointment. It stings, and I wince, but he continues, meticulously covering all the broken and reddened skin. He then applies the bandage with equal care.

"Thanks," I say, expecting him to let go of my hand.

Instead, he leans down and presses his lips over the bandage.

He lingers there long enough for me to blush, my face burning.

With his lips still on my hand, he looks up at me.

There's a promise in his eyes, in this quiet, intimate moment in the locked room.

My heart races.

Does he mean...?

Is he thinking that...?

Are we about to be intimate?