The ballroom lights were dazzling, bouncing off camera flashes as the crowd pressed into the lobby. Everyone was buzzing—the president had just wrapped his speech, his second-term victory still hanging in the air.

I slipped through the clusters of aides and photographers, when I spotted him. Zion Sinclair—the president’s son—leaning against a marble column, half-shadowed, watching the chaos with a detached air.

I drew in a breath, my journalist’s instincts sparking. “Mr. Sinclair? Would you mind a quick interview?”

He glanced up, eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made my chest tighten. For a second, his lips curved—something between a smirk and a genuine smile. “Sure. Fire away.”

I lifted my recorder, trying to focus over the noise. “How does it feel, seeing your father re-elected tonight?”

Before he could answer, someone jostled past—shoulder slamming into me hard enough to knock me off balance. The floor seemed to lurch up to meet me.

But I never hit it. Strong hands caught me by the waist, pulling me upright. Suddenly, I was pressed close, his grip steady, his gaze fixed on mine.

“Careful,” Zion murmured, voice low despite the din. His eyes searched my face like he’d already known me longer than a minute.

For a heartbeat, the shouting, the flashes, the crowd—it all faded. It was just the two of us, held in place by something neither of us could quite name.