Page 17 of The Bonventi Rise
“Let’s go win an election.”
10
ALINA
Islice open another box marked "Living Room" and find my throw pillows nestled between bubble wrap. The afternoon sun shines through the floor-to-ceiling windows, highlighting the grain in the hardwood. Forty-seventh floor. The view of Lake Michigan stretches endlessly to my right, while downtown Chicago sprawls to my left.
As I start unpacking, my mind drifts to the whirlwind of the past two weeks. The Harrison scandal exploding, my hasty exit from D.C., and now, this. An 'engagement' to a man I barely know, a state Senate campaign to run, and a whole new life to navigate.
"Well, you wanted the big leagues, Carter," I remind myself. "Didn't specify how to get here."
The sound of my phone buzzing interrupts my thoughts. I fish it out of my pocket, my heart rate picking up when I see Marco's name on the screen.
"Hello?" I answer.
"Alina," Marco's voice comes through, smooth as always. "How's the unpacking going?"
I glance around at the sea of boxes. "It's going," I say. "The apartment is just as beautiful in person, by the way. So thank you for arranging it."
While I was in Washington, I couldn't view places to rent here in Chicago, despite being adamant about not staying at the Capstone and wanting my own place.
I've got to hand it to Marco, he didn't highlight this contradiction, try to delay me, nor make me feel bad. He just told me to send him a list of places and he'd figure it out.
I did, and he asked which was my favorite. I told him, and 12 hours later, I was looking at it over a FaceTime call with him as he followed the person leasing it in and out of the rooms for me to see.
"Of course," he replies. "Only the best for my fiancée," he says, and I can hear the slight traces of humor in his voice.
Fiancée. I know it's fake, but it still feels weird when he mentions it, which is three times more than I have thus far. Actually, I don't think I've mentioned it to him at all.
"Right," I say, clearing my throat. "Was there something you needed?"
"Just checking in," Marco says. "And to remind you about dinner tonight. I'll pick you up at seven."
I'd almost forgotten, with my stuff finally arriving today and moving out of the Capstone. Our first public appearance as a couple, at some swanky restaurant. The thought makes my stomach churn with a mix of anxiety and... something else I can't quite name.
"I'll be ready," I assure him.
"That's a good girl," he says. There's a pause, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower, more intimate. "Wear that red from the gala event you did. It suits you."
I freeze. Those photos were from last year, buried deep in my social media.
I feel my cheeks warm, and a need to react kicks in. "Planning to micromanage my entire life now?"
"Only the parts that matter," he says and hangs up before I can respond. I stare at my phone for a moment, registering my emotions.
I sigh and turn back to the task at hand, determined to at least get the living room unpacked before I need to start getting ready. As I work, I can't help but think about how things ended up playing out.
The Harrison scandal had blown up spectacularly, dominating every news cycle. But true to his word, Marco removed my name and any mention of me from the investigation completely. I'm not sure how he did it, but I'd watched as my former colleagues were dragged through the mud, brought in for questioning, all while I seemed to have escaped relatively unscathed.
Even Jen called me to give me the good news that her sources, whoever they were, said I was no longer a 'person of interest,' and that they suspected I had nothing to do with it. I almost couldn't believe it—one second I was involved, and the next, nothing. It really hit home when I summoned the courage to return my dad's call, but he sent it to voicemail and hasn't tried since. Guess he has nothing to hang over my head now.
Anyway, here I am. In Chicago, publicly engaged to Marco Bonventi, about to run the campaign of my career. It'severything I've ever wanted, wrapped up in a package I never could have imagined.
I have to say "publicly" before the "engaged" part because I need to remind myself that I'm not really engaged. I can't allow my mind to play tricks on me, thinking something's there when it's not. This is a job, albeit a strange, not-so-normal type of job, but it's one nonetheless.
I finish emptying the box I'm working on and add two more to the finished pile before glancing at my phone.
It's later than I thought. I need to start getting ready for dinner.
