Page 40 of Anchor
Claire’s eyes went cool. “I didn’t say that. But I also didn’t say yes. Which means if you print anything under my name, I’ll spend the next three weeks very publicly correcting you.”
A faint red dot blinked on his tablet. Recording. She reached out, tapped the screen with two fingers, and shut it off. His face flickered in surprise.
Claire gave him the kind of smile that iced over. “I teach people how to hear what isn’t said. Don’t confuse polite deflection for neutrality. I’m not neutral. I’m just done talking.”
This time, when she turned away, Spartan and Torch flanked her without missing a beat. The reporter didn’t follow.
Claire exhaled once, steadying herself. The night ahead loomed—the museum, her mother’s campaign stop, the department’s exhibit opening. She still had to get home, change, and step into that world again.
But as Ghostwire’s silent presence cleared the stairwell ahead and Lockjaw fell into place behind her, she knew one thing. This time, she wasn’t walking into her mother’s warzone alone.
CLAIRE’S APARTMENT – 1640 HOURS
Claire stood at her vanity, fastening the small gold earrings her mother had once dismissed as “too loud for proper events.” They caught the light when her chin tilted with a little defiance. The dress she’d chosen lay smooth against her, dark silk flowing like a shadow over her frame. Not the one her mother picked. Exactly the point.
She drew one slow breath, checked her lipstick, and stood back from the mirror. Ready—or as ready as she was going to be.
The knock came, firm but measured.
When she opened the door, Reid was there, a dry-cleaner’s bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes traveled the length of her before he could stop himself, and the corner of his mouth lifted. “That’s quite a dress.”
A pair of Tree Town One operators stood in the hall—Spartan and Torch—dressed in plain clothes, but there was no mistakingthe way they scanned the corridor, watching every angle. They didn’t move or speak, just gave Reid a quick nod.
Claire tipped her head, teasing gently. “I thought you said you weren’t a man who hovered.”
Reid held her gaze, steady and unflinching. Then he lifted the bag between them, almost casually. “Brought the new tux. Ian will want a receipt for the old one.”
Her laugh came easier than she expected. She stepped back, letting him inside while the operators retook their posts, silent shadows marking the line between her world and everything waiting beyond it.
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN – MUSEUM OF ART –1800 HOURS
The black SUV pulled to the curb, headlights cutting across the glass façade of the University of Michigan Museum. Banners for the new exhibit rippled in the evening air, the white marble steps already crowded with donors, faculty, and press.
Torch stepped out first, scanning the perimeter with the ease of someone born to it. Spartan followed, eyes tracking the sidewalk before motioning to Reid.
Reid climbed out, buttoning the fresh tux jacket, then offered his hand to Claire. She took it, her gown sliding from the seat, her earrings glinting beneath the floodlights. For a moment, it looked like any gala entrance, but the operators moving with precision a step behind them gave it a sharper edge.
They mounted the steps together, Claire’s hand brushing the crook of Reid’s arm. And just as the first camera flashes sparked, another car door opened at the curb.
Heather Bowman.
Perfect hair. Perfect smile. Perfect timing. She descended from her town car flanked by staffers, already tilting her chin toward the waiting press. The air thickened, the chatter on the steps shifting toward her like iron to a magnet.
Claire felt Reid’s arm tighten almost imperceptibly under her hand. He didn’t look at Heather; he looked at her, silently asking what she wanted.
Heather’s gaze swept the crowd, then froze. Her smile didn’t falter, but Claire knew her mother too well. The briefest flicker. A calculation behind the eyes when she registered her daughter not only arriving, but arriving on Reid’s arm, gold earrings and all.
The cameras caught it. Every flash, every angle.
Claire inhaled, spine straightening, when the first reporter’s voice rang out, “Senator Bowman, is your daughter joining you tonight?”
Claire stepped forward before her mother could answer. “We are here at the same time,” she said evenly, her voice carrying over the marble steps. “I’m here for my department’s exhibit opening and to support the museum.”
Heather’s smile sharpened by a fraction, just enough for Claire to see the steel beneath.
But Reid didn’t shift, didn’t waver. He stood at her side, calm and immovable, the quiet counterpoint to the storm just starting to roll across the marble steps.
The flashes subsided as the museum staff ushered guests forward, the crowd spilling through the tall glass doors in a stream of glittering gowns and dark suits. The marble swallowedthe noise of the street, trading it for the soft hush of polished floors and murmured greetings echoing under vaulted ceilings.
