Chapter Text
The suffocating Texas heat was finally fading with the last rays of the setting sun, giving way to a mild breeze that made the linen curtains at the open window ripple. Ted Garcia let out a weary sigh as he sank into his worn yet perfectly comfortable armchair. His steaming cup of tea—Earl Grey, as always—rested on the elegant mahogany side table his wife had once chosen, in a life that now felt as though it belonged to someone else.
He closed his eyes for a few moments, savoring this rare instant of peace after a day that had drained him of every ounce of energy. The small gathering organized for his political campaign had demanded weeks of meticulous preparation: coordinating the caterers, ensuring every detail met the still-enforced health protocols, verifying that those hired to enforce those protocols were truly competent. It had been a constant balancing act between public responsibility and the yearning for normalcy.
Everything had gone off without a hitch, or so his advisors—always eager to reassure him with smiles that lingered a little too long—had insisted. But that fragile harmony had shattered with the unexpected arrival of Joe Cross, the sheriff with steel in his eyes and convictions carved in stone. Another sigh slipped from Ted’s lips, this one carrying a muted anger and frustration he struggled to contain. That slap… he should never have raised his hand against Joe, even if the man’s unyielding intransigence had grown unbearable in recent months. He shook his head sharply, trying to banish the toxic thoughts that only stoked his rage, then lifted his cup to his lips, letting the comforting warmth of the tea soothe his frayed nerves.
Ted knew nothing of the presence watching him from the gathering dark. A few hundred yards from his stately home, a figure lay hidden among the dry brush scattered across the hillside. Joe Cross, stretched out against the rocky ground still radiating the day’s accumulated heat, had his eye fixed to the scope of his sniper rifle. Years of military service and then law enforcement in this remote corner of Texas had taught him the patience of a hunter, the ability to remain perfectly still for hours while awaiting the right moment.
From his vantage point, he had an unobstructed view of the mayor’s brightly lit living room, framed by wide bay windows that allowed no detail to escape his trained gaze. Each breath was measured, controlled, his finger brushing the trigger with the relaxed ease of a seasoned professional. Yet just as he was about to carry out the task that had brought him here, a flicker in his peripheral vision drew his attention. A figure moved along the path leading to the mayor’s front door, walking with a gait he would have recognized among a thousand.
Joe’s weathered features tightened as he shifted his weapon slightly to get a better view of the intruder. His blood turned to ice when the porch light revealed a face more familiar to him than his own. His daughter. His little girl, who should have been sleeping soundly in her room at this late hour—not wandering the deserted streets on her way to the very man he was about to kill.
The front door creaked open, and Ted appeared in the doorway, his graying hair slightly tousled, dressed in a casual outfit that was unusual for him. The expression that crossed his face upon seeing his nocturnal visitor was a troubling mix of surprise and poorly disguised guilt. His shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly, as though under the weight of a secret too heavy to bear.
Still hidden in his improvised hideout, Joe felt a chill of unease run down his spine. His daughter’s lips moved, but the words were lost in the distance between them. Yet the body language of the two figures spoke louder than any conversation could. There was intimacy in their gestures, a familiarity that should never have existed between the town’s respectable mayor and the sheriff’s daughter.
Joe’s unease curdled into pure terror as he watched his daughter cross the threshold of the Garcia home. Ted cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, scanning the shadows of the street as though afraid of being watched, before shutting the door with suspicious haste. The sharp click of the lock echoed in the silence of the Texas night like a thunderclap in the ears of the horrified father.
With a sudden, jerking movement, Joe abandoned his rifle to seize his military binoculars, fitted with high-definition lenses that would allow him to see more clearly what was unfolding behind those walls. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the focus, silently praying his darkest suspicions would not be confirmed.
Inside the stately home, the atmosphere was electric, charged with a nearly tangible tension that seemed to vibrate in the air between the two of you in the dimly lit living room. The colonial-style furniture, relics of a more respectable age, seemed to watch the scene with mute disapproval. You stood near the cold fireplace, your nervous hands twisting the hem of your summer dress, while Ted paced the Persian rug with the agitation of a caged animal.
Your gaze, usually so expressive, was fixed on the man who had occupied your thoughts for so many years, but he seemed incapable of meeting your eyes. He stared instead at his polished shoes, or at some invisible point on the paneled wall—anything rather than face the silent plea in your eyes.
“Ted…” Your voice, barely more than a whisper, shattered the oppressive silence in the room. You took a hesitant step toward him, your bare feet gliding soundlessly across the polished floor. But Ted instinctively recoiled, as though your very presence posed a mortal danger, as though the fire smoldering inside you might consume him at the slightest touch.
“No… I told you we can’t…” His voice was hoarse, strangled by the emotion he tried in vain to repress. “We should never have gone this far.” Each word seemed torn from his throat like a painful confession. He stubbornly refused to meet your gaze, to witness the wound he inflicted with his words of rejection.
But you were not one to give up easily. Despite the ache twisting your chest, despite the voice urging you to run away to salvage what remained of your dignity, you pressed forward. Slowly, inexorably, you closed the distance until you could raise your hand and brush his stubbled cheek. That touch—so simple, yet so heavy with meaning—struck Ted like a lightning bolt. His defenses crumbled in an instant, and at last he raised his eyes to yours. In your gaze, he could see every emotion you could no longer hide: desire, tenderness, and that raw vulnerability that only love can create. In his own eyes, you read devouring guilt and fear at what you were both living. Time seemed to suspend itself, as though the universe itself were holding its breath.
“Ted, please…” Your voice rose, trembling with emotion you could no longer contain. Words tumbled from your lips, laden with all the love and frustration you carried within you. “I want this… I want to be with you… I love you, and… don’t you feel anything?”
That heartbreaking confession now hovered between you, vulnerable and pathetic in its naked sincerity. You had laid your heart bare, desperately hoping that the man who haunted your days and nights might grant you the smallest piece of reciprocity.
The story of your relationship was etched in your memory like the lines of your palm. It had begun years earlier, with furtive glances exchanged at municipal events, smiles that lingered a little too long, trivial conversations heavy with unspoken meaning. You had been just a young woman in your twenties then, freshly graduated and back in town to care for your widowed father, while he was already a mature, respected man, a pillar of the local community.
For months, you had nurtured this secret flame, content with distant observations and unspoken fantasies. Then fate had intervened, in the form of a broken-down car on a stormy night in the middle of nowhere. Ted, returning late from a meeting in a neighboring county, had found you soaked and shivering at the roadside. What could have been nothing more than a gallant gesture had transformed into something deeper during the ride home—your eyes meeting, your hands brushing “accidentally” when he helped you out of his car.
From that night on, you had stopped being satisfied with admiring him from afar. You began to attend every event where you knew you might see him: neighborhood parties, inaugurations, official ceremonies. A subtle game of seduction grew between you, built of lingering looks, conversations that stretched on, and “innocent” brushes that left you both unsettled.
But the arrival of the pandemic had abruptly ended that fragile dance of seduction. Public gatherings were suspended, social events canceled, and you found yourself trapped in a monotonous routine, eaten away by the frustration of no longer seeing the man who occupied your every thought. In that despair, you had taken an initiative that would change everything: obtaining his phone number, which hadn’t been difficult, given that you had access to your father’s phone.
What had begun with simple messages—official pretexts or local news—quickly grew into something more personal. The polite exchanges gave way to late-night confidences, then to photos and increasingly intimate words. The nights burned with the sound of whispered phone calls that left you breathless, his name trembling on your lips and your heart racing wildly.
That clandestine relationship had lasted for months, fed by the forbidden nature of it all and the impossibility of meeting in person. But recently, things had changed. The stories your father spread—rumors, suspicions woven into his conversations—had clearly reached Ted. He had grown distant, evasive, answering your messages only sparingly. Worse, he openly avoided you when you crossed paths at the supermarket or pharmacy, averting his gaze as though you had become invisible.
That sudden indifference had wounded you more deeply than you cared to admit. A part of you understood his hesitations—you were not naïve to the complications posed by your age difference, his social standing, and above all your identity as Joe Cross’s daughter. But your heart rebelled against such cold logic. For once in your life, you were ready to fight for what you truly wanted, to defy conventions and whispers. That was what had driven you to take your car tonight, to drive all the way to his home, determined to find answers.
“You…” Ted’s voice cracked, laden with emotion he could no longer conceal. “This can’t work… you’re so young, and… you’re Joe’s daughter, besides… what would people say if—”
You didn’t let him finish. In a move as impulsive as it was desperate, you closed the last few inches between you and pressed your lips against his. The kiss was clumsy, laden with all the love and frustration that had built up inside you, a silent cry against the injustice of your situation.
For a heartbeat, Ted froze, his principles and fears warring against the undeniable truth of what he felt. Then, like a dam bursting under pressure, all his resistance collapsed. His arms wrapped around your fragile frame, and his lips finally moved against yours, answering your plea with a passion long suppressed.
But that fleeting moment of pure grace was suddenly, brutally interrupted.