Chapter 2 The Fundraiser

The lobby of the Marlowe Grand Hotel shimmered like a golden oasis, every inch polished to perfection. Sienna Blake stood at the foot of the spiral staircase, heels sinking slightly into the plush crimson carpet, her breath catching as she took in the grandeur of the high-stakes fundraiser unfolding before her.

Cascading chandeliers poured warm light over rows of tuxedos and glittering gowns. Waiters glided through the crowd with silver trays bearing champagne flutes and tiny hors d'oeuvres that looked more like art than food. This wasn't just a fundraiser. It was theater-and every player on this stage had a role to uphold.

Sienna adjusted the strap of her navy satin dress, the fabric hugging her curves just enough to be elegant, but not scream seduction. She had to look like she belonged here, like she wasn't a journalist undercover but one of them-someone with influence, wealth, and an agenda.

Her press badge had been left in her apartment drawer. Tonight, she wasn't Sienna Blake, investigative reporter.

Tonight, she was Sienna Langford-freelance columnist covering political philanthropy and the women who stood beside powerful men.

She swept into the ballroom with a practiced smile, scanning the crowd. She recognized tech CEOs, Wall Street moguls, even a few celebrities blending into political conversations they barely understood. But she wasn't here for them.

She was here for Senator Lawrence Roth.

And he had just arrived.

The energy in the room shifted as Roth entered, surrounded by aides and flanked by his poised wife, Eleanor, who wore a scarlet gown and an expression of serene detachment. Roth, tall and commanding in his tailored black tuxedo, moved with the confidence of a man who'd never been told "no."

Sienna POV

She watched his every move.

He greeted donors like old friends, cracked jokes with practiced ease, and leaned just enough to suggest attentiveness without ever yielding control. Every smile was calculated. Every laugh was just loud enough.

The man knew how to work a room.

Sienna took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and sipped-not because she needed the drink, but because it gave her an excuse to hover. When Roth turned toward the northern wing of the ballroom, she followed at a respectable distance.

Just as she approached the arched hallway leading to the private VIP lounge, a hand brushed her arm.

"Ms. Langford?"

Sienna turned, feigning surprise.

A slim, well-dressed man in wire-rimmed glasses smiled at her. "Senator Roth's office received your request for an interview. He has a few minutes now, if you're available."

Her heart skipped, but she kept her expression calm. "Of course. I'd be honored."

He led her through the velvet rope and into a quieter corridor, where the noise of the fundraiser softened behind thick drapes. They passed two discreet security guards and entered a luxurious lounge filled with dark leather couches, soft jazz, and chilled bourbon.

And there he was-Lawrence Roth, pouring himself a drink.

"Sienna Langford," he said, turning toward her. "I've heard good things."

She extended her hand. "All true, I'm sure."

He chuckled, warm but rehearsed. "Sit with me. We have... five minutes before I'm due back to charm more wallets."

She crossed her legs and leaned in slightly. "Five minutes is all I need to be unforgettable."

Roth's eyes sparkled with interest, though it was hard to tell if it was flirtation or politics. Possibly both. "Impressive confidence."

"I cover powerful men," she said smoothly. "You learn to mirror them."

He swirled his drink. "That's dangerous."

"I thought politics was about danger," she replied.

Their eyes locked, and for a second, the air between them stiffened.

Then Roth smiled. "So, Ms. Langford, what story are you chasing?"

Sienna POV

She could hear her own heartbeat now.

This was the moment. She had to play it just right-curious enough to dig, careful enough not to raise alarms.

"I'm writing about the relationship between influence and legacy," she said. "Men who build empires not just for power, but for the world they want to leave behind. You've served in war, shaped policy, protected values. What drives a man like that?"

He sat back, studying her. "You flatter me."

"You've earned it."

Roth took a sip of bourbon. "Legacy isn't about what you build. It's about who survives you to tell the story."

Sienna filed that away. "And who tells yours?"

Roth's smile faltered just slightly. "People like you, apparently."

Before she could respond, the door opened and an aide poked his head in. "Senator, they're waiting on you for the speech."

Roth stood, finishing his drink. "Careful, Ms. Langford. Flattery can be a slippery slope. One minute you're asking questions. The next, you're part of the answer."

"I like answers," she said as she rose.

He stepped close enough for her to smell the oak of his bourbon. "Then keep asking the right questions."

And with that, he disappeared back into the chaos.

Sienna exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her fingers itched to reach for her recorder-but it was all mental tonight. Nothing on the record. Nothing official. Just impressions and instincts.

She knew a brush-off when she heard one, but that final line wasn't dismissal. It was a warning-and maybe, a dare.

Later that night

She returned to her apartment in silence, the city lights casting fractured reflections across her living room. She kicked off her heels and poured herself a glass of wine, pacing as she replayed every word, every glance.

Roth was good-too good. But something in his expression when she mentioned legacy had shifted. For a sliver of a moment, she'd seen hesitation. Guilt? Fear?

Or perhaps, memory.

Her laptop sat waiting, and she opened a new document, titling it: Project ROTH – Entry 1.

She began typing, documenting everything: his tone, body language, the drink he preferred, how he avoided giving direct answers, how the woman with him-the poised Eleanor Roth-never once let her eyes drift from the periphery, always watching.

Sienna paused, fingers hovering over the keys.

"Who tells your story?" she whispered, echoing his words.

She would.

No matter how far she had to go.