Jameson Belafonte
Sometimes I wonder if my entire life has been staged for the public eye. My name, my legacy, even the glass of champagne I hold feels more like a performance than a choice.
And then, there's her.
Kennedy Ellis.
She isn't just beautiful. She's a disruption. The kind of woman who shifts the energy in a room without trying — magnetic, regal, with an elegance that feels less like a trend and more like truth. She reminds me of a Kehinde Wiley painting vibrant, arresting, impossible to ignore.
I've seen plenty of women dressed to impress at galas, chasing the title of Mrs. Belafonte. But Kennedy? She looked like she had nothing to prove. And that… intrigued me.
The night had barely ended, and already I found myself replaying the click of her heels on cobblestone, the curve of her smile when she caught me staring, the sharp wit in her voice when she questioned me like no one else ever dared.
"Mayor, you can't just vanish from the gala," Harrison muttered beside me as we slid into the waiting SUV. My aide never missed a chance to remind me that my father's eyes were everywhere.
"I'm not vanishing," I said, watching the hotel entrance as if she might reappear. "I'm making a choice."
"You mean about her?" His voice held a warning.
I didn't answer.
Because yes it was about her.
When Kennedy stepped into the SUV, her presence filled the space with more heat than the February night should allow. She smoothed her gown, pretending composure, but I saw the flicker of nerves in her eyes.
"Where exactly are we going?" she asked, her voice steady but curious.
"D.C.," I said simply.
Her brows shot up. "Excuse me? As in… Washington?"
"Yes," I replied, allowing a slow smile. "I thought we could escape the noise of this city for a night."
She gave me a look sharp, skeptical. "I hope this isn't one of those… sex-party situations."
I laughed, surprised by her bluntness. "What have you heard about me?"
"Enough," she said, folding her arms.
"Well," I leaned closer, "let's hope I can change your mind."
The jet was ready, engines humming low in the background. She climbed the stairs with cautious grace, her gown glittering under the floodlights, and for a moment I just watched. Watched the sway of her hips, the determination in her walk, the way she carried herself as though the world should already know her name.
I followed her aboard, trying not to think about the look my father would give if he knew what I was doing. Another distraction. Another headline. Another mistake.
But when she settled into the leather seat across from me, eyes sparking with both defiance and curiosity, I knew this wasn't a mistake.
"Do you always do this?" Kennedy asked once we were airborne.
"Do what?"
"Whisk women away on jets. Or is this part of the Belafonte charm package?"
I smirked. "You think I do this often?"
"I think you're a politician," she countered smoothly. "Which means everything you do has an angle."
Her words cut sharper than champagne bubbles. Most people laughed at my jokes, melted at my attention, or flattered themselves into believing they were different. Kennedy? She wasn't impressed.
"I won't deny it," I admitted. "Politics is angles. But tonight isn't about strategy."
"Oh?" She tilted her head, studying me like I was on trial. "Then what is tonight about?"
I held her gaze. "You."
Her lips parted slightly, but she didn't look away. And for the first time in a long time, I wasn't sure if I was winning the exchange or losing myself in it.
By the time the jet landed, the air between us was charged. Kennedy didn't say much, but she didn't have to. Her silence wasn't disinterest — it was calculation. She was measuring me, weighing me, deciding if Jameson Belafonte was worth her time.
The SUV ride through D.C. was quiet, the city lights spilling across her face like soft gold. She looked out the window as though she belonged here already, and all I wanted was to see her expression when she realized where we were going.
The car slowed. She turned back to me, brows lifting. "This doesn't look like a hotel."
"It isn't," I said.
We stopped in front of a discreet brick building with a faint glow spilling from behind iron doors. Jazz notes floated faintly into the night.
Kennedy frowned. "Where are we?"
I stepped out, offered my hand, and said, "Bevy's. The best speakeasy in the city. No cameras. No headlines. Just us."
She hesitated, then slipped her hand into mine.
And in that moment with her touch soft but sure against my palm I knew this night was about to change everything.