Obsessed

Chapter 28

The ballroom sparkled under the low golden lights, glittering chandeliers swaying subtly from the movement below. Waiters in crisp uniforms weaved through the tables with trays of champagne, and a string quartet played softly near the stage. Mark and Ronnie sat at a round table covered in a snow-white cloth and navy-blue accents, their place cards adorned with gold calligraphy.

Mark had pulled out Ronnie’s chair like a gentleman, and now sat beside her, one arm resting behind her seat as they chatted casually with a few fellow officers. Ronnie felt the weight of her gown and attention all around her, but somehow with Mark so close, it felt manageable—almost enjoyable.

She sipped from her wine glass, watching as Jackson tried his best to steal the spotlight from the real award contenders, making jokes and winking at anyone who made eye contact with him.

“Why do I feel like he’s going to flirt with the commissioner’s wife before the night ends?” Ronnie muttered to Mark.

Mark smirked. “Because he absolutely is.”

The low hum of the crowd softened as the commissioner made his way to the podium at the center of the stage. The string quartet paused. A spotlight clicked on, and Commissioner Reynolds adjusted the mic with the ease of a man used to commanding attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his deep voice carrying through the room, “thank you for joining us tonight at our annual Blue Ribbon Ball. This evening is about more than tuxedos and hors d'oeuvres. It’s about the men and women who dedicate their lives to keeping our city safe. And tonight—we honor some of those brave individuals.”

Applause rippled through the room.

Ronnie shifted in her seat, glancing at Mark. He didn’t look nervous. He looked… steady. Solid. The kind of man used to running into danger without hesitation, but squirmed a little when he had to wear a tie.

Reynolds continued. “This year, we’ve faced more than our share of challenges. But among those challenges, we saw heroism. We saw leadership. We saw excellence.”

One by one, officers and detectives were called up. Awards for bravery, for community outreach, for going above and beyond.

Then: “Detective Markus Marshalls.”

Mark blinked, surprised. Ronnie smiled.

He rose from his seat, buttoned his vest, and gave Ronnie a look that said I didn’t know about this before heading to the stage.

Reynolds smiled as Mark approached. “Detective Marshalls has led the investigation into a series of horrifying serial crimes. And though the case is ongoing, his determination, resourcefulness, and leadership have already saved lives. Detective Marshalls is this year’s recipient of the Blue Ribbon Award for Investigative Excellence.”

Applause thundered through the room. Jackson whistled obnoxiously from the table.

Mark accepted the plaque with a nod, his jaw tight, eyes scanning the crowd once before settling briefly on Ronnie. The look he gave her wasn’t pride or showmanship—it was quieter than that. A shared moment of silent acknowledgment. This is ours too.

Back at the table, Ronnie stood to clap for him as he returned. When he sat down, she leaned closer and whispered, “Detective Marshalls. I didn’t realize I was sitting next to a local hero.”

He smirked. “Let’s not get carried away.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I don’t blush.”

“You’re definitely blushing.”

“I just don’t like speeches,” he muttered, reaching for his wine.

Ronnie grinned, but her expression softened as she looked at the plaque. “You earned it, Mark.”

His gaze dropped to her lips for a moment, just as the lights dimmed again and the next award was announced.

The rest of dinner flowed effortlessly. Dishes of herb-crusted chicken and risotto were served, followed by delicate chocolate soufflés and espresso. The conversation at their table ranged from precinct gossip to joking predictions about who would slip trying to dance next.

When Commissioner Reynolds returned to the mic for his final remarks, there was a lull in the room again.

“Before we conclude,” he said, “I want to acknowledge someone else. Someone who, while not wearing a badge, has been instrumental in our work this year.”

Ronnie’s stomach dipped.

“She’s a psychologist, a consultant, and frankly, the smartest person in any room she walks into. Her insight has been invaluable to our investigation.”

Ronnie’s eyes widened. Her fingers curled around her napkin.

Mark nudged her gently. “That’s you, Summers.”

Reynolds looked her way. “Veronica Summers, would you join me on stage?”

A few people clapped, then more. The spotlight turned toward their table.

Ronnie blinked, trying to breathe through the sudden rush of heat in her chest. She stood slowly, smoothing her dress and willing her legs not to tremble. Mark gave her a small nod, his hand brushing against hers as she passed.

The applause followed her as she stepped up on stage. Reynolds handed her a small, glass trophy etched with the words: Community Impact Recognition.

Ronnie took the mic with both hands. Her voice was soft at first.

“I—uh. I don’t usually do speeches,”

A few people laughed lightly.

“But I’m honored. And... grateful to be part of something that matters. I never planned on working with law enforcement, but I’ve seen firsthand what this team is capable of. I’m proud to support that. And I promise—I’m not done yet.”

Applause again. She gave a shy smile and stepped down.

When she sat back beside Mark, her hands were shaking a little. He leaned close and murmured, “You crushed that.”

“I didn’t throw up,” she whispered back. “That’s my definition of crushing it.”

The night air was crisp as Mark pulled out of the lot, the headlights cutting a path through the quiet streets. Ronnie sat in the passenger seat, her legs curled beneath her, her cheek resting on her hand as she stared out the window with a contented sigh. The wine from dinner had settled into her veins, softening the sharp edges of her mind. She wasn’t drunk—just buzzed enough to let the warmth of the evening linger in her chest.

Mark glanced over at her as they pulled into her driveway. Her braid had loosened over the course of the night, several platinum strands spilling around her face, glowing under the porch light.

She looked over at him with a little smile. “You wanna come in for a drink? We should celebrate our shiny new trophies.”

He chuckled, “I would love to, but I need to get out of this gorilla suit before it suffocates me.”

Ronnie giggled and poked him lightly in the arm. “Come on. One drink. Then you can flee the scene and dramatically tear off your tie in the comfort of your own home.”

He groaned softly when she pouted her lip and batted those ridiculously ice-blue eyes at him. “You fight dirty, Summers.”

“I fight effective.”

He sighed, trying to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Fine. One drink. But if I end up wearing this thing for another hour, I’m blaming you.”

“I’ll take full responsibility,” she chirped, hopping out of the car.

Inside, Ronnie immediately kicked off her heels with a relieved groan and tossed her jacket over a nearby chair. She wiggled her toes on the cool hardwood floor as she padded toward the kitchen.

Mark closed and locked the door behind them, loosening his tie as he looked around. Her house always smelled faintly of vanilla and something warm—lavender, maybe. Comforting. Familiar.

From the kitchen, he heard her laugh. “Is drinking more really a good idea?”

She peeked around the corner, one hand on the wall, eyes bright. “I don’t get to drink this often. I’m going to enjoy it while I can.”

He raised an eyebrow, watching as she disappeared back into the kitchen.

Moments later, she returned with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. She carried them like some kind of wine fairy goddess, hips swaying, her braid falling over her shoulder. Mark had already taken a seat on the couch, arms spread along the backrest, one leg draped casually over the other.

Ronnie handed him a glass, then poured herself one. Before she sat, she hiked her dress up just a few inches—enough to reveal more of her leg and the soft, pale line of her hip.

Mark’s pulse quickened.

She sank down beside him, her bare thigh brushing his dress pants. “Cheers,” she said softly, tapping her glass against his.

They sipped.

Drunk Ronnie was… different. Looser. More playful. She leaned into him, tucking one leg under herself, eyes curious and relaxed.

“Can I ask you something?” she murmured after a moment.

He looked over. “You just did.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “You were a top-secret Special Ops guy. Like, real Jason Bourne energy. What was that like?”

Mark looked into his glass for a second. “It was… intense. Structured. Sometimes terrifying.”

Ronnie tilted her head. “Were you ever scared?”

“Every damn time.”

She blinked at that. “You don’t seem like the kind of man who gets scared.”

He chuckled quietly. “Everyone gets scared, Ronnie. The difference is whether or not you freeze.”

She took another sip, her lips pursed in thought. “Did you lose people?”

Mark’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. Too many.”

Ronnie leaned in slightly, her hand brushing his forearm. “I’m sorry.”

He gave her a small nod, then looked back at her—her soft, flushed cheeks, her hair falling loosely across one eye. Something in the air shifted. Thickened. Slowed.

Her voice dropped. “You never talk about it.”

“Don't really like talking about it.”

She reached up and gently tugged on his tie, her fingers curling around the fabric. His heart stuttered.

“Maybe you should,” she whispered.

Then she kissed him.

Her lips were soft. Sweet. Full of desire and warmth and the silent scream of someone who’d spent years pretending she didn’t want things too badly. Mark inhaled sharply against her mouth, one hand instinctively sliding around her waist. She tasted like whiskey and something sweet. He felt himself giving in—just a little—until reason kicked in like a cold slap.

He pulled back gently, fingers trembling as they slipped away from her side.

She blinked up at him, breathless. “What’s wrong?”

He struggled to steady his voice. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk.” she leaned back in kissing his neck.

“You are,” he groaned quietly gently pulling back. “And I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

She stared at him, lips still parted, the flush in her cheeks deepening—not from desire now, but embarrassment. She looked down, retreating slightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey.” His hand lifted, two fingers gently tilting her chin until she met his eyes again. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Her eyes searched his.

“I want this,” he said. “God, Ronnie, I want you. More than anything. But not like this. Not when you’re drunk and not thinking straight.”

She gave a small smile. “You’re kind of infuriating, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

She nestled against his side, her head resting on his chest. He hesitated for half a second, then wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Her body was soft and warm, her breathing steadying as she sank into him.

“Your heart’s beating really fast,” she mumbled.

“Yeah, well… you’re not exactly easy to resist.”

She giggled softly and closed her eyes. Within minutes, her breathing evened out. She’d fallen asleep.

Mark sat there for a long moment, not moving. Just holding her.

Then, carefully, he slipped one arm under her legs and lifted her with ease. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake. He carried her up the stairs, past the quiet hum of the hallway nightlight, and into her room.

Laying her down gently, he pulled the covers over her, adjusting them to drape over her shoulders. She curled on her side, a peaceful expression on her face. Mark stood there, just watching her for a moment—admiring the strength in her softness, the way she let her guard down around him.

Without thinking, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

He lingered too long.

Every cell in his body screamed at him to stay. To slide under the covers. To hold her until morning.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he forced himself to turn away, heading down the stairs. He made sure the door was locked, the alarm set, and the lights off.

Then he walked out into the cold night, the stars above a sharp contrast to the fire still burning inside him.

At home, he stripped out of his suit, dropped his tie on the counter, and headed straight for the shower. The water was ice-cold.

It needed to be.