Chapter 4: Disaster Strikes—And So Does Fate

Since the wedding, Owen had been sleeping in the guest room next to his office—what used to be his nap room, but now seemed to be his main bedroom.

The arrangement was unspoken, but comfortable. I had my space, he had his, and neither of us had to pretend.

I felt a little guilty, but mostly relieved. I liked having my freedom.

There was something liberating about not having to tiptoe around someone else’s schedule or habits. I could read late. Eat ice cream in bed. Not worry about anyone judging me.

April, though, was not happy. She kept coming up with ways for me to get closer to the senator. Today, she started again.

She was relentless, always finding new excuses to push us together. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was auditioning for a matchmaking reality show.

“Miss, I heard the senator loves coffee. I picked out this special blend from the governor’s gift basket. I made a fresh pot—you should take it to him.”

She held out the mug like it was a peace offering, her eyes shining with hope. I couldn’t help but smile at her determination.

I replied, “April, not this again. He’s busy. I shouldn’t bother him.”

I tried to sound firm, but she just shook her head, refusing to back down.

“Bother him? You haven’t even tried once!”

She sounded hurt, and I felt a pang of guilt. Maybe I was being too cautious.

Caught, I was a little embarrassed. “Well, since I didn’t go yesterday or the day before, I don’t need to go today.”

My logic was flimsy, and we both knew it. April crossed her arms, her expression stubborn.

April was determined. “You always say he’s got important work, but you’re his wife! You should care, too!”

Her words stung, and I wondered if maybe she was right. Maybe I was hiding behind my fear of rejection.

This girl was getting bolder. I wondered where she was picking this stuff up.

I made a mental note to keep an eye on her—she was learning fast.

Fine. If I kept arguing, I’d never get any peace.

Sometimes, it’s easier to give in than to fight. I grabbed the coffee, determined to make the best of it.

Besides, since the wedding, I hadn’t made any effort to see Owen, which didn’t fit the ‘infatuated wife’ act. I should at least keep up appearances.

I straightened my dress, practiced my best smile, and headed down the hall, coffee in hand.

So I took April’s coffee and headed to his office.

The hallway was quiet. The only sound was the soft padding of my slippers on the hardwood floor. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever came next.

“Senator, Mr. Grant is leaving now.”

The voice was crisp, professional, and I paused outside the door, listening for a response.

When I brought the coffee, Mason Grant was just leaving Owen’s office.

He nodded politely, his eyes lingering on the mug in my hands. I smiled, hoping he’d take it as a sign of goodwill.

He had a serious-sounding name, but he was surprisingly young. And handsome, too.

He looked like the kind of guy who’d run a marathon on Saturday and volunteer at the animal shelter on Sunday. I made a mental note to ask April if he was single.

Mason was the newly appointed state representative for a district up north. That area had just been hit by a record-breaking flood in June—lots of homes and businesses destroyed, people displaced.

The news had been all over the local stations—images of families wading through knee-deep water, volunteers handing out bottled water and blankets. It was the kind of disaster that brought a community together, but also exposed every weakness in the system.

The governor had called him to the capital for a big prayer service, asking for relief for the region.

It was the kind of event that made headlines—politicians in rolled-up sleeves, photo ops with sandbags, and promises to rebuild stronger than before.

According to the plot, Owen would soon volunteer to go with Mason to help with disaster relief. Since Owen was the second male lead, the original novel didn’t go into detail; later, Mason became his right-hand man.

I remembered reading about it—the way the story glossed over the hard work and focused on the drama. I wondered what it would be like to see it up close.

Thinking about this, I couldn’t help but take a closer look at him.

He was talking to one of the staffers, his voice low and steady. There was a quiet strength to him, the kind that made people listen.

“Is he that good-looking?” Owen’s voice came from inside, pulling me back to reality.

I jumped, nearly spilling the coffee. I composed myself, forcing a smile as I stepped inside.

I hurried in with the coffee, forgetting to say anything formal, and just grinned. “Not even close to you.”

The words came out more flirtatious than I intended, but I figured a little charm couldn’t hurt.

“You haven’t seen me for a few days and your flattery’s improved.” He didn’t look up, just kept working.

His tone was dry, but I caught a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

After setting down the coffee, he asked, “Do you know him?”

His question was casual, but I could tell he was paying attention. I shook my head, trying to sound nonchalant.

I answered, “I just heard him introduce himself as Mason Grant, the new state rep. My dad mentioned the flood up north.”

I watched for his reaction, wondering if he’d say more.

Owen seemed interested, finally looking up. “You care about the flood? The governor called him here for the prayer service in three days. What do you think?”

His eyes were sharp. I realized he was testing me. I straightened my shoulders, determined to give a good answer.

Was he testing me?

I felt a surge of adrenaline, like I was back in debate club, ready to argue my point.

While pouring coffee, I chose my words carefully: “I heard the flood’s pretty bad—lots of people lost their homes. No offense, but why is the governor holding a prayer service instead of checking in on the victims?”

I tried to keep my tone respectful, but I couldn’t help the edge in my voice. I’d seen enough disasters to know that action mattered more than words.

Maybe because my words sounded critical, he shot me a sharp look as he took the mug. “Harper, you’re bolder than you look. What would you do if you were in my shoes?”

His question caught me off guard, but I took a deep breath and answered honestly.

Was he really asking me? Didn’t he already plan to go up there for relief? Otherwise, why would Mason be here?

I wondered if he was just looking for validation, or if he really wanted my opinion.

The senator’s hard to read, but I didn’t want to criticize him directly, so I answered, “I wouldn’t know unless I went to see for myself.”

I shrugged, hoping he’d take the hint. Sometimes, the best way to understand a problem is to see it with your own eyes.

Owen’s eyes sparkled. There was a hint of a smile. “Didn’t know you had such insight… In that case, why not come with me?”

His words caught me off guard. For a second, I wondered if I’d misheard him.

Help! I hadn’t seen Owen in days, and now he wanted me on a work trip. Does he really hate seeing me relax?

I tried to protest, but he was already making plans. I resigned myself to my fate, hoping I wouldn’t embarrass myself in front of the whole team.

Turns out I was right. This guy is a workaholic. And he doesn’t want anyone around him slacking off, either.

I packed my bags, trading heels for sneakers and dresses for jeans. It wasn’t exactly the honeymoon I’d imagined, but at least it would be an adventure.

After the prayer service, the governor asked Owen to go north with Mason Grant for disaster relief.

The request was formal, but the urgency was real. People needed help, and Owen was the kind of leader who answered the call.

The senator’s team was set to leave in three days. Owen decided to go up early, undercover, with Mason and his assistant—and of course, me, the unlucky tagalong.

I tried to blend in, wearing a baseball cap and oversized jacket. No one seemed to notice—or care—that I was the senator’s wife.

The situation up north was rough.

The air smelled of mud and wet earth. The kind that clings to your clothes and seeps into your bones. The devastation was everywhere—broken fences, toppled trees, families huddled in makeshift shelters.

The floodwaters had receded a bit, but some homes and trees were still half-submerged, and families were everywhere. The sound of crying kids and anxious parents filled the air.

It was heartbreaking, and I felt a lump in my throat as I watched volunteers handing out blankets and food. The sense of loss was palpable.

We tried to keep a low profile, but Mason was recognized by the locals.

A few people approached him, their voices urgent and pleading. Word spread quickly, and soon a small crowd had gathered.

At first, only a few people gathered to ask if help was coming. Then more and more showed up, hungry and frustrated, demanding answers. Things started to get tense.

The air was thick with desperation. People’s voices rose, tempers flared, and I could feel the tension building like a summer thunderstorm.

Mason did his best to calm everyone, but the crowd got pushy and chaotic.

He spoke with authority, but even his calm couldn’t stem the rising tide of frustration. Someone shoved, and the crowd surged forward.

For the first time, I felt the overwhelming force of a crowd. I was scared and anxious.

My heart raced, and I gripped Owen’s arm, trying to stay close. The noise was deafening, and I could barely hear myself think.

The noise got louder. Suddenly, someone swung a stick—right at me.

I instinctively raised my arm to block it.

Owen grabbed me, shielding my head with his own arm.

His movement was instinctive, protective. I felt a rush of gratitude—and fear—as the stick came down.

I was stunned, then heard a thud—the stick hit Owen’s head.

The sound was sickening, and I gasped, reaching out to steady him.

Mason shouted, “Hey! Do you know who—”

His voice was fierce, and the crowd fell silent for a moment, shocked by the sudden violence.

“Owen!” I yelled, but he just said, “I’m fine. Let’s get out of here.”

His voice was steady, but I could see the pain in his eyes. I grabbed his hand, determined not to let him out of my sight.

Mason forced a path through the crowd, protecting us. Just then, the police arrived. Things finally got under control.

The flashing lights and blaring sirens were both a relief and a reminder of how quickly things could spiral out of control.

Mason arranged for us to get checked out by a doctor.

He moved with efficiency, making sure we were safe before turning his attention to the rest of the team.

Luckily, the blow wasn’t too bad. The doctor said some ice and painkillers would do the trick.

Still, I insisted on staying by Owen’s side, just in case. I could see the swelling already forming on his forehead.

After the doctor left, Mason hurried in to apologize, asking if we should press charges.

His voice was tight with anger, but Owen waved him off, refusing to make a scene.

But Owen didn’t want to punish anyone and didn’t seem to care about the injury, immediately getting back to work and assigning Mason new tasks.

His focus was unwavering, even as he dabbed at the wound with a cold pack. I admired his resilience—even if I thought he was being a little too stoic.

“No need. Write up a full report on the flood damage—property losses, casualties, everything. The more detailed, the better. Try to have it done before the rest of the team arrives.”

His tone was all business, but I could see the fatigue in his eyes. Mason nodded, taking notes as he left the room.

Mason nodded and left. Only Owen and I were left in the room.

The silence was heavy, broken only by the soft hum of the air conditioner. I reached for Owen’s hand, unsure of what to say.

He’d been hurt protecting me. That stick was meant for my head—I owed him a thank you.

My throat felt tight. I swallowed hard, searching for the right words.

But before I could say anything, he reached up to touch his head. I quickly stopped him. “The doctor said don’t touch it.”

I placed my hand gently over his, guiding it away from the bruise. His skin was warm, and I felt a jolt of electricity at the contact.

He didn’t resist. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

His voice was soft, almost tender. I shook my head, blinking back tears.

His hand tightened on mine, and so did my heart.

The gesture was small, but it meant everything. For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of us.

I answered quietly, “Thanks to you, I’m fine.”

My voice was barely above a whisper, but he heard me. He squeezed my hand, then let go.

Owen nodded and let go. “No long-winded speeches today?” he teased.

His tone was teasing, and I couldn’t help but smile. For once, I didn’t feel the need to hide behind flowery words.

He was teasing me for my old habit of fake gratitude. Since he’d saved me, I couldn’t lie.

I shrugged, feeling a little embarrassed. “I guess I’m just grateful, that’s all.”

“Thank you for protecting me. You really are something—risking yourself for me. But please, don’t be so reckless next time.”

I tried to sound stern, but my voice wavered. I didn’t want to see him hurt again.

Owen leaned back in his chair. “That’s it?”

His eyes sparkled, and I felt my cheeks flush. I nodded, not trusting myself to say more.

“Yeah. Also, couldn’t you have blocked it with your arm? Why your head?”

I tried to lighten the mood, but he just shrugged, as if getting hit was no big deal.

He shrugged it off. “Didn’t have time to think. If it happens again, I won’t take the hit.”

His words were matter-of-fact, but I could tell he meant it. I made a mental note to stay out of harm’s way from now on.

He’d mastered the art of saying nothing.

His face was unreadable, but I could sense a hint of pride in his voice.

Fine. At least he didn’t want to punish anyone. If the stick had hit me, things would’ve been much worse.

I let out a sigh of relief, grateful that the worst was over.

So I just replied, “You’re right.”

I squeezed his hand one last time before letting go. Silently promised to be more careful in the future.

But he pressed on: “Anything else you want to say?”

I hesitated, searching for the right words. Finally, I settled on a joke.

Did I miss something? Maybe, “Also… your head’s really hard.”

He snorted, a rare smile breaking through his usual seriousness. I grinned, feeling a little lighter.

Owen only rested half a day before throwing himself right back into work.

He was unstoppable, moving from meeting to meeting with barely a break. I struggled to keep up, but I admired his dedication.

The main team wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, so he was reviewing reports to get ready.

His desk was covered in paperwork, and I watched as he made notes, highlighting key points and jotting down questions in the margins.

Watching him work, I realized he really cared about the people and the disaster. This seemingly cold senator was deeply committed to public service.

It was a side of him I hadn’t seen before—compassionate, driven, and willing to put himself on the line for others. I felt my admiration for him grow.

In my experience, politicians are often more about power than helping people, but Owen was different—he genuinely wanted to do good. I started to see him in a new light.

I thought about all the campaign ads I’d seen, the promises made and broken. Owen was different—he kept his word, even when it hurt.

Maybe I took too long changing his bandage. He noticed I was distracted.

He looked up, eyebrow raised, and I realized I’d been staring. I blushed, quickly looking away.

He looked up. “What are you thinking?”

His voice was gentle, and I felt my defenses slipping.

I answered honestly, “That you’ll probably be a great leader one day.”

The words surprised even me, but I meant them. I saw something in him that went beyond ambition.

“Why do you say that?” he asked, genuinely curious.

His eyes searched mine, and I felt a strange sense of vulnerability.

I replied, “You were hurt but didn’t want to punish anyone. You’re working nonstop to help people. Watching you, I really think you have what it takes.”

I spoke from the heart, hoping he’d believe me.

Owen shook his head, disagreeing. “People come first, then the state, then whoever’s in charge. The flood and the slow response are failures of the system. If I got hurt—even on purpose—what right do I have to complain?”

His words were humble, but there was a fire in his eyes. I realized then that he was driven by something bigger than himself.

He got up, stretched, and stood by the window. “As a public servant, serving the people is my duty,” he said. “Life’s short. If I can bring real change, it’s worth it—even if it costs me everything.”

He spoke with conviction, and I felt a lump in my throat. I’d never met anyone so dedicated to making a difference.

His words hit me hard.

I blinked back tears, suddenly aware of how small my own problems seemed in comparison.

Looking at his back, I really felt the strength of his ideals.

He stood tall, shoulders squared, gazing out at the battered landscape. I felt a surge of pride just being near him.

Compared to that, my own goals seemed small, so I didn’t say anything.

I looked down at my hands, feeling a little ashamed of my earlier worries.

He noticed I was quiet and frowned. I wanted to lighten the mood.

I forced a smile, determined not to let the moment get too heavy.

I patted his shoulder and said, “I thought you were all about romance, but turns out you’re all about the greater good. Guess women just slow you down, huh?”

I tried to sound playful, but my voice was shaky. I hoped he’d take it as a joke.

Owen didn’t appreciate the joke, frowning deeper. “Harper, do you have something against me?”

His voice was sharp, and I realized I’d gone too far. I scrambled to recover.

Sensing he was about to get annoyed, I quickly changed the subject: “No, not at all. My feelings for you are obvious.”

I tried to sound sincere, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced.

He didn’t respond. After a pause, he said, “We’re not in D.C. now… you don’t have to be so formal. Just call me Owen.”

His voice was gentle, and I felt my heart skip a beat. It was the first time he’d invited me to drop the pretense.

I was about to argue, but seeing his serious look, I gave in. “Uh, Owen?” I said, feeling awkward.

The word felt strange on my tongue, but I liked the way it sounded.

He nodded, satisfied. “I’ll be busy tomorrow. It’s not safe for you to follow me everywhere.”

His tone was protective, and I felt a warm glow in my chest.

He paused, so I tried to flatter him: “You’re right. I’ll—”

I trailed off, unsure of what to say next.

“I’ll have Mason get you some men’s clothes. Dress as a staffer and come with me.”

His words caught me off guard, but I couldn’t help but smile. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be so bad after all.

What? Senator, you’re really not following the script.

I shook my head, but secretly, I was excited for the adventure.

After the main team arrived, Owen got even busier, and I, disguised as a staffer, was roped into the relief work.

I traded heels for work boots, learning the ropes alongside the rest of the team. It was exhausting. But strangely rewarding.

Even though he could delegate, after seeing all the suffering, he wanted to be hands-on.

He rolled up his sleeves, working side by side with volunteers and staff. I had to admit—I admired his willingness to get his hands dirty.

Owen really was a responsible leader.

I watched as he comforted families, listened to their stories, and promised to do everything he could to help. It was inspiring.

Every morning, he met with officials to discuss the relief progress and assign new tasks.

The meetings were intense. But Owen kept everyone focused. His leadership was undeniable.

After lunch, the teams in charge of distributing food, funds, rebuilding, and more would come in to discuss details.

I took notes, learning more about disaster relief than I ever thought possible. The work was grueling, but I felt a sense of purpose.

Once everything was set, he’d change into plain clothes and check on things personally—sometimes handing out food, sometimes helping rebuild.

He moved through the camps with quiet authority, offering words of encouragement and hope. People respected him, and it showed.

At night, he’d write up the day’s progress and problems for the governor and for later review.

His reports were thorough, highlighting both successes and areas for improvement. I was impressed by his attention to detail.

He worked late every night.

I often found him hunched over his laptop, eyes red from lack of sleep. I brought him coffee, hoping to make things a little easier.