Earlier: Poltical machinations crush Vegeta and Bulma's engagement, sending those around them into a tailspin.

Vegeta cycled through bouts of insomnia and relatively normal sleep. Rising early never came naturally, though. From childhood, he trained himself to shake off the brutal fogginess to assist with his brother and mother's needs, in addition to his own. Cricket's body clock treated her kindly, giving her an edge to be the wide-eyed, energetic, large-breakfast-cooking mother before the boys left for school. That circadian luck also extended to her workday, as she could nap between designing and sewing in a durable work shed a church friend built. The boys would then be greeted after school with that same vigor. As Brooks' drug addiction worsened, these rhythms developed large cracks, tiring everyone.

Cricket hid cash like a squirrel with acorns. Eventually, Beau Yardley Sr. secretly "encouraged" a local bank manager to open credit account in her name only, as husbands or other men were usually required to approve such actions in those days. She also kept a modest savings account, which Brooks knew nothing about. Vegeta's mind sifted through these ceramic tiles of family life. After breaking up with Bulma, though he missed her intensely, getting on with the business of living took priority. He dug into more work at Black Orchid, weighting whether to buy the building next door, but also kept his promises to Bulla and Tarble. When he couldn't sleep, his workdays started earlier – sometimes at three or four a.m. Afternoons were left for his employees to handle on their own.

Slumber didn't stick with him overnight, so he prepared for work after finishing a book. Bulla awakened with her usual shiny smile as Vegeta kissed a spot where he wouldn't get a mouthful of hair.

"Go back to sleep, princess."

"You just woke me up," she said, yawning. "Kind of defeats the purpose of being in my room, daddy. Why don't you stay for breakfast? You've left in the dark all week. Aren't you tired? You should stop being alone when you're at the store this early."

Vegeta pulled the sheets over Bulla's shoulders, declining her challenge to verbally joust. "Do I look like I'm tired? Starting earlier today means I can leave earlier to get you from school. Just be ready for jogging with me."

Hours later, a young police officer arrived at the house, intercepting Bulla's school bus. From the moment he said, "I'm sorry, Miss Rutledge," the girl screamed and screamed and screamed.

Vegeta kept a gun locked in a safe at his office and wore one during those early mornings. Only Nappa knew. Given his upbringing and his military background, he didn't judge. Vegeta also had a good shot and quick reflexes, but neither saved him from taking those four bullets later that morning. Besides Nappa, investigators suspected a reasonably planned affair. That city police detective hadn't lied to reporters about the crime scene's appearance – "being in the wrong place at the wrong time" – but one more shot would have finished off Vegeta. Why didn't the assailant take it?

Josh Marley's smug sneer widened as he strode from his favorite TV station, where interviews usually leaned in his favor no matter what falsehoods and strawman attacks dribbled from his mouth. Ross Ewing, KIBZ's general manager, ensured that popular talk-show hosts didn't challenge Marley or other favored politicians as much during longer interviews. The station's everyday reporters, like others, thought Josh was a dick - especially the women. With solemn eyes and a softer voice, Marley feigned sympathy for Bulma's "tremendous distress over the senseless shooting," deviously guiding his enablers to cast doubt on her mental state and governance. Though they weren't married, Vegeta had become a conspicuous source of public interest in the nastiest of ways - and would continue to be.

Would this calamity force Bulma to temporarily appoint Marley as acting governor? On its face, that kind of doomsday prophesying seemed patently absurd, but the governor's backers and critics ruled out nothing. Marley wouldn't waste time pursuing his agenda if she did, though his powers would still be limited.

Questioning a politician's fitness to lead wasn't inherently bad. Using a not-so-quiet whisper campaign to depict Bulma as a hysterical woman was, however. Ambrose, watching Marley's interview, thanked the universe that the degenerate weasel hadn't learned of Bulma's depression following her breakup with Vegeta. In that respect, Ambrose consoled himself. He had protected her. He also kept his drinking better hidden for months until emptying his flask at the hospital. Vegeta's shooting sent shockwaves through his conscience. How had circumstances reached such a low point? Afterward, he apologized and revealed his relapse struggles to Krillin, who showed the grace for which he was well-known.

A week later, after downing what would be his final glass of alcohol, Ambrose vowed for his and Bulma's sake to crack Marley's fangs. Incredibly, one of New York City's oldest, most prolific, and well-connected private investigators called, offering help. Rightfully distrustful, Ambrose asked why this renowned detective, Fergus Ryan, would leave retirement to assist this mysterious Midwestern crime story.

"Because my daughter Fiona asked me to," the man said. "Makes me feel special."

Ambrose perused online pictures of father and daughter. "You mean the U.S. ambassador to Ireland?"

"Mr. Boone, surely you must know Governor Brief is on the shortlist of many high-profile women - such as my daughter - for a variety of prominent positions. Nothing makes powerful women angrier than having their loved ones targeted violently. They've worked diligently to be where they are in life.

"Indeed, that's true, Mr. Ryan, but -"

Ryan's smooth-as-glass diction conveyed the unshakable confidence of a veteran dealmaker. "Doesn't matter if they're not married. The governor confided her pain over Mr. Rutledge in a friend from Oxford, who also happens to be friends with my daughter. You see where I'm going here?"

Ambrose temporarily muted his phone, throwing an old tennis ball on the wall – a make-do method for managing his stress. "How much money are you asking?"

"Maybe a few quarters for administrative purposes, Mr. Boone, but no charge overall. My conditions are that you meet with no one about this case, even trusted legal counsel, without running key details by me. Shorten your conversations. You're just as much suspect as anyone until the police rule you out."

"I'm not a complete novice, Mr. Ryan," Ambrose replied tetchily. "Shall we discuss my first-year class on criminal procedure in law school?"

"Your legal and political vitae mean zilch," Ryan responded unflappably. "You already believe Josh Marley is involved without having to tell me. See how quickly I've studied the landscape? He's the kind of human garbage whose political rise could be chillingly meteoric, which you still doubt. I never laugh about toddler dictators, even if others do, because one could still become our president. We'd all be fucked then. I would think your acquaintance with Rutger Kamen would have confirmed that concern."

Ambrose paused, choosing to trust his instincts about the detective's intentions, and then continued scanning airline flight times. "Meet me in Crystal Lake, Illinois, in a couple days. It's about fifty miles northwest of Chicago. I have the keys to a friend's second home there. Bring your own groceries, Ryan."

While Ambrose set out on his journey, Krillin stuck close to Bulma, contemplating what that astute New York detective hadn't addressed, but would later. State police officers were expected to be neutral - keeping political beliefs to themselves – to ensure the trust of those they had sworn to protect. Yet rumors about a wider schism in the ranks had spread. Krillin, like Ambrose, kept tabs on the situation through reliable informants. Marley had stepped up his gardening for support, albeit more quietly – a significant concern. Some officers with a stronger distaste for this behavior reminded their brethren of their responsibilities. Local law enforcement, however, was more unified. Open-air violent crime required a swift, aggressive response, regardless of the politics or victims involved. Jefferson City's police chief didn't give two shits about anything else. Some bastard was going to jail on his watch.

Gure anonymously donated fifty thousand dollars for a reward to help capture the shooter. An attorney told news reporters that "a concerned citizen who supports small businesses" offered the money. Gure considered giving more money but didn't want to attract further speculation about her patronage. Tarble's temperament didn't lend itself to extremes, but Gure knew her kind and ever-patient husband would grieve enormously if Vegeta died. Seeing others show how much they cared would help. She also didn't squabble with Tarble about additional the security protection, leaving final decisions to him.

More than a month had passed since Vegeta entered the hospital. Between the surgeries, sedatives and painkillers and physical therapy, his awareness and memory weren't as robust at times, but the medical teams dedicated to his recovery assured loved ones and friends that the core of his personality and intelligence was there to stay. Healing from bodily trauma encompassed more than sewing up injuries.

Despite nonstop responsibilities, Beau Yardley sat at Vegeta's bedside when he could, but not before seeking permission for regular visits. The doctor showed empathetic respect for Vegeta's pride, making it easier to accept the company. Though Vegeta understood everyone's fears, Beau treated him exactly as Cricket would have - and kept him compliant with his medical treatments. Having someone around who didn't appear so sad or scared lifted Vegeta's spirits. Beau, though quintessentially genteel, could be wickedly funny.

Bulma visited or called daily while continuing her in-town and out-of-town duties. Office workers made extra efforts to manage intensifying demands. As Marley came closer the seat of power, even those in his own party who couldn't tolerate him anymore plotted more forcefully. Everyone had the next election – and future ones - to consider.

Writers for some of country's oldest and well-known magazines and newspaers contacted Bulma's communications staff, seeking interviews about her "romance" and "tragedy" and resilience as a female politician. (Everyone said no.) Without doing much more to encourage the publicity, the governor's office received emails from women across the U.S., expressing their support. Donations to Bulma's campaign fund picked up.

Feeling pensive and glum, Bulma shut off the TV in her office. "Vegeta and I aren't even married."

"That can be arranged right quick," Krillin said, champing sedately on a licorice stick. "I don't see the problem here. Vegeta told you to keep the ring. If I were him, I would have sold it to buy one of those big-city skyscrapers."

Bulma's face disappeared into a lipstick-streaked handkerchief. "Will you stop? You're making me laugh and cry. My makeup can't handle these repeated assaults. I need to brush my hair now too, damn it!"

Krillin chuckled. "All right, sugar. All right. I've had my fun, but I'm serious about the other part. What's holding you back? You've supported him in every way possible since the shooting. Bulla probably still has untapped ideas about wedding attire. Just get hitched to the man already. I'll sew up the holes in my last good suit to walk you down the aisle."

"Bulla's father needs to heal, not focus on my issues – or the insane publicity this has caused. I know him. It hurts Vegeta to see me worried like this. I'm trying to be normal, but he sees through me."

Krillin exhaled. "Oh for the love of pete, Bulma! You both need to get over all this infernal worrying. You're searching for misery when it's trying to run from you, honey! And let me tell you, I've had just about enough of this bullshit all around."

Nothing stood in their way anymore either, only themselves. The threat of blackmail ceased, astonishingly, beginning and ending after Rutger Kamen's widow sought out Ambrose for an extraordinary conversation. Ambrose made it clear to Bulma that the less she knew - at least at that time – the better off she and Vegeta would be. That meeting gave Fergus Ryan plenty more fish to fry as his investigation broadened.

"Krillin you're not understanding me," Bulma said. "I'll…finish my term in office, but I want to drop out of the governor's race."

"To care for Vegeta, presumably," he replied. "And you think he won't support that. So what?"

"What do you mean so what?" Bulma exclaimed, throwing a sugar cube at his head. "Vegeta has always been prideful."

Krillin smacked his short legs, leaning in. "Listen here, I'm staring at a friend – that's you - whose pride could fill all of North America's Great Lakes. Vegeta can't prevent you from making a good decision. You're choosing love, not stopping your life. His pride may skreich back at you some, Bulma, but I only see adoration. That man's glares could carve through virgin quartzite, but you light up his eyes like its Independence Day."

"Enough already," Bulma said, standing up. "Let's get to the hospital, Mark Twain."

Krillin coughed as she put him in a choke hold. "Can't do that if you accidentally kill me first, governor."

Bulma recognized the plain-clothed bodyguards on the hospital ward. Neither made eye contact, which she and Krillin expected. A smiling nurse followed behind as Vegeta used his walker in the physical-therapy and training room.

"Hi, Becky! Are you hiding out today?"

"I take breaks sometimes to work with my favorite patients after they live the ICU, governor."

"Hn." Vegeta eyed Becky skeptically. "Favorite?"

Bulma kissed the side of his head. "Ah, I see you've charmed him."

"Not as much as you," Becky replied with sweet, pleasant laugh. "You two finish walking together. We're close to dinnertime, so no others will be brought in here for therapy. Nice to see you too, Krillin."

Krillin blushed. "Same… same here. I'll follow you out, nurse."

Vegeta and Bulma broke into laughter after both left.

"Someone needs to play matchmaker with them, Vegeta. That was just cute right there."

"Ain't gonna be me," Vegeta said, continuing his walk. "No, ma'am."

Bulma smiled, matching his pace. "You sound good today, hon."

Vegeta stopped, focusing fully on her. Bulma had dressed athletically, but she rarely reapplied makeup hastily after exercising, especially before seeing him.

"What's with the Duke U. getup?"

Bulma looked over both shoulders. "What? I'm just wearing a hoodie. The university's provost sent it, wishing me luck."

Here awkward tone didn't sit right with him. Neither did her breakneck attempt to turn off the room's big-screen television when Marley's face appeared.

"Tell me what's good, governor."

Bulma anxiously nipped at her lips. "I'm… dropping out of the race."

Vegeta's eyes closed as his grip tightened on the walker. "No. Not… because… of me."

Bulma gently held his arm. "Yes, because of you. Yes, Vegeta. I almost lost you forever. Do you really think I would have continued my campaign if you had died? Do you? It all would have been too much, and I feel no shame in saying that. This is the perfect time to exit, especially now that the blackmail issue is settled."

"Bulma Jean, get that wheelchair for me please. I…I need to get back to my room."

His right leg trembled, increasing Bulma's concern. "How much are you hurting?"

Vegeta's inner tiger was just getting riled up. The nerve pain in his leg and Bulma's declaration worked synergistically – like caffeine and sugar - to piss him off. "Not… sure… if I should tell you anything anymore, since you keep making decisions about me without talking them over with me."

"Stop being an ass," Bulma said, helping him into the chair. "You aren't pristine in that area either."

Vegeta winced, breaking into a sweat. "I'm… I'm… the ass? I'd rethink that statement, bumblebee."

"Shhh, hon." Bulma said softly, waving a guard into the room. "Just settle down now. We need to get some pain medicine and real food into that body. I'm sorry I distressed you."

"I'm not upset, Bulma. I'm angry. You can't drug that part out of me."

Though frustrated, Bulma felt thankful. Vegeta's stubborn disapproval confirmed his path to normalcy. She still had to brace herself, because he was nowhere near done ripping into her.

"Maybe this will help." She bent over, honoring him with an extended, tender and apologetic kiss. "I love you. Ready to get hitched, Mr. Rutledge?"

The brick-jawed undercover guard had to be a romantic. Vegeta spied the man's fleeting grin, prompted by Bulma's cheekiness. Vegeta shook her off, but not before taking her hand. He loved her so much – needed her – but couldn't bear the idea that guilt could be her catalyst for marrying.

Damn that pride of his.

"Are you done with your Academy Award performance, governor?" he asked.

Bulma dug around in her increasingly disorganized purse. "Nope, handsome. Give me about twenty minutes to make a call. Then I'll meet you in your room."

"I'll ask hospitality to prepare a dinner tray for you," the guard added.

Bulma opened her smartphone case, dialing Ambrose. "Perfect. Thank you."

"What do ya want now, Bulma?!" her onery friend hooted. "My goodness. Some of us still work on Friday evenings."

"To make your life dismal, Ambrose, and I know you're watching sports. Can hear it, actually."

"How is Vegeta?"

"More like himself. We bickered."

Ambrose laughed. "Hot damn! Sounds like he's making a full recovery."

Bulma tossed the mini-lecture in her head aside. "I planned to speechify to you, but I've lost my nerve."

Ambrose sat up, reducing the TV's volume. "What's the good word then?"

"Get in touch with Representative Johnston and prepare to make reservations at Bobby's. See if we can do it tomorrow at three p.m."

"Whatever you're planning to can wait until Monday," Ambrose said firmly. "Can Vegeta eat steak now? I'll have Bobby send lunch for you and Bulla at the hospital tomorrow."

"I'm not asking you to hand me a basket of dinner rolls," Bulma replied. "That's an order."

Ambrose lit a cigar, smoke-puffing his way through contemplation. "So, pray tell, what reason should I give Inez Johnston to leave her adoring family in St. Louis one day after she finished presiding over a conference?"

"Inez has waited in the wings long enough to run for higher office," Bulma replied. "I want her to take my place on the campaign trail. I will endorse her."

Ambrose stuck a pillow behind his now-aching head. "OK, Bulma. OK. I know you're serious, but your donors support you. Your policy ideals don't completely align with Johnston's. This may not be the easiest sell. Marley could wipe the floor with her once he's confident that you're finished. Then his party could easily run some loyal backbencher for lieutenant governor, and their base would likely follow suit."

Bulma emailed Johnston's General Assembly record. "How many of those same party members would rather nosedive into pig shit than see Josh become governor? A lot - and we've heard from several."

"Some want to appear more sympathetic to you than Marley does," Ambrose said, "and you didn't have to email me. I vetted Inez – thoroughly - a while ago without telling you. She's no crook or psychopath."

"As if I didn't know," Bulla said, laughing. "Regardless, she's an independent, caucuses in good faith with colleagues, and has a strong following of constituents – and votes consistently. Dinner. Tomorrow. Be charming."

Ambrose sighed, opening their shared calendars. "And after that?"

"If Inez agrees, let's get conference calls with my top donors, the campaign office, and supporters done this week. Then we'll formally announce in her district the following Sunday. Her supporters can arrange the location - maybe at that community center she used to manage. We'll barnstorm the cities and counties, selectively, to build her support until the election."

Ambrose snatched off his reading glasses. "God, give me strength! Can't this wait a little longer? After those calls, somebody will leak the information to reporters everywhere!"

Now, Ambrose could adeptly arrange everything Bulma asked for – and more. He wanted to delay because Fergus Ryan said he had "hooked a fish" during their ongoing investigation.

Bulma looked at her watch. "Hellooooo. You're real quiet over there. Say your piece now. I need to get back to Vegeta. He was having some pain."

"No, governor," Ambrose said, accepting his limited choices. "I'm done. Let me work my magic. I'll call you at six a.m. No more emails tonight - for either of us."

Bulma shut off her phone, entering Vegeta's room. A food tray with her name had been placed on a rolling table. Two empty protein-shake cans were on the nightstand. She walked over, holding his hand.

"Don't feel like eating, eh?"

"Don't let me stop you," he said drowsily. "I heard it's… chicken."

Bulma giggled. "We're at a hospital. It's usually chicken. The drugs are helping, I see."

Vegeta nodded. "Yeah, but I'll be awake until you leave. I told the nurses not to knock me out yet."

"You still angry?"

"Yes, but let's get hitched anyway. We…can't seem to stay out of each other's way."

"Oh!" Bulma's eyes lit up, followed by lots of crying.

"Criminently, woman. I don't remember you ever bawling this much around me when were kids. Hormones?"

"Shut up so I can kiss you."

Vegeta and the nurses timed everything well. His consciousness held out long enough to confirm their re-engagement.

Bulma was lounging on a sofa, reading the newspaper and eating whipped potatoes and roasted chicken, when Krillin escorted Bulla into the room. The teenager, clearly disappointed, had hoped for a lively discussion with her father and Bulma.

"Come on over, sweetheart," Bulma said quietly. "He'll be in a better position to talk tomorrow."

Bulla hugged her. "Pain?"

"Yeah. A spasm closer to the end of therapy, but he's doing much better overall."

"How are you, Bulma?"

Bulma gave her a spoon to share a bowl of chocolate pudding. "A muddle of feelings, I guess. What about you, kid?"

Bulla shrugged. "Same, I suppose. This guy at school keeps doing nice things for me. He's a good fella, but I just don't have much energy to give him – you know, with daddy and all."

"I know all too well," Bulma said. "Let me say this, though. Maybe this good fella isn't expecting anything back. It also doesn't sound like he's making a show of this attention. Your daddy is like that."

"Bulma, I'm not ready to tell daddy that any boy is sweet on me."

"Don't you worry about that. I'll keep Vegeta in line when I move in."

"When… you move in?" Bulla's head tilted. "Does that mean what I think it does?"

Bulma winked. "Read between the lines."

"Oh my god." Bulla's hands clamped over her mouth. "Oh my god! Oh my god!" She lunged across the sofa, startling Bulma with a hug akin to a rugby tackle. "You're finally getting married!"

"It… won't… be next week," Bulma wheezed. "Downshift those gears, darlin! Downshift! I've decided not to run for another term in office. My campaign has many loose ends to tie up."

Bulla's smile receded. "But I know daddy wouldn't want that. Isn't that what you fought about before?"

Bulma inhaled. "He's angry with me, but I realized that don't have the drive to do it all anymore. You'll learn as you get older – especially as a woman – that it's OK to stop and rethink where you're headed. Your daddy is the love of my life, and I am his. We must focus on each other. Maybe I'll return to politics in the future, but I'm certainly not leaving the boxing ring with my head down."

Three days after Inez Johnston declared her candidacy, Bulma and Vegeta happily married at University Hospital. The state supreme court's chief justice officiated their nuptials.

A well-sourced, longtime TV reporter and her husband happened to be dining at the same Kansas City steakhouse where Marley and his father were that evening. Never one to forgo a publicity stunt, Josh slithered over to the woman's table, ignoring his father's request to stay put. The news about Inez was irksome enough. Carrying a martini, Josh stopped in front of the couple's circular booth, trapping them.

Never one to pass on a possible story, the reporter casually said, "So Mr. Marley, I heard the governor married today. Have you had a chance to congratulate her?"

Appearing baffled, Josh looked over at his father. "I…I didn't know. She's been through hell, and God's love has shined on them. I'm glad something good has come out of her ordeal. Nice to see you, Amy. I'll have my office follow up with you about some other things."

Inside, he was enraged. Bulma just couldn't stay out of the spotlight – or miserable, even after leaving her campaign behind. She didn't deserve happily ever after – not without his permission.