June 10th
The private conference room in the upscale Houston hotel emanated an understated opulence, the type of atmosphere cultivated by those who moved money and power behind discreet walls. The chairs were lavish leather, the table a polished expanse of mahogany, and the carpet soft enough to swallow footsteps. Everything was designed for secrecy—warm lighting, no windows, and a faint whiff of cologne lingering in the air. It was an environment meant for backroom deals, decisions that could shape entire industries with just one handshake.
Senator Cruz Manuelos stood near the far wall, restless energy evident in the way she paced. Her suit jacket was dark and severe, paired with boots rather than polished shoes. She had never been one to adopt a glossy façade for anyone’s comfort, and this space made her bristle. It reminded her why she despised the political game in the first place: it was a realm of hidden bargains and cultivated images, far removed from the blunt sincerity she valued.
A glance at her watch told her they were already running a minute past the scheduled time. Across the room, Bobby Reyes sat at the head of the table, scrolling through her tablet, unruffled by the hush around them. She thrived on these unspoken tensions—knew how to broker deals in rooms like this. In contrast, Cruz’s jaw set, the undercurrent of frustration visible in her posture.
“You want to tell me why we’re here?” Cruz asked, her voice carrying a hint of impatience.
Bobby didn’t look up from the screen. “Patience,” she replied, tone annoyingly placid.
Cruz sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. Bobby’s secrecy implied a solution to their fundraising crisis, but Cruz anticipated she would hate whatever it was. She knew Bobby too well, knew that a private meeting in a venue like this promised an uncomfortable compromise.
Before Cruz could demand more details, the heavy door opened with a quiet click. Aaliyah Amrohi stepped inside, her presence shifting the balance of the room at once.
She moved with assurance, as if this space bowed to her. Her sapphire pantsuit was elegantly tailored, highlighting her figure in clean, commanding lines. The flawless cascade of dark hair over one shoulder looked effortless, yet Cruz suspected it had been arranged with meticulous care. The subtle perfume Aaliyah wore—expensive and lingering—only heightened the sense of controlled power.
Rather than wait for an invitation, Aaliyah claimed the chair opposite Cruz, one leg crossing over the other as though she were calling this meeting to order. Cruz tensed. She already disliked how the woman seemed to belong here, in a place that represented everything Cruz had resisted her whole life.
A pause settled among the three of them. Aaliyah regarded Cruz with an almost clinical interest, as if she were evaluating every inch of her appearance, from the boots to the squared shoulders. Cruz clenched her jaw, irritated by the scrutiny and by how unruffled Aaliyah appeared.
“We doing this or not?” Cruz finally broke the silence, her words coming out sharper than intended.
Aaliyah responded with a small, cool smile. “Patience,” she echoed in the same measured tone Bobby had used. The glint in her eyes was almost mocking.
Cruz pressed her palms against the table, wrestling the urge to walk out. Bobby didn’t miss the tension, and the faint curve of her lips indicated that she found the exchange almost entertaining.
Aaliyah’s attention shifted momentarily to Bobby. “Everything arranged for privacy?”
Bobby nodded, ever the composed strategist. “Of course. We understand the importance of keeping this off the record.”
“Good,” Aaliyah replied softly, then returned her focus to Cruz. “I don’t like wasting time. Let’s get to it.”
Cruz forced herself to remain in place, her spine rigid as she met Aaliyah’s gaze. Despite her instinct to leave, she sensed that whatever proposal Aaliyah had brought to the table was too significant to dismiss outright. The dread pooling in her gut hinted that it would be a difficult bargain, but one she couldn’t afford to ignore.
The silence thickened, each second magnifying the unease. In that hush, Cruz realized she was probably going to say yes to whatever Aaliyah proposed—no matter how much she detested the thought.
--
Bobby observed them both from the far side of the table, her posture relaxed despite the tension hanging in the air. She had been waiting for the perfect moment to detonate this idea. Cruz and Aaliyah had circled each other like wary predators since the meeting began, and Bobby intended to use that friction rather than smooth it over.
When she spoke, her tone was calm, matter-of-fact, as though suggesting something as routine as a campaign stop. “You both need power. Get married.”
Cruz nearly dropped her coffee. The cup clattered against the table, sloshing dark liquid onto polished wood. “Excuse me?”
Aaliyah, seated across from her in an impeccably tailored suit, arched one eyebrow. There was something almost amused in her expression, as though the suggestion of marrying a political rival was no more outrageous than discussing the weather. “It’s a simple proposal,” she said, crossing her legs in a poised, effortless manner.
Cruz glared first at Aaliyah, then at Bobby. “Tell me this is a joke.”
Bobby rubbed the bridge of her nose, her patience clearly fraying but her composure unshaken. “It’s not.”
Cruz glowered, pointing an accusatory finger toward Aaliyah. “Maybe for her, it’s easy. For me? It’s a complete joke.”
Aaliyah didn’t blink. “I don’t joke about power, Manuelos.”
Her use of the last name, so detached and clinical, grated on Cruz’s nerves. She recognized it as a tactic—distance yourself, address the other person as if they were an object of study.
Bobby cleared her throat. “It’s survival, Cruz.”
Cruz turned, eyes flashing with disbelief. “Are you serious?”
Bobby didn’t back down. “You want to win? You need this.”
Cruz inhaled sharply, arms folding over her chest. The entire concept symbolized everything she hated about politics: backroom deals, image over substance, marriage as a mere transaction. “Find me another way,” she said, her words clipped. “Because I’d rather lose than lie to everyone about something so personal.”
Aaliyah let out a soft, low laugh—almost unnoticeable, but enough to tighten Cruz’s jaw. “Integrity,” she murmured, spinning the glass of water in front of her as if the notion itself was a naive fancy. Then she met Cruz’s gaze directly, eyes keen. “Integrity won’t get you elected. Power, connections, and money will.”
Cruz leaned back, refusing to look away. “I suppose you have all three in spades?”
Aaliyah’s smile was razor-edged. “As it happens, I do.”
Bobby tapped a finger on the table, prompting them back to the discussion. “We don’t have time for this posturing. You both know the reality. McNamara’s campaign is drowning us in paid media. She’s bought entire prime-time blocks, while we’re scraping pennies just to stay afloat.”
Cruz’s shoulders remained tense, her voice quieter now. “So you think this is the narrative? A fake marriage?”
“It’s the only strategy that forces donors—and the press—to view you as more than the ex-Marine who’s short on funds,” Bobby said, her tone resigned but determined.
The logic made Cruz’s gut twist. She didn’t want to concede that Bobby had a point. Still, the numbers didn’t lie. They were plummeting, and McNamara was practically crowned by every major media outlet.
She shot Aaliyah a wary look. “And what do you get out of this?”
Aaliyah’s green eyes lit with an undercurrent of conviction. “Independence.”
Cruz narrowed her gaze. She had heard rumors of how tightly Aaliyah’s father controlled her, but never imagined the reality might be worse. Aaliyah’s voice remained steady, revealing nothing beyond cold facts.
“My father controls every aspect of my life. He wants me to marry one of his allies—someone who will make sure I never step out of line. But if I align myself with someone he can’t rein in?” She allowed a small pause. “Suddenly, his leash isn’t so tight.”
Bobby pulled back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest. “It’s beneficial on both sides. Cruz gets access to serious funding and an instant boost in legitimacy, while Aaliyah gains freedom to maneuver outside her father’s empire.”
Cruz felt a sour taste forming in her mouth. It was a quintessential political deal, the kind she loathed. Yet, the more she looked at Bobby’s grim expression—and the more she took in Aaliyah’s unwavering confidence—the more she understood just how cornered she was.
The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable, but it was full of acknowledgment. Cruz knew how close she was to being buried by McNamara. Aaliyah knew how close she was to her father forcing her into another arrangement on his terms. Neither liked the plan, but both sensed that, strategically, it might be the only way forward.
--
Cruz ran a hand down her face, feeling the tension coil in her shoulders. The hotel conference room’s stillness pressed in on her, every muted shadow and soft light designed to keep secrets. She almost laughed at how ridiculous it all was—if this got out, the press would devour it in seconds.
“This is madness,” she muttered under her breath.
Across the table, Aaliyah did not flinch. She spoke in that calm, measured tone that felt like a constant needling of Cruz’s composure. “This is strategy.”
Cruz shot her a scathing look. “It’s insane,” she insisted.
Aaliyah shrugged, an elegant lift of her shoulder as if they were discussing a minor business inconvenience. “So is believing you can win without help.”
A faint smile crossed Bobby’s face. “She’s got a point,” she added quietly.
It grated on Cruz, how two simple observations could back her into a corner. She could already imagine the headlines if this ever became public: The War Hero and the Heiress, a story too perfect for bored political commentators. The thought made her stomach tighten.
She leaned back, letting out a weary sigh. “I need a drink.”
Aaliyah tilted her head, eyes reflecting a cool amusement. “I prefer champagne when celebrating business deals,” she remarked, crossing her legs with an unhurried grace.
Cruz responded with a flat stare. “This isn’t a deal.”
A glint of satisfaction lit Aaliyah’s eyes. “Not yet.”
The air in the room felt thick enough to suffocate. Cruz, tense in her seat, fought the urge to knock something over in protest. A joke—that was what this had to be. A twisted, over-the-top joke about political convenience, and somehow she had become the punchline.
She let her gaze flick to Aaliyah, feeling her temper simmer beneath the surface. Every detail about this woman set her on edge: the pristine tailoring of her suit, the confident posture that hinted she had never lost a power struggle in her life, and the aura of control she exuded by just existing in the same space.
Cruz knew exactly what Aaliyah stood for—a direct product of money and influence, an heiress born into the same system Cruz had spent her entire career railing against. This entire setup reeked of betrayal to everything she believed in.
“You think this is actually going to work?” Cruz asked, bracing her elbows on the table. “Just because you snap your fingers and say ‘marry me,’ you expect me to go along with it?”
Aaliyah’s lips curved into a small, cool smile. “I don’t expect you to go along with anything. I expect you to be strategic.”
Cruz clenched her jaw. “Right. Strategic. We’re calling fraud strategic now?”
Aaliyah remained unfazed. “It’s called winning.”
The words set Cruz on edge. “You wouldn’t know a real fight if it knocked you flat.”
That barb landed, and for a split second, something cold flickered in Aaliyah’s eyes. Bobby let out a loud sigh, cutting through the tension that threatened to explode.
“Jesus Christ, you two,” Bobby muttered, raking a hand through her hair.
Cruz ignored her, pointing at Aaliyah as if drawing a line in the sand. “You embody everything wrong with this system. You don’t fight for anything, you just maneuver through backroom deals, shaping how we all live without ever getting your hands dirty. Now you want to buy me like some campaign investment?”
Aaliyah sat perfectly still, refusing to look away. She let a slow smile stretch across her lips. “That righteous underdog act is admirable, Senator Manuelos. But it is impractical.”
Cruz’s temper flared. “And your perfect daughter-of-the-establishment act makes me sick.”
For a heartbeat, the room felt too small to contain both of them. Two different worlds colliding—Cruz’s scrappy, hard-won progressivism against Aaliyah’s polished inheritance of power.
Bobby exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This isn’t about personal feelings. You two don’t even have to talk outside of scheduled appearances. You just have to be believable in public.”
Cruz settled back, arms crossed tight over her chest. “So I sell out everything I am. Fantastic.”
Aaliyah arched an eyebrow, voice smooth as glass. “I was under the impression you no longer had any illusions left to sell.”
The glare Cruz leveled at her might have set lesser people running, but Aaliyah merely watched, calm as ever, while Bobby groaned under her breath. They all seemed to sense it—this situation would be a nightmare. Yet nobody rose to leave.
In that suffocating silence, the deal lay between them, unspoken yet undeniable.
--
Cruz clenched her jaw so tightly she felt the tension radiate into her temples. She cast her gaze toward the dark sheen of the conference table, refusing to meet the eyes of Aaliyah or Bobby or the suffocating walls of this expensive, claustrophobic hotel room.
She loathed every aspect of this plan.
It was exactly the kind of move she had spent her political life avoiding—a scheme drenched in backroom deals and superficial narratives. For years, she had built her campaign on authenticity, on being the candidate who didn’t bend to hidden agendas or treat power as a bargaining chip. Yet here she was, about to strike a bargain that clashed with all her principles.
Her hands balled into fists against her thighs, nails pressing into the rough fabric of her suit pants. She could feel the sharp edge of a no-win decision forming in her mind.
If she went through with it, she would lie. She would plaster on a smile for reporters, lace her fingers through Aaliyah’s in front of cameras, and give the world the perfect image of an unlikely romance. The War Hero and the Heiress. A glossy illusion shielding her from the reality she so deeply despised.
She wasn’t delicate. She wasn’t someone who sidled gracefully into every photo op, who modulated her voice to please donors. She was Cruz Manuelos—unflinchingly direct, always willing to tell Texans the truth, however brutal. But in this scenario, she would become a polished figure at Aaliyah’s side, a convenient distraction from the gritty reforms she yearned to implement.
It made her stomach turn, coiling with a frustration she hadn’t felt since her days in the Marine Corps, when impossible choices were a daily burden. She hated it, nearly as much as she hated McNamara, and for a moment, she wondered which hatred was stronger.
Then she thought of losing.
Losing meant Joe McNamara’s corporate allies would sweep in, swallowing Texas with carefully worded legislation and endless ad campaigns. Losing meant the veterans she championed would remain stuck in limbo, forced to navigate broken healthcare systems and bureaucratic indifference. Losing meant every promise she’d made to working-class families—promises they believed because she spoke their language—would go unfulfilled.
She tightened her jaw further, a dull ache settling in. She had made an oath to fight for them. If she lost, she wouldn’t just fail herself; she’d fail every person who had clung to her message of hope.
Bobby’s voice sliced through her thoughts with a grim finality. She leaned forward, her elbows on the polished tabletop. Her words were low but unyielding, the tone she used when Cruz needed to stop ignoring the obvious.
“You’re at thirty-six percent, Cruz,” she said flatly. “By September, you’ll be drowning in McNamara’s attack ads. By October, you’ll vanish from the polls.”
Cruz’s teeth ground together, a spark of anger and resignation fueling her pulse.
“McNamara will lock this race,” Bobby continued. “Everything you stand for? Gone.”
Cruz’s grip on the table tightened until her knuckles turned white. She pictured the faces of the people who had backed her from day one, the folks who came to her rallies after working double shifts, who donated what little they had to keep her campaign afloat. They believed she was the one who could make a real difference.
Her heart thudded in a painful rhythm. If she clung too tightly to her pride, she would lose more than an election—she’d lose the chance to change anything.
That hurt far worse than any personal compromise.
She exhaled, a sharp breath that rattled in her chest. But then came the other reality: letting Aaliyah Amrohi into her world. Inviting a woman who symbolized everything she had fought against—privilege, entitlement, and inherited sway—into her personal space.
Her entire life had been a battle: from the Marine Corps to the state senate, every achievement earned through sweat, broken barriers, and long nights. Now she was supposed to play house with an heiress who could snap her fingers and shape headlines on a whim?
It wasn’t just political. It was personal. Letting someone else share control of her life felt like the hardest thing she’d ever done.
She raked in a breath, rolling her shoulders, trying to dispel the knot of frustration crawling up her spine. She despised the very notion of this arrangement. Yet the alternative—watching her campaign collapse and McNamara step in unopposed—felt like an even darker fate.
Bobby’s expression remained unyielding. She’d always been the practical one, the strategist who could see the battlefield clearly. If she was pushing this hard, it meant there truly was no other way.
Cruz’s fingers drummed restlessly on the table. Every part of her screamed that she was surrendering to the broken system she detested, that she was cutting a deal she swore she’d never make. But a deeper, quieter voice reminded her: winning was the only way she could protect the people she’d promised to fight for.
She inhaled, letting the tension shudder through her. She hated this. God, she hated it.
But losing would be worse.
--
Aaliyah studied Cruz with a practiced stillness, attuned to each flash of emotion that crossed her face. She had anticipated this reaction—anger, revulsion, a refusal to yield. Cruz Manuelos was predictable, in her own stubborn way. Righteous, even. Everything about her campaign spoke to a woman who considered herself set apart from the usual political machinery. Better than it.
On some level, Aaliyah found that admirable. Mostly, though, it wore on her. She had no patience for self-righteousness, no matter how genuine it might be. Especially not when the stakes were this high.
Cruz looked like she wanted to punch through the table. Her knuckles pressed into the wood so firmly that Aaliyah half-expected to hear it crack. The rigid set of her shoulders, the way her jaw tensed, made it clear she was one breath away from snapping. But Aaliyah knew this wasn’t blind fury anymore—it was the turmoil of someone close to accepting a reality they despised.
So Aaliyah let her remain on that precarious edge. Years spent dealing with powerful men had taught her to let silence do the work. Silence made people fill the gaps with their own confessions, their own justifications. And in those confessions, they made themselves vulnerable. She had mastered the art of waiting, letting the tension simmer until it broke on her terms.
When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, deliberately measured, as though she were hosting a quiet negotiation in some diplomatic chamber. “You don’t trust me. I don’t trust you.”
Cruz’s eyes snapped to hers at once. Aaliyah held the gaze, refusing to concede even an inch. “This isn’t about trust,” she went on, “it’s about something bigger than both of us.”
Cruz responded with a harsh exhale, shaking her head like she was trying to cast off the weight of the moment. Aaliyah allowed the silence to settle around them again, long enough for Cruz to confront what they were truly discussing.
Then she delivered her final, calculated push. “Do you want to be governor, Manuelos?” she asked in a steady, unhurried tone. “Or do you just want to be right?”
Cruz went utterly still, the question finding its mark. Aaliyah could see the conflict in the way Cruz’s shoulders tensed—could practically hear the inner war raging behind that steely stare. The soldier in Cruz wanted to toss every piece of paper in this room into the nearest trash bin, to reject outright a scheme that contradicted everything she believed in. But the candidate in her recognized the cold truth: she was losing.
Cruz’s fists curled, white-knuckled against the table, then relaxed by degrees, as though she had physically forced herself not to bolt. Her gaze drifted to the contract lying between them—unassuming white pages on polished mahogany, carrying the sort of finality she’d never wanted any part of.
She reached for it with slow deliberation. Bobby exhaled, sounding like someone who had just wrestled a victory from the jaws of defeat. Aaliyah stayed composed, barely reacting, as though she had predicted from the start how this meeting would end.
Cruz refused to look her way. She picked up the pen, felt its weight pressing down like a death sentence. She signed, and something in her expression flickered, the last shred of her idealism slipping under the ink. Then she slid the contract back, her jaw set tight.
“We do this my way,” she ground out, voice strained, “no playing pretend, no false affection.”
Aaliyah tilted her head slightly, as though amused by the condition. A slow, self-assured smile curved her lips. “Darling, I wouldn’t dream of it.”