June 15th
Cruz tore through the last mile of her morning run, sweat trickling down her temples as the Austin sun crept over the horizon. The faint glow of dawn illuminated the quiet streets, giving her an illusion of solitude she desperately needed. She set a brisk, punishing pace—a final push before she reached her apartment building. Running had always been her sanctuary, a moment of control before the chaos of the day.
Then her phone started buzzing, once, twice, and then incessantly. She ignored it at first, refusing to break stride. Whatever it was, she could deal with it after she finished. She ran faster, a defiant attempt to outrun whatever waited for her on the other end of the line.
But by the time she arrived at her apartment door, the buzzing had reached a frenzied pitch. She knew, deep down, what it meant. The engagement story had broken.
Her suspicions were confirmed the second she swung open the door. The television was already on, and Bobby sat on the couch, phone in hand, shoulders tense.
Cruz let the door slam behind her, leaning forward with her hands on her knees as she caught her breath. She felt the residual rush of adrenaline from her run and the dawning apprehension of a looming PR storm. She tossed her towel onto the kitchen counter, forcing steadiness into her voice.
“Tell me it’s not as bad as I think,” she said.
Bobby didn’t glance up from her phone. “It’s worse.”
Cruz raked a hand through her damp hair, crossing the small living room to see the television. A cluster of bold headlines flashed across the bottom of the screen:
BREAKING NEWS: SURPRISE ENGAGEMENT—SENATOR CRUZ MANUELOS AND AALIYAH AMROHI TO BE MARRIED
Her stomach twisted as a newscaster’s voice filled the silence. “In a stunning turn of events, Texas gubernatorial candidate Cruz Manuelos has announced her engagement to billionaire heiress Aaliyah Amrohi…”
The anchor’s practiced smile and polished diction made the situation feel surreal. Cruz felt her cheeks flush as the segment continued, speculating on her motives, citing her historically private demeanor, and probing whether this was a desperate ploy to salvage her lagging campaign.
She exhaled sharply, hands braced on the back of a chair. “It’s everywhere?”
Bobby shrugged, tossing her phone onto the coffee table. “Leaked about an hour ago. Could be someone from Aaliyah’s camp.”
Cruz scowled. “She said she’d wait for a coordinated rollout.”
Bobby snorted, a mirthless sound. “You really believed that?”
Instead of answering, Cruz turned her attention back to the TV. The coverage jumped from one network to the next, each with a screaming headline more sensational than the last:
War Hero Senator and Heiress Engaged!
Marriage of Convenience or Masterstroke Campaign Move?
Gubernatorial Candidate’s Fiancée Linked to Oil Magnate Father—Will This Hurt Her Progressive Base?
Cruz felt a fresh wave of nausea twist her insides. Every channel was dissecting her life in real time.
Bobby picked up the remote, navigating to a polling dashboard. Cruz’s eyes narrowed as she noticed a small surge: a six-point jump seemingly overnight. Moderates and independents appeared to be warming up to her, seeing stability in a candidate now linked to a powerful family name.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s working.” The words came out hollow.
Bobby sat back, arms folded. “Yup. You needed a shake-up, and this is delivering.”
Cruz watched the number flicker on the screen, her mind struggling to reconcile the bump in the polls with the knot of guilt in her stomach. Her identity, her grassroots base—they were all at risk. As if reading her thoughts, Bobby switched to a feed of social media. The negative comments slammed into Cruz like physical blows.
Segments of her old speeches played on a loop. Clips of her passionately railing against corporate money, calling out politicians who sold themselves to big donors. She could see her supporters—once so fiercely loyal—recoiling in anger.
A flood of tweets scrolled past:
“So Manuelos sold out after all. Another politician breaks their word.”
“This is what happens when they say ‘I’m different.’ They’re not.”
“She’s marrying BIG OIL MONEY. Hypocrisy at its finest.”
Cruz’s stomach churned. “They think I sold out.”
Bobby gave a small shrug, her expression sympathetic but unwavering. “They’re not exactly wrong.”
Cruz closed her eyes, every muscle braced against an onslaught of conflicting emotions. She felt a flash of anger at the world for expecting purity in a system built to swallow idealists whole. Anger at Aaliyah for leaking the story early, and anger at herself for agreeing to a deal that contradicted everything she once stood for.
She leaned against the wall, pressing a hand to her forehead. “What do we do?
Bobby’s voice was measured. “Damage control. Emphasize the ‘love story.’ Let Aaliyah’s team help spin it as a whirlwind romance that caught everyone off guard. Make sure people see you as—”
Cruz’s jaw tightened. “As what? A lovestruck fool?”
Bobby placed the remote on the table and stood, fixing Cruz with a steady stare. “You need to be smart enough not to sabotage yourself.”
That single remark dug into Cruz more deeply than she cared to admit. She turned her gaze back to the TV. The ticker read:
A Political Masterstroke or a Sellout Move? Cruz Manuelos Faces Backlash Over Engagement to Amrohi Heiress.
She drew in a breath, heavy with the weight of her choice. The polls had gone up. It was undeniable proof that the gamble had paid off in some measure. Yet the price she paid, in terms of her grassroots support and her own sense of integrity, was steep.
After a moment, Cruz straightened, setting her shoulders. “I made this choice,” she said quietly, though her voice trembled at the edges. “Guess I have to live with it.”
Bobby opened her mouth as if to offer comfort or strategy, but Cruz waved her off, already heading down the hallway for a shower. The closed bathroom door left Bobby alone with the echoes of cable news commentary, each pundit speculating on the nature of Cruz’s sudden engagement.
There, in the silence, Bobby recognized what Cruz was going through: the quiet resignation of someone who had sacrificed part of her soul for a chance at winning the bigger fight.
The conference room felt stifling, too cramped to contain the palpable tension swirling between Cruz and Aaliyah. Warm light from overhead fixtures glinted off the polished chrome accents in the room, highlighting the oversized portraits of faceless executives on the walls—generic artworks chosen to impress rather than inspire. The table itself, a glossy expanse of rich mahogany, seemed almost too grand for the cramped space.
Cruz sat at one end of that table, arms folded, shoulders rigid. She wore her usual dark suit, simple and functional, accompanied by boots that gave no nod to high fashion. Her expression was set, eyes narrowed with obvious frustration. Bobby, campaign strategist and referee by default, took the seat opposite Cruz, looking like she was counting the minutes until she could escape.
Meanwhile, Aaliyah lounged in the middle of the room as if it were her personal stage. Perfectly poised, one leg crossed over the other, she held a tiny espresso cup in her hand with effortless control. Not a single motion seemed wasted. Her appearance—from the tailored dress to the subtle sparkle in her jewelry—radiated wealth and confidence. Cruz looked at her and saw trouble.
“All right,” Bobby said with a long, exhausted sigh. “Let’s get this over with.” She tapped a folder on the table, glancing from Aaliyah to Cruz and back again. “We need to lock in your relationship backstory before reporters start fishing for holes in it. Dates, details, the story of how you met—everything.”
Cruz groaned. “Can’t we just say we met at some random fundraiser and leave it at that?”
Bobby met her gaze without blinking. “No. If we don’t give them a believable story, they’ll spin one of their own. Next thing you know, we’ll be fielding rumors that you met in some backroom deal or in the middle of a booze-filled scandal.”
Aaliyah’s lips curved into a feline smile. “A scandal could be entertaining.”
Cruz shot her a glare as hot as a live wire. “We’re not here for your amusement.”
Bobby planted the folder firmly on the tabletop, eyeing both of them. “We need it simple, clean, and convincing.” She flipped open a page. “First order of business: who proposed?”
Silence fell, thick as concrete. A beat passed, and then Aaliyah took a leisurely sip of espresso before speaking. “Obviously, I proposed.”
Cruz nearly choked, bracing one hand on the table while trying to keep from spewing coffee everywhere. Bobby merely arched an eyebrow, composed as ever.
Once Cruz regained control, she turned on Aaliyah. “Excuse me? What makes you think I’d let you propose to me?”
Aaliyah shrugged, unhurried and poised. “Because it fits the narrative,” she said, her voice maddeningly calm. “I have the wealth, the influence, the established name. And, let’s not forget—” She paused, eyeing Cruz with a trace of mischief. “I’m the romantic one.”
Cruz let out a sharp snort. “You wouldn’t know romance if it bit you on the ass.”
“Is that something you’re into, Senator?” A flicker of amusement danced in Aaliyah’s gaze. “If I ‘didn’t know romance,’ then why would I say yes to marrying someone with no imagination?”
Bobby slammed her folder down. “Enough. We’re not here to watch you two bicker.”
They turned toward her, matching expressions of defiance. Bobby exhaled loudly. “Look. We don’t have to make you look head-over-heels, but there has to be a consistent story. Now—who proposed?” She surveyed them like a strict teacher desperate for order.
Aaliyah leaned back, crossing her legs again. “Obviously me.”
“Not a chance in hell,” Cruz snapped, arms crossing tighter over her chest.
Bobby closed her eyes for a moment, as if counting backward from ten. “Cruz proposed,” she announced. “You’re the veteran, the traditionalist, and it’ll play well with the older demographic.”
Cruz smirked, taking the win. “Glad we agree on something.”
Aaliyah rolled her eyes with an airy exhale. “At least make it worth remembering,” she said, tapping her manicured nails lightly on the table. “I won’t have people believing I said yes to some half-baked effort over a cheap beer.”
Cruz offered a deadpan stare. “That was basically my plan.”
A flicker of aggravation crossed Aaliyah’s face, but she masked it quickly. “Then it’s fortunate Bobby overruled you.” Her tone was icily pleasant.
Bobby cleared her throat, looking like she was reconsidering every career choice that led her here. She tapped on her laptop, bringing up a blank document. “We’re doing this my way now. Where did you two meet?”
Cruz shrugged. “Some boring political fundraiser. We ended up at the same table.”
Aaliyah made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. Cruz glowered at her.
“What?” Cruz demanded.
Aaliyah shook her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. “That’s so… dull. It was a gala, and you stood out because you actually spoke your mind.”
Cruz hesitated. “I go to galas under duress. It’s not my scene.”
Aaliyah’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Yet, there you were, unimpressed by everyone around you. I found it… intriguing. Tailored suit, face of a tortured soul unimpressed by the wealth surrounding her. Caught my eye, and I had to have you.”
Cruz frowned, unsure how to respond to the notion that she’d caught Aaliyah’s interest. Meanwhile, Bobby sighed pointedly.
“Fine,” Bobby said. “Met at a political event. Moving on.” She typed briskly, determined to keep things on track.
Aaliyah’s smile suggested a small victory, and Cruz rolled her eyes as Bobby flipped to a new page of notes.
“All right, next. Favorite memory together?”
Cruz groaned and rubbed her temples. “Can we skip this part?”
Aaliyah’s expression was practically feline. “I have one. The night we got engaged. You were too nervous to propose, so I helped you along.”
Cruz straightened, bristling. “What? That’s not even—no.”
Bobby’s typing halted. “Wait, that’s not the story we—”
“Rooftop, classic, sunset. Remember?” Cruz interrupted, pinning Aaliyah with a glare. “We agreed on that.”
Aaliyah let out a delicate sigh. “Where’s the drama in that?”
Cruz’s jaw clenched. “Not everything has to be dramatic.”
“No,” Aaliyah allowed, “but it helps people believe this is more than a political arrangement. Where is your sense of love and adventure, Senator?”
A tense silence followed as Aaliyah and Cruz exchanged scathing looks. Bobby rubbed her temples again, as though beset by a migraine. “All right,” she said, “you both need forced bonding time. Speed-dating Q&A. Fifteen questions each, one minute per question.”
Cruz’s groan was audible. Aaliyah appeared merely bored.
Bobby set her phone to a timer, bracing herself. “Cruz, what’s Aaliyah’s favorite drink?”
Cruz muttered, “Some grossly overpriced fancy wine that tastes like the same shit you can get at a gas station.”
Aaliyah arched a brow. “Merlot, specifically in the evenings. Generally, I enjoy chamomile tea.”
Cruz flicked a dismissive gesture. “Same difference.”
“Hardly,” Aaliyah replied icily. “You and your steak-and-black-coffee life. No taste, no sense of propriety. Tragic.”
“I call it efficient,” Cruz shot back with a smirk.
Bobby cleared her throat, barreling on. “Aaliyah, what’s Cruz’s biggest pet peeve?”
Aaliyah’s eyes shone with mirth. “Rich people who flaunt their superiority.”
Cruz huffed. “Wonder how I ended up with you, then.”
Aaliyah gave her a slow, measuring look. “One would think you’d have asked yourself that long ago.”
Bobby threw her pen onto the table in exasperation. “We’re done here.”
They stared each other down, and Bobby swore she could feel the temperature rising in the cramped room. The silence that followed hinted at how rocky this entire farce of a relationship was going to be.
Cruz, flush with irritation, grabbed her jacket. Aaliyah sipped the last of her espresso as if savoring a personal victory. And Bobby, shoulders sagging, wondered how she could possibly spin their hostility into a believable romance for the cameras.
Cruz tugged at the cuffs of her suit jacket for what felt like the hundredth time. Each small adjustment was an attempt to manage the tension crawling under her skin since she had agreed to this charade. Behind the thick velvet curtain, the low rumble of the press swelled, camera flashes popping through the narrow gaps as though warning her of the onslaught ahead.
She despised every bit of it: the staging, the necessity of faking a grin for cameras, the knowledge that she was about to deceive an entire state with a single, well-rehearsed moment. Her jaw tightened so much it ached.
A sharp voice snapped her out of her thoughts. “Alright, listen up.”
Bobby stood at the head of their small group like a battle-worn general, clipboard clamped under her arm. Her gaze flicked between Cruz and Aaliyah with an urgency that accepted no argument. “You two step out there, and you sell it. Or we might as well pack up and go home.”
Cruz shrugged her shoulders, attempting to ease the knot of anxiety in her back. Next to her, Aaliyah wore a serene smile, as if the looming press conference were a casual brunch with her closest friends.
Of course she did.
Aaliyah thrived on situations like this. She radiated poise, wearing a deep green dress that clung to her figure in a way Cruz felt certain was calculated. Not a single strand of her glossy hair was out of place. Cruz shot her a sideways glance, finding no trace of nerves beneath that immaculate exterior. Aaliyah turned and met her gaze, a faint smirk curling at the corners of her mouth.
“Try not to look like you’re headed for the guillotine,” she murmured. “We’re about to have the most enchanting engagement reveal of the year, darling.”
Cruz almost replied with a retort far too colorful for the cameras. But Bobby clapped her hands together, signaling the end of their momentary standoff. “Alright, showtime.”
They walked into a cacophony of flashing bulbs and voices clamoring for attention. Reporters shouted over each other, cameras clicked like frantic insects, and the heat of the lights made the entire space feel suffocating. Aaliyah glided forward, waving gracefully as if welcoming guests to her own celebration. Her practiced smile exuded warmth, deceptively genuine.
She threaded her arm through Cruz’s in a gesture meant to imply closeness. Cruz attempted to relax her shoulders but felt as stiff as a statue. She dug her hands into her pockets, not quite knowing where else to put them, painfully aware of every lens capturing her discomfort. Aaliyah’s touch on her arm was light but inescapable.
The first question from the crowd cut through the commotion: “Senator, how did you propose?”
Cruz’s pulse kicked up. Right. The story. She summoned a strained half-smile. “I took her to a private rooftop,” she said, forcing her voice into something confident. “She said yes right away.”
Aaliyah, without missing a beat, added softly, “Though I made sure she had to work for it.” Her tone teased just enough to draw a ripple of laughter from the crowd, shifting the mood from stiff to charming. Aaliyah placed a light peck against the corner of Cruz’s mouth, angling them for the best photos—ones likely to grace the front page of the news in the morning.
Cruz grit her teeth at the ease with which Aaliyah guided the narrative. The cameras snapped more pictures, and the reporters ate up the moment. Sensing the shift, Aaliyah gave Cruz’s arm a delicate squeeze—a gesture orchestrated for the best camera angle possible.
She leaned in, just close enough for Cruz to catch her low whisper. “You’re welcome.”
Cruz swallowed her irritation, shaping her mouth into a polite smile for the audience. She bent her head just slightly, enough to appear affectionate but muttered under her breath, “This is going to be hell.”
Aaliyah’s grin turned almost predatory. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured in a tone dripping with satisfaction, “you have no idea.”