June 20th
Cruz sat in the dim glow of the campaign war room, arms folded tight across her chest, trying not to fidget as the big screen at the front of the room flared to life. The ad began with a slow, dramatic fade-in on a steelworkers’ union hall—an aging structure of corrugated metal walls and fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead. The camera panned over workers with grease-stained coveralls, men and women who turned to look at the figure standing in their midst: Cruz Manuelos, sleeves rolled up, posture defiant, shaking hands with one of the rough-handed workers. The gesture conveyed a sense of earnestness, of someone unafraid to get her hands dirty.
The footage then cut to Randy Calloway, her running mate for lieutenant governor. He stood in front of a battered sign that read “Veterans’ Support Center,” nodding solemnly as an older soldier, hair silvered at the temples, spoke to him with barely contained emotion. Their voices overlapped, forming a tight narrative under the campaign’s chosen tagline.
Cruz’s voice came first, direct and unflinching. “I know what it means to serve. To fight for something bigger than yourself.”
Then Randy’s voice joined, “I know what it means to have someone’s back, no matter what.”
Back to Cruz, now speaking straight to camera, gaze unwavering. “We’re not politicians.”
Randy followed, turning to face the lens with a half-smirk. “We’re Texans.”
Both of them, side by side in split screen, delivered the final punch, “And we’re here to fight for you.”
The lights in the war room snapped back on. The big monitor flickered to black, leaving behind the lingering impression of the campaign’s new slogan. For a moment, no one spoke. The air smelled faintly of stale coffee and leftover takeout, markers of a team running on fumes and determination.
Bobby, standing near the screen, tapped at her clipboard. Her hair was swept under a Manuelos for Governor hat, dark circles smudged under her eyes. She looked from Cruz to Randy, lips pressed together in approval. “It’s strong,” she said. “Simple, direct. It sells you both as a team.”
Cruz sat near the back of the room, arms still crossed. A single lamp illuminated her from the side, accentuating the hint of tension in her jaw. She allowed a low grunt of acknowledgment. “Yeah,” she mumbled, watching the still image of her and Randy in the final frame. “I guess it’ll do.”
Randy stood next to her, tall and broad-shouldered in his no-nonsense blazer. He elbowed her gently, a teasing expression on his face. “Admit it, Manuelos. We look good.” His tone was laced with humor, but also a sort of friendly challenge.
Cruz shot him a sideways glare. “Don’t push your luck,” she retorted, but a ghost of a grin flickered at the corner of her mouth. As far as running mates went, Randy had turned out to be dependable—sarcastic, but loyal. She had to give him that.
Bobby clapped her hands, drawing attention. “Alright, that’s that for the ad. Let’s see how it plays out once we release it in the major media markets tonight.” Her gaze swept over the tired faces of the assembled campaign staffers. “Everyone else, I need you on social media monitoring and working on local outreach. Let’s make sure the union angle hits well with the working-class demographic.”
The staffers mumbled their assent, gathering laptops and half-empty coffee cups as they shuffled out, leaving Cruz, Randy, and Bobby behind. Once the door closed, Bobby powered off the screen. “Now for the not-so-fun part,” she said, pivoting to face Cruz more directly. “Poll numbers.”
Cruz’s expression hardened. “Let’s see them,” she said, even though every muscle in her shoulders tensed at the thought of the new data. She followed Bobby to the long table at the center of the war room. The walls were plastered with county maps, scattered poll trackers, and taped-up quotes from stump speeches. The space exuded the vibe of a campaign perpetually behind schedule and underfunded, but unwilling to surrender.
Bobby woke her tablet from sleep, flicking to a series of bar charts and spreadsheets. “Alright, here’s the gist. Your engagement announcement gave you a decent bump—six points overnight.” She slid the tablet across to Cruz. “Puts you back in the race, at least.”
Cruz ground her teeth. She hated that the single biggest surge in her political career came from an engagement that was nothing more than a tactical move, a shared lie. She hated that she had stooped to this. “Still down by fourteen,” she observed bitterly, eyes scanning the numbers. “That’s practically a blowout.”
Randy stood behind her, hands in his pockets. “Better than being down by twenty,” he noted, leaning over her shoulder. “Fourteen means we might close the gap, if we keep momentum.”
Bobby, arms folded, gave them both a pointed look. “We need more than momentum. The press is still skeptical about the engagement, and we don’t have the money to flood the airwaves. McNamara’s ad buys have tripled in the last month. She’s saturating every major media market from Dallas to Houston to San Antonio.”
Cruz ran a hand over her face. “God, I’m so sick of hearing her name.” She exhaled, scanning the poll data. “People want security. They think she provides it because she’s ‘establishment.’ Meanwhile, I’m just the Marine with no money.”
Bobby tapped the table for emphasis. “Then let’s figure out a bigger move.”
Cruz’s gut churned in protest. She already suspected where this conversation was headed. “What do you mean, bigger?”
Bobby took a seat, dropping her clipboard onto the cluttered surface. “The engagement announcement was a start, but it’s not enough. We’re still trailing by double digits. The election is getting closer every day.”
A moment passed in silence, as Cruz stared at the chart of poll numbers. She could hear the buzz of distant chatter from staffers in the hallway, the soft hum of an air conditioner that struggled to keep the war room cool under the heat of anxiety.
Then Bobby continued. “We need to push the narrative further. A wedding. Soon.”
Cruz swore under her breath, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed again. “You want me to actually marry her? Legally? Like, now?” She shook her head, furious at the notion that her entire campaign’s success depended on turning a fake engagement into an even bigger spectacle.
Randy frowned. “We’re not talking about a ceremony next week, are we?”
Bobby returned the frown, flipping to a calendar on her tablet. “I’d say next month, maybe mid-July. Enough time for the story to dominate the media cycle and bury McNamara’s next wave of ads.”
Cruz’s jaw tightened. She didn’t want to do this. She hated that, deep down, she already knew she would. Because what else could she do? She had refused corporate money, refused to curry favor with the big donors. This was the consequence: needing a personal story so flashy it overshadowed everything else.
A knock interrupted them. A staffer poked their head in. “She’s here,” they said.
Cruz stiffened. She didn’t have to ask who. Her newfound fiancée had arrived. She felt tension coil in her stomach. She loathed the idea of a wedding, but she was equally resentful of the person who had become her ticket to victory.
Moments later, the door pushed open to reveal Aaliyah Amrohi herself. She stepped in with the grace of someone born to command attention. Perfect posture, perfect suit jacket in a subtle shade of lavender that made her eyes stand out in a way Cruz found obnoxiously captivating. A slender phone clutched in her manicured hand. Her expression calm, nearly bored.
“Good morning,” Aaliyah said, offering only the faintest of polite smiles. Her tone gave nothing away—no sign that she, too, might dislike the circumstances as much as Cruz.
Bobby stood, adopting a brisk manner. “We were just going over the poll numbers,” she said. “Your engagement announcement gave us a six-point jump. But we’re still behind McNamara by fourteen.”
Aaliyah arched an eyebrow, tilting her head toward Cruz. “So the engagement worked. Perhaps you should be thanking me.”
Cruz’s lips pressed into a tight line. “We’re not out of the woods yet. It’s just a bump, not a miracle.”
Aaliyah gave a small shrug, as if to say it wasn’t her problem. “I’m here, aren’t I? Contributing my time, image, and resources.”
Cruz clenched her jaw. “That’s exactly the problem.”
The tension hung in the air, heavy and unmistakable. Randy cleared his throat, attempting to defuse the moment. “Why don’t we focus on the plan for next steps?”
Bobby moved to the head of the table, gesturing for everyone to sit. Cruz and Aaliyah took seats across from each other, each refusing to budge on the posture of defiance. Randy slid into a seat next to Cruz, arms resting on the table, watchful eyes flicking between them.
“Here’s the short version,” Bobby said, glancing at her notes. “The engagement got us a wave of media coverage and moderate voters. They see Cruz as more ‘establishment-ready.’ But the progressive base is wary. They’re calling her a sellout, especially because Aaliyah’s family is known for big oil money.”
Aaliyah lifted a brow but said nothing, crossing one leg over the other. Her posture remained poised, self-contained, as if being labeled the spawn of corporate greed was a mild inconvenience at best.
Cruz caught the subtle shift of amusement at the corner of Aaliyah’s mouth. Her anger rose. “They’re not wrong,” she muttered, “I have basically sold out by tying myself to you.”
Aaliyah’s mouth twitched into a brief smirk. “Is that how you see it?”
Cruz glared. “How else am I supposed to see it?”
Bobby tapped the table again. “Can we keep the personal barbs for later? Right now, we have to discuss the wedding date.”
Aaliyah’s smirk morphed into a smooth smile, as though she had been waiting for this. “I assume you want it sooner rather than later,” she said, turning to Cruz. “A month, perhaps?”
Cruz’s jaw twitched. “That’s exactly what Bobby suggested,” she answered with more bitterness than she intended.
“July 15,” Bobby confirmed, opening a digital calendar for them to see. “We can’t let people dwell on whether this is a real engagement or not. A short timeline convinces them it’s a genuine whirlwind romance. If we draw it out, the narrative might crumble.”
Aaliyah nodded, fingers lightly tapping the table’s edge. “That date works for me.”
Cruz felt the floor tilt. “Oh, well, I’m just thrilled that it fits your busy schedule,” she snapped, voice dripping sarcasm.
Aaliyah regarded her with a measured gaze, refusing to bite. “I’m making sacrifices too, Senator,” she said softly. “You’re not the only one playing a role you don’t like.”
Cruz was about to unleash a retort, but Randy stepped in. “Alright, then, July 15th. One month to plan. That’s going to be a nightmare,” he said, half to Bobby, half to the group. “We need a venue big enough to show it’s not a sham, but small enough that Cruz doesn’t look like she’s selling out to a billionaire circus. The press has to be managed carefully.”
Bobby jotted down notes. “We’ll pick somewhere nice. Big enough for appearances, not so big it looks like a spectacle. On top of that, we have to handle the engagement storyline daily—photos, social media, maybe even an exclusive interview. If we wait until the wedding day to appear together in public, we’ll lose the momentum from that six-point bump.”
Cruz felt her stomach churn. The mention of daily appearances with Aaliyah was enough to give her a headache. “I guess we’re moving in together too, right?” she asked, her voice tinged with sarcasm.
Bobby nodded. “We cross that bridge when we get there. If the public sees you spending nights apart, they’ll suspect something’s off. We can’t afford them poking holes in the story, especially with McNamara’s researchers sniffing around.”
The idea of sharing a living space with Aaliyah made Cruz’s skin crawl. She exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over her face. “I might actually lose my mind.”
Aaliyah’s expression turned smug. “Don’t worry, I’ll try to keep out of your way. I have no interest in rummaging through your, shall we say, minimalistic wardrobe.”
Cruz shot her a sidelong glare. “You keep talking, Princess, and I might just call this whole thing off.”
Bobby’s eyes widened. “Cruz, we can’t afford threats. We are too far in. You are too far in. One meltdown, and we lose everything we’ve built.”
Cruz swallowed a retort. She saw the logic. She hated it, but she saw it. “Fine,” she muttered through clenched teeth.
Bobby moved on swiftly, pointing at the poll numbers on her tablet again. “Now, we should talk about the campaign ad with Randy that’s dropping tonight. We want to tie that message of ‘two fighters for Texas’ into your engagement storyline. The public sees the dynamic: Cruz is a tough veteran who cares about the working class; Randy is the grounded lieutenant governor candidate with a strong record on veterans’ issues; and you, Senator, have gained personal stability by forging a relationship with Aaliyah. It’s the complete package, or so we want them to believe.”
Aaliyah studied the polling data with detached interest. “And how do I fit into this ‘two fighters, one mission’ angle?”
Randy coughed, exchanging a look with Cruz. “We’re obviously not including you in that tagline. That’s for me and Cruz. You, on the other hand, position yourself as the supportive fiancée who brings sophistication and financial credibility to the campaign.”
“Financial credibility,” Aaliyah echoed, her tone laced with amusement. “Such a polite way to say ‘rich heiress with bottomless pockets.’ I am so glad that I am just a pretty face with a blank checkbook to you.”
“Call it what you want,” Randy said, not unkindly. “People are curious about you. The more they see a unifying narrative, the better the campaign does.”
Cruz tapped her foot impatiently on the floor. “So basically, I wave to union workers with Randy, talk about how my fiancée is an heiress, and watch the polls tick up? That’s the plan?”
Bobby gave a sharp nod. “More or less. Along with daily appearances—shopping for wedding attire, meeting with a pastor, or an officiant if you’re not going the religious route. Interviews that highlight your new fiancée’s philanthropic side. We want every question about your politics to also lead back to how stable and well-rounded your personal life is.”
Cruz’s jaw locked. She hated the idea that her actual policy stances—veterans’ healthcare, anti-corruption laws, education reform—would be overshadowed by dress fittings and venue tours. It felt like a betrayal of everything she’d fought for. “Fine,” she said coolly. “But I want to keep my policy front and center at these appearances, too.”
Aaliyah stirred in her seat, crossing her legs in the opposite direction. “As if my entire identity is just a footnote. Let’s be clear: I’m not merely a prop in your campaign.”
Cruz shot her a scathing look. “Feels like we’re both just props, doesn’t it?”
Aaliyah’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Perhaps. But at least one of us is prepared to make this look believable.”
Cruz smirked, anger simmering. “You can play the polished socialite all you want. I’m not here to smile and wave like some pageant contestant.”
“And yet,” Aaliyah replied, her tone as sharp as a knife, “you’re the one agreeing to a very public wedding. Who’s the pageant contestant now, Senator?”
Randy cleared his throat loudly, stepping between them. “Let’s not blow up the entire plan before it starts, ladies.”
Bobby scrolled through her notes, ignoring the tension. “We have about two weeks before we ramp up the final push on TV ads. The engagement story has a short shelf life. That means we need more glimpses into your relationship. That leads to the wedding, which locks it in before the final wave of McNamara’s negative ads. If you’re married by mid-July, you’ll have a honeymoon period that might carry you through August’s debates.”
Cruz let out a hollow laugh. “Honeymoon period. That’s one name to call it.”
Aaliyah lifted her chin. “I can handle the press coverage for the wedding. My PR team will coordinate with your staff.” Her gaze turned to Bobby. “We should pick a venue soon. Something that reads elegant but not excessive.”
Bobby nodded. “Yes, or else people call it a billionaire’s dog and pony show. Then Cruz’s progressive supporters freak out even more.”
Cruz muttered, “They’re already calling me a sellout. Might as well bring in peacocks and life-sized ice sculptures.”
Aaliyah’s lips curved into a smirk. “Don’t tempt me.”
Bobby’s exasperation was palpable. She checked the time on her phone. “We need to finalize a venue by tomorrow. Possibly a private estate near Austin. Big enough for a proper ceremony, small enough not to alienate Cruz’s base. We’ll do some site visits next week.”
Cruz rubbed her temples. “Site visits. Great. My schedule is already slammed with campaign stops.”
Aaliyah arched an eyebrow. “Oh, I’ll make time for you, dear. After all, we’re in love, aren’t we?”
Cruz shot her an acid glare. “Absolutely head over heels,” she answered, each word dripping in sarcasm.
Randy leaned over to Bobby. “We might need an actual wedding planner who understands how to stage a politically advantageous ceremony. Any leads?”
Bobby sighed, scribbling on her clipboard. “I’ll find someone discreet who’s done events for high-profile political families.”
Aaliyah nodded in approval. “Yes, someone used to dealing with hush-hush demands.”
Cruz’s voice cut in, low and rough. “This entire fucking thing is hush-hush demands.”
For a heartbeat, none of them spoke, the tension in the war room thick enough to taste. The overhead lights hummed, and the stale smell of old coffee seemed to intensify. Cruz felt the sour twist of anxiety in her gut again, that gnawing sense that she was playing a role in a twisted theater production. She had never imagined stooping to weddings and conjured romance to boost poll numbers, yet here she was.
Cruz moved to stand, done with this conversation. “If that’s all, I need to get some air.”
Bobby frowned, but nodded. “We’re done for now. Let’s reconvene tomorrow to finalize the site visits for the wedding venue.”
Without a word, Cruz strode to the door, her footsteps heavy on the aged carpet of the war room. She didn’t offer a goodbye glance to either Randy or Aaliyah. The second she was out in the hallway, she took a deep breath, trying to calm the racing in her chest. A wave of guilt washed over her for speaking so harshly, but another wave of anger followed, fueling her. She felt trapped in this arrangement—one that might secure her victory but cost her everything she valued in the process.
Aaliyah, meanwhile, stood gracefully, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her suit jacket. Randy regarded her with a curious mix of wariness and respect. “You sure you want to do this? She’s not exactly bending over backwards to be pleasant.”
Aaliyah shrugged, collecting her phone and glancing at the data on the screens. “I don’t need her to be pleasant, Randy. I need her to play her part so I can play mine.” She tossed her hair over one shoulder. “We both get something out of this. Whether or not we like each other is irrelevant.”
Randy frowned. “Cruz is used to fighting alone. She doesn’t adapt well to someone else playing in the sandbox with her.”
Aaliyah’s expression shifted to something momentarily thoughtful. “She’s not the only one who hates being controlled. My father’s been pulling my strings my entire life. At least she is honest about her contempt.”
He hesitated. “You’re more genuine than I expected, given your background.”
A small, rueful laugh escaped Aaliyah’s lips. “Don’t mistake authenticity for necessity. I’m doing what I must for my own reasons.”
Randy nodded slowly, deciding not to pry. “Well, Bobby has a plan. Let’s hope you two can act like you’re in love. For Texas, right?”
Aaliyah offered a noncommittal smile. “For Texas,” she echoed, though her voice dripped with a sardonic edge. Then she walked out, every step measured, leaving Randy alone with the swirl of half-formed ideas about how exactly this precarious arrangement would hold together under the press’ microscope.
Out in the hall, Cruz paused near the open windows, letting the faint breeze brush against her flushed cheeks. The building overlooked a busy Austin street, horns echoing up from below, life going on regardless of her internal storm. She stared at the cars passing, their headlights glinting in the early evening light. She had never felt more conflicted. She always saw herself as a soldier fighting for the underdog, not a polished figure smiling for the cameras in a sham wedding.
But she was losing ground. She’d do anything for a shot at winning—because losing meant failing everyone who believed in her. And so, she forced herself to accept a makeshift partnership with a woman who embodied all the privilege Cruz had spent years railing against.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out to see a new set of poll updates from Bobby, plus a text about a union rally next week, and then one more text from an unknown number that read: We should schedule our next public appearance. Possibly a casual date at a local diner. The people love that. —Aaliyah
Cruz stifled a groan. Even texting, Aaliyah sounded smug. She typed a blunt reply: Fine. Tomorrow. I’ll send the location.
Then she tucked the phone away, shaking her head. She felt a twinge of pity for herself. The War Hero stooping to a headline-grabbing romance with Big Oil’s princess. She closed her eyes, remembering the last day she spent on a campaign stop in a battered Texas town, promising folks with worn faces that she’d never betray them. Would they see this sudden engagement as betrayal? Many already did.
She inhaled deeply, grabbing onto the only rationalization she had left: If this gambit let her win, she could truly help them. And maybe that redemption would be worth the cost to her pride.
Back in the war room, Bobby and Randy continued to finalize the details of the new ad campaign. Bobby scrolled through the final media schedule, verifying which networks would air their “Two fighters for Texas” ad. Randy asked pointed questions about how much of the budget they could still dedicate to it, mindful of the wedding overshadowing their entire message.
Once the schedule was set, Bobby glanced at the door, unsure if she should check on Cruz. “We’re in a delicate place,” she admitted. “Cruz is one misstep away from blowing up.”
Randy exhaled. “Cruz has never been one to compromise. She thrives on conflict. But this is bigger than us now.”
Bobby nodded, mind churning with how to keep the entire operation afloat. “We can handle it. We have to.”
An hour later, the team dispersed, leaving the campaign war room mostly empty. Bobby locked up, turning off the bright overhead lights. She found Cruz outside, leaning against a concrete pillar, looking out at the stretch of city lights. For a moment, neither spoke.
“How’re you holding up?” Bobby asked eventually, her voice gentle.
Cruz shrugged, refusing to turn. “I’m here.”
Bobby moved closer, arms folded. “The new ad goes live in a few hours. We have prime-time slots on three major networks. That should give us a nice push. Then tomorrow morning, we coordinate with Aaliyah’s PR about your next public appearance together.”
Cruz let out a mirthless laugh. “A public date,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Can’t wait.”
Bobby placed a hand on Cruz’s shoulder. “We’re close, Cruz. We just need to keep it together.”
Cruz pressed her lips into a tight line. “I know. Thanks.”
They stood there a moment longer, the hush of the city below them, the faint bustle of traffic. In the distance, a honking horn broke the stillness. Cruz felt the weight of her obligations settle again. She’d fight like hell for Texans who didn’t have anyone else in their corner, even if it meant forging a sham wedding with an heiress who turned her stomach.
Finally, she straightened, pushing off the pillar. “Let’s do this,” she said quietly. “Let’s release the ad, push the engagement story, set the wedding. Let’s see if that closes the gap.”
Bobby nodded, relieved that Cruz was at least resigned to the plan. The two of them left the building, heading for their respective cars, each lost in thought about the compromise they were making with the world of smoke and mirrors they hated.
Elsewhere in the same city, Aaliyah’s driver wove through traffic, carrying her toward her penthouse. She sat in the back seat, phone in hand, scanning the latest news coverage. Polling up six points. Public suspicion about the nature of the engagement. So far, so predictable. The driver turned onto a quiet boulevard lined with trees and high-end boutiques. Aaliyah hardly glanced at them. She had grown up in such luxury, and it meant nothing more to her than a stage set she had long ago learned to navigate.
She found a new text from her father: Heard about the poll bump.Congratulations. Don’t forget whose money keeps you relevant.
A tightness formed in her chest. She quickly typed a dismissive reply: I’m taking care of things. No need to worry.
She despised the way he always reminded her of his hand in her life. At least with Cruz, the tension was honest. The friction lay there, raw and bristling, with no illusions about fatherly concern or unconditional love. Perhaps that was why she found Cruz less nauseating than the endless parade of sycophants who curried favor with her father. Cruz openly resented her, and it was refreshing in a way.
As the car pulled up to her building, she gazed out at the shimmering skyline. She could sense that Cruz was the type of person who would choose a battered ranch house over a mansion, or a cheap diner over a Michelin star restaurant. A world away from Aaliyah’s upbringing. The friction between them sparked more brightly than she had anticipated. But she needed this wedding just as much as Cruz needed to win. If it cost them both a piece of their souls, well, that was politics.
In the early hours of the night, the new “Two fighters for Texas” ad aired on major networks. Viewers across the state saw images of union halls and veteran support centers, with Cruz and Randy proclaiming their dedication to serve. Social media lit up with mostly positive reactions: a sense that maybe Cruz was more than just an ex-soldier yelling at podiums. Maybe there was a comprehensive team behind her. The engagement news hung in the background, fueling speculation about how it all tied together.
By morning, the campaign’s War Room reported a modest but steady climb in online engagement. Not the game-changer they needed, but a step forward. A chain of interviews lined up for Cruz and Randy to discuss the ad’s message, weaving in the fiancée storyline. A carefully choreographed day that would end with a quiet dinner “date” for Cruz and Aaliyah in a casual setting, hopefully producing a few romantic photos for tabloids.
The phone cameras started clicking the moment Cruz and Aaliyah showed up at a small diner on the outskirts of Houston. The place was chosen for maximum effect—authentically Texan, with red vinyl booths and pictures of local high school sports teams on the walls. Supporters of Cruz might have recognized it from her earliest campaign stops, a place where she once shook hands with working moms and retirees struggling to make ends meet. Now, though, it was the stage for a made-for-media date.
Cruz wore a scowl barely softened by a forced grin whenever a camera pointed their way. Aaliyah exuded her usual regal composure, ordering a sweet tea to show she could be “down-to-earth,” while Cruz sipped black coffee in sullen silence. The poor waitress, starstruck by the tension, hovered nervously as reporters snapped pictures through the window.
Small talk was minimal. Aaliyah tried to ask about Cruz’s day, and Cruz gave curt, monosyllabic answers. A camera flash popped outside, and Aaliyah reached across the table to lay a hand gently over Cruz’s forearm—purely for show. Cruz flinched, then steadied herself, plastering on a half-hearted smile that looked more like a grimace.
“Wonderful place,” Aaliyah remarked, casting a disingenuous glance around the worn décor. “I see why you like it.”
Cruz’s lips tightened. “Yeah, it’s great,” she said in a flat tone. Then, more quietly, leaning in so only Aaliyah could hear, “You hate everything about it.”
Aaliyah’s eyes danced with cool amusement. “Don’t assume you know me, Manuelos.”
Before Cruz could respond, a reporter managed to open the diner door, stepping in with a polite cough. “Senator, Ms. Amrohi, do you mind if we take a quick photo for tomorrow’s paper?”
Aaliyah beamed, turning on that polished charm. “Of course not. Always happy to say hello.”
Cruz forced herself to stand next to Aaliyah, arms stiff at her sides, while the camera clicked repeatedly. She allowed Aaliyah’s arm to slip around her waist—light as a breeze, but enough to make her bristle. The flash flickered. The reporter thanked them, scurrying back outside. Immediately, Cruz stepped away from Aaliyah, resisting the urge to wipe the contact from her skin.
They sat back down. A few actual customers recognized Cruz from her earlier visits, shyly offering a handshake. She smiled for them more genuinely, asking about their kids or their jobs, trying to recapture a hint of her old authenticity in the middle of this manufactured spectacle.
After twenty grueling minutes, they paid the bill and exited, more camera flashes greeting them. A legion of watchers no doubt analyzing every micro-movement, every forced smile. Aaliyah gave one last wave to the onlookers, then slipped into her own sleek car, while Cruz walked toward her battered pickup truck, Randy trailing behind to whisk her away to their next campaign stop.
Later, alone in her truck, Cruz gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white. She replayed the evening: Aaliyah’s calm demeanor, the prying cameras, the forced touches. She despised how it felt to be used, even though she was using Aaliyah just as much. She shoved the key into the ignition, the engine coughing to life. She needed to see the poll numbers tomorrow, to know if this humiliating charade was at least worth it.
As she drove through Houston’s neon-lit streets, her mind roiled with conflicting thoughts. The memory of that ad—her and Randy forging an alliance for the sake of Texas—reminded her that she still had real goals. Veterans, union workers, families scraping by paycheck to paycheck. They needed someone who wouldn’t vanish into the system. She inhaled, letting the rumble of the truck soothe her. She might be stuck in a fake engagement, but she refused to lose sight of why she fought.
Back at her apartment, she dragged herself up the stairs, ignoring the mail piled by her doorstep. The living room was dark, illuminated only by a single streetlamp outside the window. She tossed her keys onto the table with a hollow clatter. Checking her phone, she saw a new notification: a quick email from Bobby with an early snapshot of tonight’s local news coverage. A small grin tugged at her lips as she read a snippet calling her “the newly engaged candidate with a heart for the working class.”
She hated the deception, yet part of her swelled with a spark of hope. If it inched her closer to victory, she could endure a forced smile. For now.
In a sprawling penthouse across town, Aaliyah stepped out of her high heels, sinking onto an expensive leather sofa. She frowned at the city lights outside. Another day of playing this role, tethering herself to Cruz’s public image. Her phone chimed—another text from her father, no doubt. She closed her eyes, ignoring it. Let him wait. She was forging her path now, even if it meant stepping on the toes of everyone who had shaped her life. She had expected Cruz to be more pliable, more grateful, but instead found an unyielding, antagonistic partner. Oddly enough, that only made her more determined to see it through. When they finally succeeded, she wanted to see the look on Cruz’s face—whether it showed triumph or regret.
As the clock pushed toward midnight in both apartments, two women lay restless in separate beds, their futures intertwined by a deal neither truly wanted, but both needed. In the morning, they would stare at updated polls, read headlines, and brace themselves for the next day of acting in a show staged for millions. In the glare of the cameras, they would stand side by side, hearts pounding with defiance. And behind every practiced smile, every staged embrace, simmered a mutual contempt that threatened to ignite into something unstoppable.
Cruz leaned against the broad conference table, arms folded, her posture radiating a defiance that crackled through the air. Dim overhead lighting cast faint shadows under her cheekbones, giving her a sharp, unyielding silhouette. She directed her gaze at the unadorned wall across the room, as if staring anywhere else might spark an argument before they even began.
She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to have this conversation. But there she stood, pinned by the reality of her predicament.
“Fine,” she said, her voice a level monotone that betrayed nothing of the turmoil beneath. “Let’s get this over with. Courthouse wedding, in and out, no spectacle.”
At the far end of the table, Aaliyah stilled. The flicker of surprise in her eyes was fleeting, quickly replaced by a steely sort of composure. Slowly, she angled her head to face Cruz, looking as if the Senator had just suggested a fast-food burger at a Michelin-starred restaurant.
“Excuse me?” Aaliyah’s tone had an edge that cut through the quiet like a knife.
Cruz shrugged, pushing off the table’s edge and standing up straighter. “We don’t need a big event,” she continued. “Simple. Legal. Over.”
Aaliyah blinked once, her dark lashes lowering in a measured blink. Then, with a deliberate motion, she set her espresso cup on the table, the porcelain making a pointed click that resonated through the still air. “We are not eloping like a couple of drunks in Vegas.”
Cruz snorted. “Aren’t we? I would even agree to an Elvis impersonator.” She gave a half-smirk, a cynicism creeping into her voice. “Because that’s exactly what this is—a sham. Smoke and mirrors. Why pretend it’s anything else?”
Aaliyah’s gaze narrowed, her lips pressed into a cool line. “No, Senator,” she replied, the clipped tone suggesting she was barely keeping her irritation at bay. “We are not.”
Cruz exhaled with something close to a growl. The tension in her shoulders had her muscles coiled tight, ready to snap. “Jesus Christ, Aaliyah, we don’t need a circus. We just need a license. Why the hell waste time and money on some over-the-top wedding extravaganza if we can just sign the papers and be done with it?”
Aaliyah leaned forward, placing her fingertips on the polished table. The overhead light caught the glint of a slim, expensive-looking bracelet around her wrist, a subtle reminder of her wealth. “We need,” she said, speaking in a calm, pointed voice, “a grand affair. A luxury venue, high-profile guests, top-tier media coverage. You might be comfortable walking into a courthouse like you’re renewing your driver’s license, but I won’t risk my reputation on something so… uninspiring.”
Cruz dragged a hand over her face, stifling a groan. “I’m trying not to look like I’ve sold out,” she said, forcing her voice back down to a calmer level. “My supporters will tear me apart if I stand in front of them in some thousand-dollar suit, feeding them the same glitzy pageantry I’ve spent my entire career railing against.”
Aaliyah arched an eyebrow, her every movement contained, precise. “And my father’s allies will never accept me—nor you—if we reduce this engagement to a five-minute session at city hall. They’ll see me as losing my edge, and they’ll see you as nothing more than a scrappy upstart with no respect for proper decorum.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The hush in the room was loaded with unspoken barbs. Cruz’s jaw tightened, heat rising in her neck. She hated it—hated that Aaliyah was right, even if just a bit. Finally, she opened her mouth to retort, but a voice cut through the tension.
“Compromise,” said Bobby, stepping in before the conversation could derail. She stood near the head of the table, a folder clutched in one hand, her gaze pinging between Cruz and Aaliyah with an air of exhaustion. “We need a middle ground—big enough to seem real, small enough not to look like a PR stunt.”
Cruz glared at the scratch marks on the table’s surface, still bristling. “I’m not going to plan a lavish, star-studded event that’ll have half the tabloids calling me a sellout.”
Aaliyah lifted her chin, her polite smile deceptively sweet. “And I won’t degrade myself by walking into some dingy government office like we’re paying a parking ticket.”
Bobby exhaled, adjusting her folder. “Something in between, then,” she said in that no-nonsense voice she reserved for moments like this. “A private estate, big enough to host some high-profile guests, small enough that Cruz’s base won’t think she’s hosting a billionaire’s carnival. We pick a venue this week, or the rumors spiral out of control.”
Cruz muttered under her breath, wondering if it was too late to run for the hills. Aaliyah, on the other hand, seemed to collect herself, pressing her hands smoothly in her lap. When she next spoke, her tone was measured, but there was a hint of triumph in it. “A private estate,” she echoed. “That could work.”
Cruz rolled her shoulders, the tension never leaving. “Fine.”
Aaliyah’s slow, satisfied smile only made Cruz’s blood boil hotter. She recognized that brand of smugness: it was the look of someone who had gotten exactly what they wanted. The fact that the plan was somewhat workable irked Cruz almost as much as Aaliyah’s self-assured demeanor.
Bobby cleared her throat. “All right, we’ll narrow down some locations by tomorrow. In the meantime, I need both of you to keep up the act. Appear in public as an engaged couple—restaurants, maybe a meet-and-greet with supporters. Something to sell the romance.”
Cruz felt her jaw clench yet again, a dull ache forming in the muscles. “Meet-and-greet with my supporters? They’ll see right through it.”
Aaliyah didn’t bother to hide her eye-roll. “Then be a better actor. Or step aside, let me handle it.” She smoothed a non-existent wrinkle in her immaculate outfit. “I’ve been playing these high-society games my whole life, Senator. You might learn a thing or two.”
Cruz narrowed her eyes. “I bet I could teach you a few things too—like how to deal with real people who don’t sip champagne for breakfast.”
Aaliyah smirked, unoffended. “I prefer espresso, actually.”
In the charged silence that followed, Bobby rubbed her temples in a gesture that screamed long-suffering campaign manager. “You two do realize you have to act like you’re in love. For cameras. For reporters. For the public. Right?”
Cruz glanced away, a muscle in her jaw twitching. “We’ll manage,” she ground out.
Aaliyah met Cruz’s gaze, her expression a mix of challenge and condescension. “Yes,” she said softly, “we will.”
The air in the conference room felt denser than it had minutes ago, crackling with the potential for an argument that no one could afford. Cruz pushed off the table again, the movement abrupt, almost violent in its restraint.
“Guess we’re done here,” she muttered, shooting one final glower in Aaliyah’s direction.
Aaliyah responded with a serene arch of her brow, crossing her arms in a display of calm that only deepened the antagonism. “Delightful conversation,” she murmured, sarcasm lacing her tone.
Bobby clapped the folder shut and stepped between them, physically halting the stare-down that threatened to ignite. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow about the venue,” she said. “Remember: big enough, but not ostentatious. We’ll discuss guest lists and media invites then.”
Cruz gave a curt nod and headed for the door. Aaliyah lingered a moment longer, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear, collecting her espresso cup before turning to follow. In passing, her gaze flickered to Cruz with something akin to satisfaction in it, as if she’d won this round.
Cruz set her jaw, refusing to look back. She could hear the click of Aaliyah’s heels behind her as they both stepped out into the hallway, parted by mere steps but feeling worlds apart. This entire charade was going to be the hardest mission Cruz had ever taken on—and from the glare in Aaliyah’s eyes, the feeling was very much mutual.
Cruz rubbed her eyes, the dim glow of the laptop screen painting her features in stark relief. Every muscle in her shoulders felt coiled, and the faint drone of the overhead fluorescent light only sharpened her sense of fatigue. Outside her office door, the bustle of the campaign war room was unrelenting—volunteers chattering at phone banks, policy advisors locked in heated debates, exhausted staffers flitting from station to station in a frantic effort to keep her gubernatorial campaign alive. Within these walls, chaos was the norm.
But here in her private office, shadows loomed around her. The space was cramped, half-buried in a tangle of stacked boxes filled with flyers and half-forgotten promotional materials. She hadn’t even bothered turning on the overhead light. For once, she wanted to hide.
She wasn’t even sure why she had opened Twitter. Perhaps she’d been searching for some small validation that the faux engagement was improving her poll numbers. Something to bolster her weakening resolve. But as she scrolled through the feed, her stomach twisted.
The negative tweets assaulted her in a relentless stream:
“Didn’t she swear off corporate money? Now she’s marrying oil money?”
“This screams fake—hope I’m wrong.”
“She’s turning into exactly what she used to hate. Just another politician.”
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. There had been dissenting voices in her career before—snide remarks from pundits, cheap shots from rivals. She could handle those. What gutted her was the disillusionment of her core supporters, the people who’d believed in her uncompromising stance and dogged integrity from the beginning. That cut deeper than any manufactured attack ad.
She remembered the day she first ran for the state senate, standing on a battered wooden stage to be heard by the small crowd of working-class Texans who had gathered on a dusty street corner in San Angelo. She had promised them something real. She had told them she wasn’t like every other candidate who made deals behind closed doors. Now she was literally walking into a deal so drenched in the stench of political maneuvering that her own base could smell it a mile away.
Her gaze snagged on one last tweet before she shut the laptop in disgust:
“She was different once. Shame to see her fall.”
She felt a jolt of anger so visceral it nearly brought tears to her eyes—rage mingled with a sense of betrayal in reverse: she was betraying them. Her supporters. Herself.
The knock at the door jolted her back to reality. She didn’t need to look up to recognize the pattern—a brief, purposeful rap that could only belong to Bobby, her campaign manager, but more importantly, her longtime friend. Cruz exhaled, forcing her hands to unclench. She wasn’t sure she wanted the company, but hiding in the dark wasn’t going to solve anything.
Bobby stepped inside, coffee mug in one hand, her ever-present tablet in the other. Even in the low light, Cruz could see the strain etched on her features—the toll this race had taken on everyone. Her hair was in disarray and her eyes held the sort of weary determination that comes from too many months on the campaign trail.
“You look ready to start throwing things,” Bobby said, closing the door behind her. Her tone was dry, but concern underpinned it.
Cruz let out a hollow chuckle, not bothering to deny it. “They’re tearing me apart online,” she said flatly. Her voice sounded distant to her own ears. “It’s not even McNamara’s people. It’s… mine.”
She gestured toward the laptop. The mere thought of opening it again made her stomach twist. The screen glowed black now, a silent reminder of everything she had just read.
Bobby approached, setting her coffee on a corner of the desk. “You knew they’d push back,” she said, her tone free of sympathy. “People invested in your authenticity—of course they’d question a sudden engagement to an oil heiress.”
Cruz scowled. She felt the anger in her chest rising anew. “They think I’ve sold out. Hell, maybe I have.” The admission tasted bitter on her tongue. She rubbed her temples, memories swirling. She recalled that day in the conference room when she’d practically spit nails at Aaliyah. The memory of that woman’s cool, unbothered gaze only stoked her fury.
She resented Aaliyah Amrohi for being the daughter of a dynasty she had fought against her entire career. But she also resented herself for signing the contract that bound them in this unholy alliance. Every time Aaliyah smirked as if she held all the cards, Cruz wanted to slam a door, or a fist, or both.
Bobby sighed, her voice gentling. “Look. I know this is hell for you. But if you don’t win, then none of what you stand for will matter. The working-class families, the veterans—everyone you’ve sworn to help—they’ll see you lose and be left with McNamara or worse.”
Cruz’s jaw tightened. “I can’t stand being put in a corner like this.” She clenched her fists on the tabletop again, feeling the wood press into her knuckles. She pictured the smug face of Aaliyah, the absolute gall she had in insisting on a lavish wedding. That woman was everything Cruz despised: privileged, arrogant, unflappable. “I’m stuck with someone who represents everything I can’t stomach.”
Bobby nodded, placing a hand on Cruz’s shoulder. “And yet, you agreed to it. Because deep down, you knew that if you lose, all of your progress—everything you’ve fought for—gets washed away under the establishment’s money. McNamara will bury your agenda in corporate-friendly legislation.”
Cruz wanted to argue, but the logic was sound. Her success hinged on continuing the façade with Aaliyah. She swallowed, a wave of regret washing over her. “I hate needing her.”
“It’s the price,” Bobby said softly. “That’s politics. We all compromise somewhere.”
Cruz’s anger flared again, though this time directed at the system that forced her hand. “Well, maybe the system’s broken.”
Bobby shrugged. “Maybe. It’s the only one we’ve got, though. You fought to change it from the inside, remember? This is how you stay on the inside.”
Cruz closed her eyes, recalling when she first confronted Aaliyah about the idea of a courthouse wedding. She heard Aaliyah’s clipped, unimpressed voice: We are not eloping like a couple of drunks in Vegas.
She remembered the flash of contempt in Aaliyah’s green eyes, the frustration that a mere courthouse wedding would never suffice for someone of her status. That conversation was the pinnacle of their mutual dislike—so many loaded taunts passed between them. And yet, they were chained together by cold, pragmatic necessity. The gaudy engagement ring on Aaliyah’s finger was proof of that.
Bobby picked up the coffee cup again, taking a slow sip. “You’re not just a candidate anymore, Cruz. You’re a brand. You stand for something big. If it takes a wedding to keep that momentum, so be it.”
Cruz opened her eyes, turning her head to stare at Bobby. “I built my brand on honesty, on being the one who doesn’t do backroom deals.”
Bobby’s posture didn’t relax. “Well, guess what? This is the biggest backroom deal of your life. Either you ride it to the governor’s mansion, or you crash and burn. It’s your call.”
Cruz stared at her, then dropped her gaze to the desktop. Her laptop lay silent, the screen blank. She knew what Twitter would say if she opened it again: that she was a sellout, that she’d lost her ideals. It hurt more than she’d admit, but it was the truth she had chosen. She let out a breath that felt heavier than any she’d taken in weeks.
“God, I hate this,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
Bobby squeezed her shoulder gently. “I know.”
They lapsed into silence for a moment, the distant clamor of the war room filling the background. Phones ringing off the hook, staffers calling out times and dates, bursts of stressed laughter—life continuing on the other side of her door. In here, Cruz felt like she was wrestling a hydra, each head representing some moral compromise she never wanted to face.
After a long pause, Bobby glanced at her phone, then back to Cruz. “We have a planning session at 8 AM tomorrow,” she said softly. “They’re finalizing the wedding venue short list. Aaliyah’s PR team will be there.”
Cruz swallowed, steeling herself. “I’ll be ready,” she said hollowly.
As Bobby turned to leave, she paused at the threshold. “Don’t open Twitter again tonight,” she advised. “You need some rest. This race is a marathon, not a sprint.”
The door clicked shut, leaving Cruz once more in near-darkness. She pressed the laptop’s power button, shutting it down completely. The lingering afterimage of the tweets hovered in her mind, refusing to fade. Despite everything, she was still here, still fighting. Even if that fight meant joining forces with a woman she could barely stomach. Even if it meant accepting that Twitter would label her a hypocrite and her old supporters would call her a sellout.
Because if she lost, none of her ideals would matter anyway.
She stood, flicking off the small lamp, and the room fell into total darkness. Her next steps echoed across the floor as she made her way to the exit. Beyond the office door, the clamor of the campaign continued, but she felt none of its energy—only a bone-deep weariness.
In that moment, the only thing keeping her upright was a quiet, simmering rage: rage at the system that forced her to compromise, rage at Aaliyah for representing everything she had vowed to dismantle. And perhaps, though she’d never admit it, a touch of rage at herself for realizing that even she could break her own rules.
Aaliyah sank into the high-backed leather chair that faced her father’s imposing desk. Every time she sat here, she was reminded of the countless nights she had watched him sign treaties with powerful oil conglomerates, dictate the fates of politicians across the country, and chart the future of an empire that stretched from Texas to the global stage. Tonight, however, the room felt more like a battlefield than the polished seat of his dynasty.
The study’s walls were lined with dark mahogany shelves holding carefully selected tomes on economics and global markets. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the estate’s immaculately trimmed gardens and, beyond them, the distant glow of city lights. Tall lamps cast a subdued glow on the marble floors, reflecting just enough light to reveal the tension etched into every rigid line of Aaliyah’s posture. Despite the regal hush that always lay over this house, the air felt stifling, thick with a tension she had seldom experienced.
Her father stood behind his desk. He was not a man who needed to raise his voice to command a room. His power was written in the way he held himself—his shoulders set, his chin lifted, his hands folded before him in carefully measured calm. On any other day, he might’ve taken a seat to speak with her, maintaining the veneer of paternal warmth. But not tonight. Tonight, there was a gulf between them that matched the distance from his polished desk to her chair.
To his right, her mother sat with perfect posture, ankles crossed beneath her long skirt. She looked like a statuesque ornament—refined, beautiful, and silent. Always silent. Aaliyah had long since understood that her mother’s quiet presence served as an accessory to her father’s authority rather than a comfort to her daughter. This evening, her mother’s lowered gaze gave away that she did not approve of the friction, but she knew better than to intervene.
Aaliyah let her gaze drift around the study, taking in the faint reflections of overhead lights in the polished wood, the way it all spoke to power. She forced herself to remain poised, back straight and head high, even though her heart hammered against her ribs. She could not, would not, show weakness. She had made a choice—one that cut against the grain of everything her father had planned for her.
“Of all the candidates, Aaliyah,” Asmar said, his voice exuding a controlled fury that belied the quiet. “Of all the possible alliances, you choose a woman with no corporate ties? A woman who stands in direct opposition to our family’s interests?” He shook his head with the slow deliberation of a judge handing down a sentence. “Someone who built her platform on dismantling everything we represent.”
Aaliyah watched his face, searching for any sign of paternal concern beneath the mask of authority. There was none. The carefully curated lines of his features betrayed only the faintest hint of anger, carved like stone. She took a measured breath.
He was referring, of course, to one Cruz Manuelos. The ex-Marine turned political wildcard who had run on grassroots support and a vehement pledge to reject corporate money. Cruz, the very antithesis of the refined, power-broker fiancé her father had intended to impose upon her. Aaliyah could practically feel her father’s disappointment pounding through the air, the weight of it pressing against her chest.
She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. “This is my decision,” she said, keeping her tone even. “And unlike the marriage you tried to arrange, this one benefits me.”
Her father exhaled sharply. He moved out from behind the desk, crossing to the massive window that offered a commanding view of the estate’s sprawling grounds. The sculpted hedges and glittering pools looked surreal, like something out of a painting. But Aaliyah knew from experience that real life had cracks no layer of perfection could hide.
Asmar clasped his hands behind his back, the dark silhouette of his figure framed by the faint city lights. “If you go through with this,” he said, voice dangerously soft, “you will lose my protection.”
A single statement, almost gentle, yet chilling in its finality. He turned, his features illuminated by the warm glow of the lamp, revealing eyes that were both cold and disappointed. “When the public turns on you—when she fails and drags you down with her—you will regret this choice.”
Aaliyah’s mother shifted slightly, the silk of her dress catching the light. Though she said nothing, Aaliyah could feel her silent plea: End this now, don’t provoke him. But Aaliyah had already provoked him simply by making a decision that was her own.
She steadied herself, lips curving into a neutral line. She had spent her entire life perfecting an unflappable facade. Now was the time to wield it. “I appreciate your concern,” she managed, the words tasting bitter. “But I stand by my decision.”
Her father’s gaze hardened. “A woman like Cruz Manuelos? She has no power structure behind her, no corporate donors who can open doors. She has nothing but loud promises and a working-class base that can’t finance a statewide campaign. She’s destined to lose, and if you ally yourself with her, you lose too.”
Aaliyah felt the sting of his dismissal. The truth was, Cruz’s campaign was indeed precarious. The engagement was an audacious plan to shift public perception. But that didn’t mean Asmar was right. A small spark of defiance flared in her chest. “I believe,” she said carefully, “that she might surprise you.”
A visible flicker of anger sparked in her father’s eyes, though he kept his voice controlled. “Surprise me? By shunning everything that built you? She rails against big money, against people like me, like this family. And you want to throw your lot in with her?”
Aaliyah recalled the tension-laced meeting in which Cruz insisted on a courthouse wedding—just the two of them, quick and cold, as though love had no place in politics. That memory churned her insides. Their dynamic was toxic, antagonistic. She disliked Cruz on a personal level: the woman’s stubborn moral high ground, the sneer that accompanied every compromise, the sense that Cruz found everything Aaliyah stood for revolting. But that didn’t change the fact that Aaliyah saw an opportunity: escaping her father’s noose by forging a new alliance.
She pressed her nails into the leather armrest of her chair, one small act of defiance. “Yes, I’m aware of who she is,” Aaliyah said, forcing her voice to remain level. “I’m not walking into this blind. But I won’t be maneuvered like a chess piece into marriage with a man you choose. This arrangement”—she forced the word out—“benefits me more than you realize.”
A faint bitterness laced her father’s laugh, almost too soft to be audible. “Your mother and I had such hopes, Aaliyah,” he said, turning away from the window. “You are my daughter—my heir. Everything I’ve built was to ensure you had a place at the helm, that you would never be powerless. But you spurn that security for a woman who cannot protect you, let alone herself.”
Aaliyah swallowed back the retort she wanted to hurl: that she didn’t need protection, that she’d learned long ago how to be her own shield. Instead, she maintained her composure. “I refuse to be a pawn. And if that means losing what you call protection, so be it.”
A moment of silence hung between them, so thick it felt like it would suffocate the room. She was aware of her mother’s nervous shifting, the subtle tension in her father’s posture, the hush that enveloped them like a funeral shroud.
Cruz trudged down the hallway, each step echoing in her head like a taunt. The early morning light filtering through the small windows did nothing to improve her mood, nor did the faint smell of stale coffee lingering from the late-night strategy session that had ended only a few hours ago. She’d caught barely four hours of sleep—yet here she was, forced to engage in what had to be one of the most painful parts of this entire farce: wedding planning.
She reached the thick double doors of the conference room and paused, massaging the bridge of her nose. She could already hear voices inside—one clipped and polished, the other exasperated. Bobby’s, she presumed, locked in conversation with Aaliyah. Steeling herself, Cruz threw open the doors and stepped in.
The large space was dominated by a massive oak table, its glossy surface scattered with paperwork. Folders and pamphlets lay in a sprawling mess: images of pristine estates, brochures for wedding planners, pages upon pages detailing flowers, caterers, photographers. A quick scan told Cruz everything she needed to know: this was going to be an ordeal.
Across from her, Aaliyah sat with a kind of regal ease, sipping from a delicate espresso cup that looked absurdly expensive, considering it was just coffee. She wore a fitted blazer in a muted emerald tone, every inch of fabric expertly tailored to her form. Her black hair fell sleekly over one shoulder, not a single strand out of place. Even the way she cradled her phone in one hand seemed effortless. In short, Aaliyah looked stunning and perfectly at home in the swirl of planning a grand wedding—an event that, in reality, was nothing but a political maneuver for both of them.
Cruz heaved a mental sigh and flopped into the chair opposite Aaliyah. Before she could speak, Bobby slapped a thick folder onto the table. The sound reverberated around the room like a starter’s pistol announcing they were about to begin the next round of this fight.
“All right,” Bobby said, her tone dangerously close to exasperation. She was the unofficial referee between the two women, an unenviable role that had clearly worn her down. “Let’s finish this conversation before my last functioning brain cell gives up.”
Bobby pointed a pen at them. “Now,” she said, voice betraying her near desperation, “please, for the love of all things holy, pick a cake flavor so I can move on with my life.”
Cruz tried not to laugh at the absurdity. A cake flavor? But the tension in Bobby’s voice was real. She was done refereeing the petty exchange of barbs. And, truth be told, Cruz was done too, in her own way.
She glanced up at Aaliyah, who regarded her with a dispassionate lift of her chin. “Chocolate,” Cruz offered brusquely, just to get it over with. “Simple, everyone likes it.”
Aaliyah’s eyebrows rose slightly, as if offended by the banality of the choice. “I prefer something more refined, like lemon lavender.”
“Lavender,” Cruz echoed, sounding vaguely horrified. “Who puts flowers in cake?”
Aaliyah’s eyes narrowed. “I do.”
Bobby slammed her pen down. “We’ll do two tiers,” she announced through gritted teeth, “one chocolate, one lemon lavender. Problem solved.”
Cruz and Aaliyah shot each other poisonous glares, but neither argued. They had already gone to war over far bigger details; fighting about icing flavors would only give Bobby an aneurysm. Reluctantly, they both nodded.
Bobby exhaled, as though the worst was behind her. “I’ve taken the liberty of choosing a venue that satisfies what we agreed upon yesterday, which was no easy feat, by the way,” she said. “Now, can we please table any more arguments until tomorrow?”
A tense silence followed, thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, Aaliyah rose, smoothing her blazer. “Good luck,” she said to no one in particular, picking up her phone and espresso cup. The subtle jab in her words implied she needed none of it.
Cruz watched her go, a swirl of resentment churning in her gut. The woman’s poise was infuriating, her wealth intangible. She strived to keep her own composure, refusing to show how much the entire fiasco grated on her. “God, I hate this,” she mumbled under her breath.
As Aaliyah swept from the room, Bobby caught Cruz’s eye. “We’re surviving,” she reminded her quietly. “We can’t win if we break down now.”
Cruz gave a curt nod, then slumped back in her chair. Surviving was the bare minimum of what she felt she was doing. She cast a final, half-hearted glance over the glossy brochures for the private estate wedding she never wanted. It was a compromise that felt like an outright surrender, but it was the best path forward in this twisted arrangement.
After all, they hadn’t even begun to plan the actual details of the ceremony, not to mention the guest list—a minefield all its own. If the tension now was any indication, the days to come would be nothing short of hell.
She steeled herself, already dreading the next round.
Cruz stormed into the campaign’s makeshift conference room, half expecting the tension in her shoulders to ease once she was there. It didn’t. She tossed her jacket over the back of a plastic chair, scanning the room. Bobby and Randy were already inside, standing on opposite sides of the beat-up conference table. Bobby’s stance was tense—arms crossed, one foot tapping. Randy, in contrast, leaned back against the table, arms looped behind his head, wearing that perpetually unruffled look that used to infuriate her back in the early days of their partnership.
Aaliyah slipped in behind Cruz, shutting the door with a controlled click. She wore a crisp blouse and a perfectly tailored skirt that hugged her figure in a way that hinted at her privileged background. Her expression carried that detached amusement Cruz had come to loathe—a slight lift of her chin, eyes full of challenge. As if she found the entire political operation beneath her but was too polite to say it outright.
Cruz braced herself, certain that more bickering about wedding venues or campaign optics was about to erupt. In truth, she wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take—the stilted collaboration with Aaliyah, the never-ending stress of trailing McNamara, the constant spinning of narratives. She’d hardly slept, and her patience was wearing thin.
Before she could speak, she caught the sound of murmuring from the center of the room.
“I don’t think you get it, Calloway.” Bobby’s voice was sharp, like a teacher scolding a particularly stubborn student. Her arms were crossed, her expression severe, and she looked ready for a fight.
Randy just grinned, arms still behind his head. “I get it just fine,” he drawled. “You want us to package Cruz like a damn perfume ad, and I’m telling you—people don’t buy it.”
Bobby scoffed, moving the folder in her hands from one arm to the other. “Oh, you mean people don’t buy winning? Because that’s what this strategy does. We need the moderate swing voters who want a neat little love story, a stable home life, a perfect image.”
Randy’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his voice calm. “You think you can just script the entire narrative, from fiancée to wedding, and not lose her core supporters? The people already trust Cruz; they don’t need a fairy-tale. They need to know she’s the same woman who fought for them in the Senate, who got in the damn trenches when no one else would.”
As though noticing them for the first time, Cruz and Aaliyah paused near the doorway. Instead of their usual spiky back-and-forth, they found themselves silently watching Bobby and Randy square off. It was a rare moment: Bobby Reyes, unstoppable campaign strategist, and Randy Calloway, the ex-Marine with a knack for calling out bullshit. The two seldom clashed with such intensity.
Cruz leaned slightly toward Aaliyah, her voice a whisper. “It’s like watching a married couple argue.”
Aaliyah’s lips parted in a half-smile, the rare moment of shared amusement softening the edge of their usual hostility. “I’d say so,” she murmured. “At least we’re not the only ones bickering.”
At the table, Bobby’s voice rose an octave. “That’s your base, Randy. The working-class folks who love a scrappy underdog. Good for them. But what about the independents? The moderates? The ones who flip elections because they like a neat political couple? If we don’t give them the ‘perfect love story’ angle, McNamara’s going to swoop in with her polished campaign and bury us.”
Randy’s jaw tightened. “I’m not saying we ignore them, Bobby. I’m saying we can’t script Cruz’s entire life like a rom-com. She’s real. That’s why people believe in her.”
Bobby threw her hands in the air, exasperated. “We can keep her real. But a little narrative doesn’t hurt, especially when we’re still trailing by double digits.”
A hush descended. Cruz took a slow sip of her coffee, half to stay awake, half to maintain her vantage point as a spectator. Randy was right to protect her authenticity, but Bobby wasn’t entirely off-base about the need for polish. It was the same debate they’d had since the day she’d agreed to fake an engagement with Aaliyah, though it usually pitted Cruz against Bobby. Now, Cruz watched with a strange sense of relief as someone else stood up to Bobby.
Aaliyah turned her gaze to Cruz, her voice so low only Cruz could catch it. “I never thought I’d side with your campaign manager, but she’s not wrong. A story sells.”
Cruz gave her a withering look. “Why am I not surprised you love the idea of turning everything into a polished narrative?”
Aaliyah shrugged, pressing her lips into a thin line. “I prefer efficiency,” she said quietly. “Which is what Bobby is trying to achieve.”
Sensing the eyes on them, Bobby and Randy halted mid-argument, both heads swiveling to see Cruz and Aaliyah standing there, calm in their mutual disdain. Cruz cleared her throat, stepping into the room fully. “Enough. Jesus, both of you need to cool it before I regret ever running.”
She said it with a humorless smirk, though exhaustion laced her tone. “Bobby, I don’t want a scripted soap opera. Randy, we do need to get creative if we want to win.”
Bobby snapped her folder shut. “Fine,” she said curtly, exhaling as though she’d let out months of pent-up frustration. “But don’t come crying to me when the polls stay stagnant.”
A drawn-out silence followed. Then Randy rolled his shoulders and offered a conciliatory grin. “Okay. But if you start scheduling couple’s cooking segments, I’m out,” he warned, shaking his head at the thought of Cruz standing in a gleaming kitchen, apron on, performing domestic bliss with Aaliyah for the cameras.
Cruz, for her part, suppressed a shudder. “If that day ever comes, please shoot me first.”
Aaliyah snorted, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “I’d pay to see that,” she drawled, half under her breath, a playful spark in her eyes betraying a dash of real amusement.
Cruz shot her a glare, though the corner of her mouth threatened to twitch into a half-smile. “Of course you would.”
For a moment, an awkward calm settled over the room. The four of them realized they had formed a precarious team: Bobby, desperate to harness a winning narrative, Randy, unwavering about Cruz’s authenticity, Aaliyah, the sophisticated heiress who wanted her future on her terms, and Cruz, caught in the crossfire of political necessity and personal disdain for all things polished.
Randy coughed, breaking the hush. “So, we have a plan or not?” He glanced between Cruz and Bobby. “We can keep it real while also acknowledging that people love a good storyline.”
Bobby re-opened her folder, smoothing a page with her palm. “Let’s say we meet in the middle. We won’t script every second, but we highlight key moments that show Cruz is stable, not a loose cannon.”
Cruz rolled her eyes but nodded slowly. “Fine. But I draw the line at staged cooking segments or some cheesy date night with cameras.”
Aaliyah’s lip curled in bemusement. “I can’t wait to see where you’ll draw lines when we have to pick out wedding flowers.”
Cruz’s jaw clenched involuntarily, remembering the meltdown they’d had over venue options. She was in for a long campaign, and she had nowhere to run. “One step at a time,” she muttered.
In the hall outside, staffers passed by, arms laden with clipboards and coffee cups. The muffled chaos of ringing phones and urgent conversations seeped in from the rest of the campaign headquarters. But within that small room, the four of them stood at an uneasy crossroads, each with their own motives for forging this alliance, each clinging to personal pride.
Bobby tapped her pen against the table. “All right,” she said quietly. “We do it carefully, we do it the right way. Randy, you keep the messaging on brand—fighting for Texans, no nonsense. Cruz, you keep your authenticity but let Aaliyah fill in the polish. Aaliyah, you can show the donors and the public that Cruz has stepped into your world. Everybody gets something, so let’s try not to kill each other in the process.”
Aaliyah arched an elegant brow, feigning mild offense. “I’ll do my best. No promises on the not-killing part, though.”
Cruz exhaled, leveling Aaliyah with a look that was part exasperation, part challenge. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be the picture of cooperation.”
For a heartbeat, they locked eyes, the tension searing between them. It was that curious brand of mutual animosity that had become their hallmark—Aaliyah’s smoothed edges to Cruz’s rough ones, money clashing with principle, both convinced the other was the living embodiment of everything they despised.
Randy cleared his throat, stepping between them before another brawl erupted. “We good here? Because I have to talk to the media team about the next ad buy.”
Bobby nodded. “Go. I’ll handle the scheduling for our next joint appearance. Something low-key. Maybe a quick visit to a local small business for Cruz and Aaliyah to show support. Low stakes, good optics.”
Cruz resisted the urge to groan, while Aaliyah simply collected her phone and began scrolling through it, apparently half-bored already. With the tension so thick, it was clear any partnership had to be handled like unstable nitroglycerin.
“All right,” Cruz said, stepping back to let Randy pass. “But if you try to put me in a heart-shaped apron for a bakery photo op, I’m out.”
Aaliyah gave a mocking laugh. “I thought you’d look darling in pink.”
Cruz grimaced. “You sure know how to push my buttons.”
The group dispersed, the moment of calm dissolving like sugar in water. Randy and Bobby headed into the hallway, their voices drifting through the open door. Now it was their turn to argue quietly, muttering about how Cruz and Aaliyah’s constant bickering might undermine the entire campaign. Bobby was tired of playing referee, worried that one more spat would lead to a meltdown. Randy pointed out that the friction could be spun as passion, if handled correctly.
Back in the conference room, Cruz and Aaliyah both fell silent, listening to the quiet rant from beyond the door.
“Those two are at it again,” Aaliyah observed dryly.
Cruz sipped her coffee, eyes flicking to Aaliyah. “They’re complaining about us, you know.”
Aaliyah rolled her eyes. “They can add it to their list of hardships.”
Cruz smirked. Then, in a silent truce, they stepped closer to the door, just enough to overhear Bobby and Randy’s hushed conversation:
“I swear to God, they might kill each other before the wedding,” Bobby whispered fiercely. “We have to keep them in line.”
Randy’s response was equally hushed. “If we can harness that energy, we might have a winning campaign. But if it blows up…”
Cruz and Aaliyah exchanged a look—equal parts annoyance and something akin to satisfaction at hearing their staffers bicker about them. For once, they found themselves on the same side, if only for an instant: outsiders peering into someone else’s argument. A tiny spark of camaraderie flickered.
Aaliyah quirked an eyebrow at Cruz, lowering her voice. “Seems we’re not the only ones who know how to argue, Senator.”
Cruz shrugged, an amused glint in her eyes. “Guess not.” She set her coffee mug down, forcibly relaxing her shoulders. “But let’s face it—our arguments are more interesting.”
Aaliyah’s lips curved into a smile that, for once, wasn’t entirely mocking. “At least we do it with style.”
Beyond the door, Bobby and Randy’s voices rose once more, then subdued into harsh whispers. Cruz took a step back, clearing her throat. It was bizarre to stand here, side by side with the woman she couldn’t stand, listening to their own staff fume about them. Yet it also felt oddly unifying, a twisted sense of unity in the chaos of political warfare.
Shaking off the peculiar moment, Cruz straightened, her momentary amusement fading as she remembered the battles yet to be fought. “We should probably get back out there,” she said. “Before they think we’re plotting another meltdown.”
Aaliyah sighed, smoothing down her skirt. “Of course. Shall we resume the role of dysfunctional fiancée team?”
Cruz swallowed a retort. “Lead the way, princess.”
Their eyes locked, a fresh wave of tension sparking. But they turned toward the door, braced themselves, and stepped out into the corridor as though stepping onto a stage—two adversaries bound by necessity, trudging forward in a tangled alliance that might make or break them both.