For the Win

The campaign office’s conference room was a clash of personalities and half-buried grudges, more reminiscent of a battlefront than a typical strategy session. Tucked away in a corner of the sprawling headquarters, this space was meant for focused discussions and clear-eyed planning. Instead, it had become the primary arena in which Senator Cruz Manuelos and Aaliyah Amrohi unleashed their simmering animosity.

On one side of the long oak table sat Cruz, arms crossed, gaze fierce. She wore a dark suit that seemed at odds with the lines of exhaustion and irritation etched into her face. Her jaw was set, her fingers drumming a tense rhythm against the wood in a barely restrained show of impatience. Across from her, Aaliyah lounged with a nonchalance that bordered on aristocratic. She scrolled through her phone, utterly unbothered, appearing almost regal in a carefully fitted blouse and immaculate makeup. The distance between them seemed more than just physical—it was ideological, personal, and thickened by the memory of their most recent argument.

Less than a week prior, they’d been at each other’s throats over the wedding venue. Both had refused to yield—Cruz insisted on no-frills simplicity, and Aaliyah demanded grandeur. Their compromise—a private estate in Austin—satisfied neither, leaving them both harboring more bitterness than relief. The tension from that confrontation still hung in the air like the charged aftermath of a thunderstorm.

Standing at the head of the table was Bobby, the campaign manager who looked more referee than strategist at this point. Tall stacks of papers, laptops, and coffee cups cluttered the sideboards. One staffer lingered at the door but slipped away upon sensing the friction inside. Bobby rubbed her temples, clearly teetering on the edge of her patience. She inhaled, then slapped a file folder against her palm to get their attention.

“All right,” Bobby said, her voice cutting through the silence. “Listen up. The engagement gave us a bump in the polls, but people are watching closely.” She jabbed a finger at the makeshift projector screen behind her. Headlines from blogs and tweets scrolled in stark black and white:

ARE THEY EVEN LIVING TOGETHER? THE INTERNET INVESTIGATES.

MANUELOS-AMROHI ENGAGEMENT FEELS STAGED—NO SIGHTINGS OUTSIDE EVENTS.

IS THIS ALL FOR THE CAMERAS? WHERE IS THEIR ‘HAPPY’ HOME LIFE?

Cruz felt her stomach knot. She’d known scrutiny would follow the announcement, but seeing it spelled out made her pulse thrum with dread. Aaliyah didn’t even glance up from her phone, though a small smile ghosted across her lips as if she found the fuss entertaining.

Bobby’s shoulders drooped. “If the public gets a whiff that you’re not actually living together—if they suspect this arrangement is fake—it all crashes.”

Cruz blinked, taking in the weight of the warning. She despised the idea of merging her life with Aaliyah’s any more than absolutely necessary. Their antagonism was real, and faking domestic bliss would be an unbearable farce. Yet she also knew how precarious her campaign was; a single misstep could sink her bid for governor.

“I don’t need to be monitored twenty-four-seven,” Cruz objected, arms tensing. Her voice wavered between frustration and outright refusal.

Bobby nodded grimly. “No one’s asking for that. But if you don’t move in together—if you keep up this charade of separate lives—the press will smell blood. They already suspect something’s off.”

Cruz gritted her teeth, flicking a glance at Aaliyah, who still offered nothing but stony silence. Then, as though bored by the entire scene, Aaliyah finally set down her phone with a deliberate snap.

“We’ll live together,” she declared, tone steady and maddeningly calm. “It’s the logical step.” She turned her gaze fully on Cruz, her dark eyes narrowing with a superior air. “But I get the master bedroom.”

Cruz jerked her head around so fast her neck popped in protest. “The hell you do,” she snapped. “I’m not giving up my space in my own fake marriage.”

Aaliyah’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile that only stoked Cruz’s ire. “I have certain standards, Senator,” she said softly, each word clipped to perfection. “A comfort level I refuse to compromise.”

Cruz’s brow twitched. “Oh, do you? Pray tell, how do you plan to maintain those lofty standards in my place, which is built for practicality and not princess living?”

Aaliyah merely lifted a manicured hand and reached for her espresso cup. “I won’t be living in your place.” She paused for effect, letting the reality sink in. “I’ve already purchased a home in Austin. The kind of home my family and associates will find acceptable. Spacious enough for your minimalistic tastes, large enough for mine. And I will, of course, take the master bedroom.”

For a moment, Cruz was struck speechless. The idea that Aaliyah had gone behind her back and bought a house for them—without her input—made her blood boil. Her first instinct was to reject the notion outright, but she caught Bobby’s look of near-panic.

Bobby closed her eyes, clearly on the brink of meltdown. “I swear,” she muttered, “if you two don’t stop bickering, I’ll personally write McNamara a donation check.”

The threat cut through the tension. Cruz clenched her jaw. Aaliyah set down her cup, not looking the least bit apologetic. They both realized that further resistance might be the final straw for Bobby, who had been juggling crises daily to keep this campaign afloat.

Cruz exhaled, trying to keep her voice measured. “Fine. We’ll move in. But I’m not giving up every inch of control. Understood?”

Aaliyah quirked an eyebrow, the barest sign of agreement, though her eyes gleamed with triumph. “Agreed. We’ll finalize the arrangements by this weekend. My movers will handle everything.”

Cruz’s stomach lurched at the thought of strange people hauling Aaliyah’s expensive furniture and dozens of wardrobes into a house that was supposedly for both of them. The entire setup felt as though she were stepping into enemy territory. She couldn’t help feeling physically ill.

Bobby inhaled, relief written on her face. “We’ll spin it as a romantic milestone,” she said, flipping through a sheet of notes. “We’ll leak the story next week: Senator Manuelos and Aaliyah Amrohi are moving into their new Austin home—complete with a picturesque view, great for optics. That kills any rumors about the two of you living apart. Then we do a low-key photoshoot, let a friendly local reporter handle the coverage. No over-the-top fanfare.”

As though the entire conversation bored her, Aaliyah lifted her phone again, tapping out a text. “The estate agent is drawing up the final paperwork. I’ll send you the address when it’s done.”

Cruz glowered. “Wonderful,” she said, every syllable dripping sarcasm. “I can’t wait to see the mansion you’ve deemed worthy enough to call ‘ours.’”

Aaliyah shot her a level look, not rising to the bait. “I’m sure you’ll manage to survive in a well-appointed home, Senator,” she replied, her voice sugar-sweet with condescension.

Cruz’s grip on the table tightened, knuckles whitening. She opened her mouth to retort, but Bobby seized the moment to speak again. “Alright, folks. This is it. We play nice, or we lose everything.” She softened her tone, trying for camaraderie that neither Cruz nor Aaliyah reciprocated. “Cruz, think of what happens if you don’t go through with this. You’re down ten points. McNamara’s hammering you daily on TV.”

A curt nod was all Cruz managed. She understood the stakes; after all, it was her campaign, her dream of becoming governor. She had never imagined it would lead her to an arrangement like this. She cast one last glare at Aaliyah, who sipped her espresso as if it were all a game she was winning.

With the matter settled, Bobby gathered her papers. “Let’s finalize the details later. Go home—wherever that may be. We’ll coordinate the press release for the move-in date next week.”

Cruz rose from her seat stiffly, each step feeling heavier. She slipped out of the conference room, ignoring the staffers who scrambled to avoid eye contact. She was used to them whispering about her and Aaliyah’s fights, but it still grated on her nerves. Through the glass partition, she spotted Aaliyah calmly packing her laptop and phone, not a care in the world.

As she reached the hallway, Cruz paused, hand on the doorframe. She took a breath, letting the swirl of campaign chaos drown out her thoughts for a moment. Beyond the office windows, the afternoon sun burned bright over Austin. A wave of heat shimmered across the skyline, a reminder of how punishing Texas could be—and how punishing the next few weeks would be if she had to share a roof with Aaliyah Amrohi.

Her stomach clenched again at the notion of stepping into that “perfect” house Aaliyah had purchased. The echo of their earlier fights resounded in her head: the mocking laughter, the scathing remarks, the venom in each retort. She thought of how a single misstep could kill her campaign, how her supporters would see her as nothing more than a sellout. It set a cold knot of anxiety twisting through her gut. But she had no choice. This was the path she’d chosen—no matter how much she despised the arrangement.

She pushed the door open, stepping into the hallway. Behind her, Aaliyah’s presence lingered like a threatening shadow. They might be forced to act as a united front in public, but in private, they were still adversaries. She imagined the day they finally moved into that upscale Austin house, and it sent a shiver of dread through her. They would eat under the same roof, pass each other in hallways, maybe even share stilted pleasantries in front of staffers or cameras. All the while, their mutual dislike would smolder beneath every forced smile.

Cruz tightened her hand into a fist, inhaled, and continued down the corridor. She promised herself she’d do what it took to keep her campaign alive, even if it meant tangling with the likes of Aaliyah every single day. There was too much at stake to let personal bitterness undo everything she’d worked for. But as she made her way back to her office, she couldn’t shake the sense that this was only the beginning—and that the real war would be fought in a quiet house on the outskirts of Austin, with two people forced to play a game none of them wanted to lose.

Cruz took one look at the angular glass-and-steel structure rising from the meticulously landscaped grounds and felt her stomach sink. The driveway leading up to it was winding and flanked by elegant trees that looked as though they had been imported from halfway across the world—perfectly aligned, perfectly trimmed, without a single stray branch. Everything about this place screamed curated rather than lived-in. A far cry from the kind of home Cruz had ever wanted, let alone imagined herself living in.

As the black SUV rolled to a gentle stop in front of the gleaming entrance, she felt her pulse thrum with a mix of unease and annoyance. The property was huge, sprawling over what looked like acres of land. Tall windows reflected the midday sun, turning them into mirrored panels that shielded the interior from prying eyes. The entire façade reeked of money, taste, and power, the sort that Cruz had fought against her entire career.

From the passenger seat, Aaliyah silently took in the house. Her expression was studied, revealing nothing except the faintest flicker of appraisal. Cruz knew that look; she’d seen it before in the conference room whenever Aaliyah sized her up. It was the cool detachment of someone born to wealth, someone for whom massive mansions were commonplace rather than a source of wonder or pride.

Bobby exited the front of the SUV first, a satisfied smile tugging at her mouth as she scanned the estate. “Alright,” Bobby said, sounding far too pleased, “this is it. The new place. Home sweet home, lovebirds.”

Cruz’s jaw tightened at the word lovebirds. She caught Aaliyah arching a skeptical brow as she stepped out onto the driveway, her shoes meeting the immaculate paving stones without the slightest scuff.

Cruz climbed out next, boots firmly on the ground, arms crossed, a deep scowl settling over her features. “I hate it,” she muttered under her breath, but loud enough for Bobby to hear.

Bobby smirked. “That’s exactly why Aaliyah picked it,” she said, tossing a wink. “Figured if you hate it, it must look rich enough to impress her father’s circle and the moderate voters.”

Cruz threw Bobby a look filled with a mixture of betrayal and reluctant amusement. “You enjoy my suffering way too much.” She cast a sideways glance at Aaliyah, who was already busy surveying the seamless glass entryway. “This place is insane,” Cruz added, her voice low.

“I heard that,” Aaliyah said mildly, though she didn’t turn around. She held out her hand with a quiet snap of her fingers. Bobby dropped a large ring of keys into her open palm without hesitation, ignoring the way Cruz bristled at the gesture.

Cruz felt her temper spike. “So you’re just… taking the keys? Not going to give me a chance to hold them?”

Aaliyah pivoted, meeting Cruz’s gaze with an icy calm. “I’m the one with the better sense of décor, Manuelos. Or do you plan on decorating this glass box with camouflage gear and secondhand furniture?”

Cruz drew in a sharp breath, forcing down a barbed reply. She knew better than to start a shouting match in front of Bobby—especially here, at what was supposed to be their new “home.” The swirl of frustration and resignation turned her stomach.

Bobby, for her part, seemed delighted by the tension. “Anyway, let’s go inside,” she announced, clapping her hands together. “You two get to enjoy playing house now. Remember to look happily engaged if neighbors are watching. And don’t forget the big press day we scheduled next week.”

Cruz glared. “Happy to see you’re thrilled seeing us live in this museum.”

Bobby offered an unapologetic shrug. “This ‘museum’ is your best shot at silencing rumors that you aren’t really committed to each other. If people see you both living here—” she swept her arm in a grand gesture at the estate “—they might just buy into the romance.”

A faint breeze drifted through the carefully planted cypress trees along the perimeter, rustling leaves that had never known anything but meticulous grooming. Cruz took a deep breath, hoping to calm the pounding in her chest. She let her gaze travel up the sleek lines of the house—floor-to-ceiling windows, sharp angles, not a single speck of dust or sign of wear. It was too perfect, too sterile. Where normal homes had warmth, this place boasted architectural brilliance.

“I suppose you think this is an upgrade from your usual living standards,” Aaliyah said coolly, already moving toward the door.

Cruz followed, her scowl deepening. “I suppose you think this is minimalistic.”

A flicker of something like amusement danced in Aaliyah’s eyes. “Hardly. It’s a far cry from my father’s estate.” She stepped onto the stone threshold, keys chiming softly in her hand. “But you should be grateful I didn’t choose a Tuscan villa or a palatial mansion in the hills. This is… modest, by my standards.”

Cruz felt a spike of irritation. “Thanks so much for your generosity,” she replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Aaliyah ignored the snark, slipping one of the keys into the lock and pushing open the tall glass door. “Try not to track dirt inside,” she commented, stepping into the entryway.

Cruz lingered at the threshold, momentarily stunned by the interior. The space opened up into an expansive foyer with a polished concrete floor and a sculptural staircase twisting to the second level. Sunlight streamed through glass walls, revealing a courtyard garden with a minimalist fountain. The entire design screamed cutting-edge luxury—something that made Cruz’s skin prickle.

“Jesus,” she muttered, stepping onto the cool concrete. “How does anyone relax in a place like this?”

Aaliyah let out a small, dismissive laugh. “Relaxation isn’t the priority. Optics are.”

Cruz closed her eyes briefly, forcing herself to maintain composure. “Right. Optics. Because this is all about convincing the world we’re madly in love.” The sarcasm sharpened her words.

In front of them, the foyer led into a sprawling living area with sleek white couches arranged around a chic fireplace inset into a wall of opaque glass. Large potted plants added touches of green, and there was not a speck of clutter anywhere. It looked like it belonged in a home design magazine rather than real life.

Aaliyah strode deeper into the house, her heels clicking against the floor. Cruz followed reluctantly, noticing how each footstep echoed. No matter how big the space felt, they’d be sharing it—a fact that made Cruz’s jaw tighten. She tried to imagine cooking a meal in the sterile, high-tech kitchen or lounging in the living room without knocking over some overpriced sculpture. None of it felt comfortable.

Soon enough, they reached a wide corridor branching off the main area. Aaliyah paused at a door on the left, turning the handle to reveal a vast bedroom with a floor-to-ceiling window looking out onto manicured gardens. The bed was king-sized, sheets crisp white, with a plush rug underfoot.

A faint flush of indignation colored Cruz’s cheeks. “Let me guess, you’re calling dibs on this.”

Aaliyah glanced around, expression momentarily satisfied. “The master suite, yes,” she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. She ran a hand over the pristine white bedding, then arched an eyebrow in Cruz’s direction. “I assume you’d prefer something more… spartan?”

Cruz bristled, crossing her arms over her chest as she hovered in the doorway. “You realize this arrangement is supposed to be a marriage, right? Even if it’s fake.”

Aaliyah’s gaze flicked up from the bed to meet Cruz’s. “Don’t worry, darling. We can let the tabloids assume we share this room, but it’ll remain my personal space. I have no interest in… intruding on your bedtime routine,” she added with a faint note of condescension.

A grunt escaped Cruz. She stepped back into the hallway, wanting to put distance between them before her annoyance boiled over. “Fine,” she snapped. “Enjoy playing queen of the mansion.

Aaliyah exhaled a near-silent sigh of exasperation. “I’ll have someone stock the bathroom with towels that meet my standards. You might consider investing in something other than scratchy discount store linens.” Her eyes sparkled with challenge.

Cruz stared back, an edge in her glare. “Tell your personal shopper not to skimp, then. We wouldn’t want to tarnish your refined tastes.”

The heavy tension built between them, a palpable wall of mutual distaste. Cruz let out a low breath, stepping aside to explore the rest of this lavish prison on her own. She found a second bedroom—clearly designed as a guest suite—nearly as large as what she was used to, though dwarfed by the master’s scale. A flash of resentment stirred in her gut. She remembered the half-smirk on Aaliyah’s face back in the campaign office when they’d discussed living together.

Behind her, Aaliyah lingered, quietly observing every detail. “We’ll need a couple of staged photos for the press,” she mused aloud, her tone businesslike. “A cheerful breakfast in the kitchen, a cozy movie night, perhaps. Something to keep the rumor mill satisfied.”

Cruz’s skin crawled at the thought, but she ground her teeth and nodded. The entire relationship was a façade, so why not stage a few pictures? She turned and faced Aaliyah again, crossing her arms. “Fine. But let’s keep it minimal. I’m not living in a reality show.”

Aaliyah met her gaze, unflinching. “I’d rather not broadcast any more than necessary, trust me.” Her voice, though clipped, betrayed a flicker of common ground. “But we do what we must.”

For a moment, neither spoke. They stood in the hallway, sunlight pouring in through the glass walls, illuminating the polished floors beneath their feet. Despite the house’s grand design, the silence felt oppressive, reminding both of them that they were trapped—together, yet at war.

Cruz cleared her throat and broke eye contact, glancing down at her boots, a sense of displacement clinging to her like a shadow. This was her new reality: living in a modern fortress with a woman she could barely stand, all in the name of political optics. It bristled against every fiber of her being.

She half expected Aaliyah to continue with more barbed remarks about taste and refinement, but Aaliyah simply turned, stepping through the corridor to examine a door leading to what looked like an office or study. Cruz heard her exhale, a quiet hum of approval at the built-in shelves and minimalist desk inside. Cruz stayed behind, pacing a short distance, struggling to contain the swirl of frustration in her chest.

At length, Aaliyah emerged, her phone in hand again. “I’ll message the staff to move in my things tomorrow,” she said brusquely. “We’ll need to sign for deliveries—furniture, art, all the décor. I assume you have no attachment to your own possessions?”

Cruz bristled at the question, hearing the assumption that her meager belongings weren’t worthy of such a home. She refused to dignify it with a response. Instead, she merely shook her head. “Do what you want,” she muttered.

Aaliyah’s lips curved into a thin line, as though satisfied. “Good.”

They stood there, side by side, two silhouettes in the shimmering interior of a house neither truly wanted. The hush pressed in on them again, filled with the knowledge of how precarious their arrangement was. If they gave the slightest wrong impression, the press would shred their fragile alliance, end Cruz’s campaign, and tarnish Aaliyah’s carefully cultivated image.

At last, Cruz tore her gaze from the vast living area. “Guess I’ll go settle in the guest room.” Her tone was resigned, but a flicker of anger laced each word.

“Down the hall, second door on the right,” Aaliyah supplied helpfully, though the smugness in her eyes told Cruz she was savoring each moment of this little victory.

“Fine,” Cruz snapped, relenting only because she could hear Bobby’s voice echoing in her mind: We do this, or we lose. “But don’t go messing with my stuff.”

Aaliyah gave a faint, mocking laugh. “Messing with your stuff? Darling, I wouldn’t dare.”

Without further acknowledgement, Cruz stomped away, boots echoing on the polished floor. Behind her, Aaliyah exhaled slowly, scanning the glimmering windows, her expression an odd mix of triumph and fatigue. She’d wrested the master suite from Cruz, yes, but now she was locked in a day-to-day war with the senator’s gruff presence, forced to play a charade of domestic harmony.

Neither woman was pleased, but each had too much at stake to yield. The new house—this towering glass edifice—would be their battleground and their prison. And deep down, both recognized that no matter how grand the structure, the fundamental tension between them would remain as chilly as the polished steel beams and as clear as the pristine glass walls.

It took only half an hour for the territory war to begin in earnest.

After stashing her duffel in the corner of the guest room, Cruz decided to claim a little space for herself in the foyer. She lined up her boots, each pair representing miles of trudging through Texas roads, reminding her of the person she was: grounded, no-nonsense, real. In her mind, it was a small statement; she might be forced to live in a glass fortress, but she wouldn’t surrender her identity.

That afternoon, Aaliyah passed through the foyer. She paused, frowned at the row of worn leather boots, then silently shook her head. The next time Cruz walked through, the boots were gone, stacked neatly in a side closet. A furious text message to Bobby was met with a single-line response: “Try to find common ground.”

Common ground. Right. Cruz rolled her eyes.

A few hours later, Cruz dumped her canvas duffel in the living room to rummage for her phone charger. When she came back from a quick bite to eat in the kitchen, the duffel was missing—tucked behind an armchair where it couldn’t offend the pristine view. A small, petty part of her wanted to toss it right back into the middle of the floor, but she refrained. For the moment.

By evening, the décor war exploded. Cruz, needing a sense of ownership, decided to place her framed Force Recon unit photo on the living room wall. It was a small, respectful piece; a snapshot of her squad in Afghanistan. Next to it, she positioned the folded American flag she’d received at a fallen Marine's funeral. Her final addition—a pair of authentic longhorns—she propped against the fireplace mantel, an unmistakable nod to her Texan roots.

She stood back, looking at them with a surge of pride. Yes, it clashed with the sleek lines of the interior, but it gave her something real, a piece of her story displayed for the world—well, for anyone who might come in.

Later that night, she walked back into the living room and froze. Gone were the longhorns from the mantel. Gone was the folded flag and the photo. In their place, a single, monochrome abstract painting stretched across the wall, all harsh angles and smeared grays that Cruz found devoid of meaning. The space felt sterile, as though her attempts at personality had been surgically removed.

She found her items haphazardly shoved into a corner. Furious, she texted Bobby: “She removed my goddamn photo. And the horns.” Bobby never replied.

Cruz stormed to find Aaliyah, bracing for a confrontation. She found her in the open-concept kitchen, calmly arranging an array of artisan chocolates in a decorative bowl. The cold overhead lights gleamed on the marble countertops, making the entire scene look like a magazine shoot.

“What the hell did you do with my stuff?” Cruz demanded, arms tensed at her sides.

Aaliyah didn’t glance up. “I took it down,” she said simply. “The living room is not a roadside steakhouse, nor is it a Marine barracks. I won’t have my home—our home—ruined by tacky ornaments.”

Cruz clenched her teeth so hard her jaw hurt. “That ‘tacky ornament’ is a folded flag from my friend’s funeral. You could try a little respect.”

Aaliyah paused, turned just enough to meet Cruz’s eyes, and for a heartbeat, her own expression softened. “I am sorry for your loss,” she said evenly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that it clashes with everything else in this space.” A second later, her voice hardened. “You may keep it somewhere more private, if you like.”

The apology did nothing to soothe Cruz’s anger.

“That’s it,” Cruz muttered under her breath. “We’re at war.” She turned, stomping off to retrieve her relics and find some corner not yet claimed by minimalism.

In the days that followed, their arguments spilled out in a flurry of petty battles.

First came the dishwasher fiasco. Cruz liked to load it with military precision: plates in one row, bowls in another, utensils sorted by type with knife blades down to avoid accidents. Aaliyah recoiled at the disorganized mess she saw, calling Cruz a “barbarian” for stacking plates haphazardly (in her view). Cruz retaliated with sarcasm, telling Aaliyah she must be a riot at fancy galas. Aaliyah ignored the jab, carefully rearranging each dish by size, shape, and category.

That night, Cruz loaded the dishwasher her way just to spite Aaliyah. The next morning, she found everything re-sorted by color, brand, or some other detail that made no sense to her. Neither admitted to the sabotage, but both knew the truth.

Then came the coffee feud. Aaliyah despised Cruz’s battered old coffee pot, complaining that it produced sludge rather than actual coffee. One day, Cruz came downstairs to find a gleaming, high-end espresso machine installed on the counter, with a small note from Aaliyah that read, “You’re welcome.” Out of pure spite, Cruz refused to use it, continuing to brew her coffee in her aged pot that hissed and rattled like a dying truck engine. Aaliyah wrinkled her nose each morning at the smell of Cruz’s “burnt bean water,” as she called it.

Boots posed another problem. Cruz left them scattered around the house—near the front door, at the edge of the living room, sometimes under the dining table if she took them off mid-meal. Aaliyah, who tripped over them at least twice a day, threatened to throw them out if Cruz didn’t keep them in one neat line. Cruz retorted that she didn’t appreciate being policed in her own home. Aaliyah sneered, pointing out that it was her father’s money that enabled them to live there in the first place. That remark earned her a stormy silence from Cruz for half a day.

The candle war was yet another chapter. Determined to eradicate the “combination of leather and regret” smell that Cruz’s presence apparently brought, Aaliyah purchased a series of luxurious scented candles, each hand-poured from some boutique. She spread them throughout the house—on end tables, mantels, and along windowsills. She favored floral, citrus, and sandalwood blends, each candle costing more than Cruz’s entire outfit. But Cruz found the fragrances cloying, artificial, and “trying too hard.” She took to blowing them out and hiding them whenever she passed, citing “fire hazard” as an excuse. Aaliyah replaced them with new ones, lighting them again at the first opportunity, until both were locked in an unspoken cycle of light and extinguish.

The final straw was the snack fiasco. Cruz liked to have quick bites—jerky, protein bars, chips—lined up on the kitchen counter for convenience. She argued it was a functional system, especially when she had to rush out for campaign stops. Aaliyah insisted it was “clutter” that ruined the sleek aesthetic. Whenever Cruz left the kitchen, Aaliyah swept the snacks into a drawer. Whenever Aaliyah left, Cruz pulled them back out. This repeated until the entire pile of snacks vanished, causing Cruz to tear the house apart in search of them. She found them stashed in an unlabeled cupboard, hidden behind a row of imported spices.

By the time midnight rolled around on that first full night of cohabitation, neither Cruz nor Aaliyah could speak civilly. Cruz retreated to her designated bedroom—a smaller suite upstairs that still felt larger than her old apartment—and slammed the door. Meanwhile, Aaliyah lounged in the master suite, tapping away on her phone, presumably writing one-liner texts to her father’s associates about how the “wedding planning” was going better than expected.

Cruz’s phone buzzed with a message from Bobby: “The house isn’t a war zone. Try harder.”

She typed back through gritted teeth: “We’re losing the battle, Reyes.”

Bobby didn’t reply.

The second day was no better.

Cruz awoke at dawn, her usual habit from her Marine days. She wandered downstairs to make her coffee in her battered pot only to find Aaliyah already in the kitchen, wearing an impeccably tailored robe that fell to her ankles. She was perched on a stool, sipping an espresso from that fancy machine, looking like she’d stepped off a magazine cover. The tension between them was palpable enough to slice with a butter knife. Cruz avoided eye contact, poured her coffee, and headed to the dining area to watch the sunrise.

Minutes later, Aaliyah appeared behind her, carrying a tray of fresh croissants. “You left your boots on the welcome mat,” Aaliyah remarked in a voice cool as morning dew. “I nearly broke my neck.”

Cruz jerked a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Maybe you should watch where you’re going.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Aaliyah’s face. She placed the croissants on the table, ignoring Cruz’s glare, and turned to admire the view through the glass wall. The property’s immaculate lawn stretched out like a golf course, the rising sun casting golden rays on the horizon. The sight would have been serene if not for the verbal minefield they were treading within.

“I’m going to a fundraiser at noon,” Aaliyah said casually. “Perhaps you’d like to join me, show the world we’re happily engaged?”

Cruz took a long sip of coffee. “I have my own stops—union rally, local diner, meeting with veterans. Real people stuff.”

Aaliyah inhaled calmly, as if forcibly maintaining her composure. “Try to be home by seven. The press might drop by for a quick photo session. Bobby scheduled them for a ‘casual couples moment’ in our living room.”

Cruz nearly choked on her coffee. “A ‘casual couples moment’? What’s that supposed to look like?”

Aaliyah tapped the phone in her hand. “Sitting side by side on the couch, maybe holding hands, or you with an arm around me while we chat about wedding plans. Just a small snippet for the tabloids to run.”

Cruz ground her teeth, her earlier sip of coffee turning bitter on her tongue. She loathed how seamless Aaliyah made it sound. “Fine,” she said at last, setting her mug down with a dull clink. “But we’re not locking lips or anything ridiculous.”

Aaliyah’s smirk was almost predatory. “Don’t worry, dear. I’d hate to break your personal boundaries.”

They stared at each other for a tense beat, an odd mixture of anger and reluctant acceptance passing between them. Then Aaliyah turned on her heel, the tail of her robe trailing elegantly behind, leaving Cruz seething in the modern dining area with her battered coffee pot and a half-eaten croissant she hadn’t even realized she’d picked up.

By the third day, the friction had escalated to comedic proportions. They sniped at each other over every trivial detail. Cruz insisted on playing country music in the living room; Aaliyah countered by blasting classical piano through the built-in sound system. Cruz set her battered baseball cap on the pristine coffee table; Aaliyah promptly hid it in a drawer. Cruz pinned a small Marine Corps flag on the wall in the upstairs hallway; Aaliyah replaced it with a framed piece of abstract calligraphy that read “Serenity,” which Cruz found ironically infuriating.

At the same time, the illusions of their “love story” had to be maintained outside these walls. The tabloids periodically snapped photos of them arriving together at various campaign events, forced smiles on their faces. They maintained a polite distance, occasionally exchanging a stiff embrace for the cameras. Observers might have believed they were simply shy about public displays, but behind closed doors, each day ended in cold silence.

Bobby’s text messages piled up, urging them to “at least try to look like you don’t hate each other.” Meanwhile, Randy, having overheard the office gossip about their fiasco living arrangement, poked fun at Cruz whenever he saw her. “You sure you’re safe under the same roof with the heiress?” he teased, drawing a death glare from Cruz that shut him up quickly.

Day four brought a new low in the ongoing battle.

Cruz returned from a late campaign stop—her arms full of leftover posters and the stench of sweaty rallies—and found half the living room furniture rearranged to accommodate a lavish new coffee table Aaliyah had ordered. The table was monstrosity of polished marble, heavy enough to anchor a small boat. The prior glass table was shoved against a wall, overshadowing Cruz’s precious Force Recon photo once again. As Cruz set her things down, the table’s presence loomed, a reminder that she had no real say in what happened here.

That night, they skirted around each other wordlessly. Cruz retreated to her designated bedroom, staring at the blank walls. She missed her old apartment—her battered couch, her dog-eared books, the comfortable mess that had been unmistakably hers. Here, everything was too pristine, too curated. She felt like a guest in her own life.

It didn’t help that Aaliyah continued introducing subtle modifications: a new lamp here, a fresh set of expensive linen drapes there, slowly molding every room to her standard. Cruz’s attempts at leaving her mark grew more desperate: she pinned a small collection of unit patches on the refrigerator only to find them gone by sunrise. She set out a figurine of a bull rider on the mantel and discovered it banished to a closet. The next morning, the entire closet was locked.

The tension felt unbearable, as though the house itself bristled with it. Bobby arrived one evening, hoping to conduct a short interview snippet for social media—a cozy shot of the “happy couple” cooking dinner. She found the kitchen a warzone of contradictory preferences: Cruz’s battered coffee pot next to Aaliyah’s gleaming espresso machine, half the drawers labeled by Cruz with black marker, the other half labeled by Aaliyah in elegant script.

The cooking snippet never happened. As soon as Bobby suggested they might chop vegetables side by side, Aaliyah pointed out that Cruz diced onions like a “chainsaw maniac,” and Cruz shot back that Aaliyah probably didn’t know how to peel an onion without calling her personal chef. Bobby, seeing the meltdown, quickly ushered the cameraman out, deciding they’d try again another day.

That evening, Cruz holed up in her bedroom, reading poll results on her laptop. Sure, they were ticking upward, but at what personal cost? She skimmed an article praising her “calmer, more polished image” thanks to her engagement to the classy heiress. The article’s final line read, “Perhaps love really does civilize even the toughest war hero.” The cynicism in the words lit a fire of anger in Cruz. Little did they know, the civility was nothing but a veneer.

Downstairs, Aaliyah sipped her nightly tea in the library corner she’d claimed. She received a flurry of texts from well-wishers in her father’s circle, all praising her for taming the unruly senator. Her only response was a half-smile. Tame was the last word she’d use for Cruz, but she let them believe whatever made them feel comfortable. In truth, every day felt like a pitched battle, and the cold war wore on her nerves as well.

They’d settled into a miserable pattern of small acts of sabotage. Cruz insisted on hosting a small union delegation in the living room, tracking in dust and grit from their signs. Aaliyah, mortified, had the carpets steam-cleaned the next morning. They glared at each other over breakfast, uttering clipped greetings for the sake of maintaining a façade of courtesy.

In the middle of the second week, Bobby convened an emergency meeting in the newly claimed “office,” a glass-walled room near the entrance. She demanded they both attend, no excuses. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on as Cruz and Aaliyah sat on opposite sides of a steel-and-wood desk, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

Bobby tapped a stack of papers. “We have a major press event in four days. A fundraiser gala. The media wants more glimpses of the ‘home life’ you two share. That means a short video segment, a few photos of you cooking or maybe just chatting in the living room, so people can see it’s real.”

Cruz grimaced. “God forbid we show them the daily fights over dishwasher arrangement.”

Aaliyah sniffed. “You say fights; I say I’m teaching you basic order.”

Cruz nearly lunged, but Bobby slammed a hand on the table, eyes blazing. “Enough! I’m not letting either of you sabotage this campaign. We’re too close. So figure out how to exist in the same damn house without turning it into a Cold War battleground.”

Cruz, blinking in surprise, exhaled and pulled out a tall stool at the breakfast bar. She slouched onto it, arms folded. Aaliyah, with the grace of a catwalk model, took her time moving to the stool across from Cruz. Her posture was perfect, like a queen settling upon a throne, quietly daring anyone to question her authority.

Bobby placed both hands on the marble surface and leaned forward, fixing each of them with a glare that could level a building. “Here’s how this is going to go.” She spoke each word slowly, voice calm in a way that suggested suppressed fury. “You two are going to sit here, talk like actual adults, and air your grievances.”

Cruz shifted uncomfortably, shooting Bobby a wary look. “What?”

Aaliyah’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Is this a trust-building exercise?” Her tone dripped with incredulity.

Bobby snorted, crossing her arms tight against her chest. “No,” she said, the dryness in her voice audible. “It’s a ‘get your shit together or I will throw myself off the nearest bridge’ exercise.”

A strangled hush settled over the kitchen. The overhead lights gleamed off the marble countertops, and somewhere in the distance, a clock ticked. Cruz and Aaliyah exchanged a glance that was more challenge than conversation.

“Go ahead,” Bobby continued, gesturing between them. “Get it out of your system.”

Cruz dragged a hand down her face, sighing. “Fine,” she conceded. She turned her gaze fully on Aaliyah, jaw clenched. “I hate that you constantly talk like you’re on a political panel.”

Aaliyah didn’t hesitate, crossing one elegant leg over the other. “I hate that you eat like a caveman,” she retorted, voice clipped but viciously controlled.

Cruz’s eyes narrowed. “I hate that you have a perfume budget,” she shot back.

Aaliyah rolled her eyes. “I hate that you own six identical suits.”

Cruz leaned forward on her stool, bracing herself on the counter. “I hate that your coffee machine requires a full-on user manual,” she said, practically spitting the words.

Aaliyah allowed a faint smirk. “I hate that you refuse to learn how to use it out of sheer stubbornness.”

Cruz threw her hands in the air. “I hate that you took over the entire closet,” she snapped.

Aaliyah gasped in mock outrage. “I hate that you put your filthy boots in it.”

Teeth clenched, Cruz ground out, “I hate that you own silk pajamas.”

Aaliyah arched an eyebrow. “I hate that you wear an old Marine Corps T-shirt to bed that looks older than this state.”

They volleyed back and forth, hurling complaint after complaint with the rhythm of two boxers trading punches. Insults flew swiftly, covering topics as varied as the decorative pillows Aaliyah scattered across the living room couches, the suspiciously fancy cheese she stocked in the fridge, Cruz’s battered coffee pot, and the horns Cruz wanted mounted on the wall. Each time one of them paused for breath, the other leapt in with a fresh barb.

Bobby watched this spectacle in fatigued silence, arms crossed, eyes growing more exasperated with every exchange. She knew there was no stopping them until they’d vented every ounce of pent-up aggravation. The kitchen’s glossy surfaces bounced the sharpness of their voices around the room, amplifying the tension.

Eventually, they both ran out of steam. Cruz slumped in her seat, her fists resting on the counter, jaw set like a lock. Aaliyah, though still poised, breathed a little more heavily than before, color high in her cheeks. The quiet that followed was almost as jarring as their argument.

Bobby let out a long, steadying breath. She reached into her battered leather bag, withdrew two slim folders, and slapped them onto the table—one in front of Cruz, the other in front of Aaliyah. “Great,” she said in a flat, humorless tone. “Now that you’ve gotten all that out of your system, pretend you love each other in public.”

The words seemed to echo in the sudden hush. Cruz looked down at the folder, scowling. She knew it contained her campaign schedule for the next month—the rallies, the fundraisers, the interviews—her entire future mapped out in time blocks. Aaliyah reached for hers, eyes flicking across the pages, her face betraying a faint curl of disdain.

“Look,” Bobby continued, raking a hand through her hair. “The campaign is on life support if you two can’t keep it together. Every time you bicker in front of the cameras, or give the slightest hint this is all fake, we lose points in the polls. And if Cruz loses this race, everything you both want vanishes.”

Cruz exchanged a sullen glare with Aaliyah. The truth pressed down on them like a weight too heavy to shrug off. They needed each other—God help them—for the sake of the polls, for the sake of Aaliyah’s independence from her father, for the sake of Cruz’s entire campaign.

“So unless you want to kiss your goals goodbye,” Bobby said, “start acting like you can tolerate each other.”

Bobby exhaled loudly, massaging her temples. “Let’s break down the next steps. One: minimal sabotage. Two: a short guided tour for a local news crew, just ten minutes, to prove you’re living together. Three: I want both of you to actually talk about how the ‘wedding planning’ is going. Talk. Without hurling insults.”

Cruz grunted her assent. Aaliyah nodded curtly. “Fine,” she said, voice low. “But if she leaves her boots in the foyer, I’m tossing them out.”

Cruz bristled. “You do that, and I’ll turn your precious sculpture into target practice.”

They locked eyes again, an inferno of mutual resentment passing between them. Bobby slapped a folder onto the desk. “Stop it,” she hissed. “Take these guidelines, follow them, and keep your personal vendettas out of the public eye.”

Her phone buzzed on the counter, drawing her attention. She glanced at it, face hardening as she saw the caller ID. “Duty calls,” she muttered, then pinned them both with one last scathing look. “Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”

Without waiting for a response, she hustled out of the kitchen, phone to her ear, leaving Cruz and Aaliyah behind in the oppressive quiet. The overhead lights hummed softly, and the faint beep of the refrigerator filter reminded them just how modern this house was.

Silence followed. For a moment, Cruz flicked her gaze to Aaliyah, spotting a flicker of fatigue in those finely lined eyes. She hadn’t considered how draining it might be for Aaliyah to maintain this farce, too. But the moment of sympathy vanished when Aaliyah curled her lip, as though daring Cruz to show weakness.

Cruz rubbed her hands over her face, exhaustion weighing on her shoulders. So far, living under the same roof had been every bit the nightmare she anticipated.

Cruz let out a ragged exhale. “She’s not kidding, you know. If we screw this up—”

Aaliyah tilted her chin up. “I’m well aware of the stakes,” she interrupted, folding her arms with cool confidence. “You think I enjoy picking out decorative pillows and tripping over your boots every day? This arrangement isn’t exactly heaven for me either.”

A flicker of a smirk crossed Cruz’s lips. “You sure? You get to show off your fancy lifestyle to your father’s associates, parade me around like a rare creature from the working class, and still toss out my personal effects whenever they offend your aesthetic sense.”

Aaliyah’s brow twitched, a hint of anger surfacing. “Don’t pretend I haven’t made concessions. You have a bull’s skull in the study for some godforsaken reason.”

“They’re longhorns,” Cruz muttered, bristling. “Not a ‘bull’s skull.’ And that’s part of Texas culture.”

Aaliyah arched an eyebrow. “I’m aware of your precious Texas culture,” she said with heavy irony. “It doesn’t need to become the entire home’s theme.”

Cruz’s fingers tightened against the folder. She wanted to hurl another jab but decided against it, recalling Bobby’s earlier threat. Instead, she flipped the cover open, scanning the schedule. Her eyes lingered on an upcoming event: a couples’ interview for a major state newspaper. The headline read “Exclusive: Senator Manuelos and Fiancée Aaliyah Amrohi Talk Campaign, Wedding Plans, and the Future.” The very idea made her stomach clench.

“We have an interview in two days,” she said aloud, voice heavy with resignation. “They want to see the place—maybe film a short segment of us cooking together.” She grimaced as she remembered how the last cooking fiasco nearly ended in disaster. “We can’t keep telling them to stay out of our private life if we’re trying to prove this is real.”

Aaliyah exhaled a slow breath. “Indeed.” She nodded at her own folder. “There’s also a fundraiser next week, black-tie event. They expect us to arrive arm in arm.” A tiny frown tugged her lips downward. “I suppose I’ll coordinate your attire, seeing as you own the same suit in five copies.”

Cruz bristled. “Six,” she corrected, then forced a humorless laugh. “And you might think your fancy dresses are the last word in fashion, but the electorate doesn’t exactly live for runway looks.”

Aaliyah’s eyes gleamed with a trace of challenge. “I’d rather not have us clashing in every photo op. People might talk.”

Cruz clicked her tongue. “We’ll figure something out,” she muttered.

A lull in conversation fell again, tension simmering in the gap. A distant noise from the living room—perhaps the air conditioner switching on—underscored how large and empty the house felt, how forced this entire charade was. Cruz rubbed at the back of her neck, remembering the day she’d begrudgingly moved in, how each hour since then had been a series of small wars. She was so damn tired of it already.

Aaliyah tapped a manicured nail against the edge of her folder, eyes drifting across the bullet points. “You know,” she said softly, “we might both be less miserable if we set a few ground rules. Separate territory for décor, for instance, or set times when the kitchen is yours and when it’s mine.”

Cruz gave a bark of laughter, not entirely unkind. “A truce? You’re offering that now, after a week of sabotage?”

Aaliyah shrugged, a small shift of her shoulders. “Not exactly a truce. More of a practical arrangement. Bobby’s about to tear her hair out, and if we keep up the fighting, we’ll bring the whole campaign down.”

Cruz eyed her, suspicion creeping across her features. “So you want a partitioned home, basically? You stay in the living room, I keep my Texas stuff in the study, and we meet in the middle for press photos?”

Aaliyah pressed her lips into a thin line, as though irritated by how crude that sounded. “If that’s what it takes.”

Cruz paused, studying the woman across from her. Aaliyah’s expression, though composed, showed a faint sheen of weariness—dark smudges under her eyes, her posture not as regal as she wanted to appear. “Fine,” Cruz said at last. “I guess I can keep the living room free of my boots. But you’d better not toss my Force Recon photo in the trash.”

Aaliyah’s mouth twitched. “I’ll leave it in the study. You can have a corner there dedicated to your… personal artifacts.” She sounded as though she were granting a small fiefdom to a rebellious vassal.

A shaky agreement, but an agreement, nonetheless. Cruz cleared her throat. “All right. Let’s try not to kill each other. For Bobby’s sake, if nothing else.”

Aaliyah huffed, a sound between exasperation and a smothered laugh. “Yes, the poor woman might jump off a bridge if we don’t shape up.”

They locked eyes. Although the hostility remained, something else flickered—an acknowledgment that they were stuck in the same leaking boat, forced to bail water side by side. Cruz extended a hand, partly in jest. “Truce?”

Aaliyah hesitated, then accepted the handshake, her grip cool and firm. “Truce.” She pulled back, smoothing her sleeve. “At least until the next time you decide to fill my refrigerator with your cheap beer.”

Cruz’s lips curved into a rueful grin. “And until you decide to replace my Texan-themed coasters with more overpriced sculptures.”

That evening, Cruz paced the living room, phone pressed to her ear. She was on a call with Randy, who teased her about the fiasco. “Heard you two are fighting over candle scents,” Randy said, a laugh coloring his voice. “Couldn’t pick a bigger battle to die on, Manuelos?”

She snorted. “It’s not about candles. It’s about basic decency. She replaced my entire living room décor with abstract junk.”

Randy’s chuckle resonated through the phone. “Look, I’m rooting for you, but you gotta meet her halfway. The base loves your authenticity, but the press also loves a polished story. This is how you win.”

Cruz sighed. She hated that word—win—knowing it justified so many compromises. After finishing the call, she turned to find Aaliyah hovering near the doorway, arms folded. She looked poised, as always, but there was a gleam in her eye that was equal parts curiosity and contempt.

“Spying on me, princess?” Cruz quipped.

Aaliyah tilted her head. “Merely passing by, darling,” she replied. “I needed some water.”

They both released a weary sigh. The kitchen lights glinted off the marble island, casting faint shadows of their silhouettes on the walls. They still had to navigate the upcoming interview, a black-tie fundraiser, and a battery of appearances as an allegedly blissful engaged couple—but for now, maybe they’d found a sliver of common ground in a house that felt too large and too cold for either of them.

Just then, a text arrived on Cruz’s phone. She glanced down: Bobby once again, presumably checking to see if they’d murdered each other. Cruz typed back: “We’re talking. Still alive.”

She lifted her gaze, finding Aaliyah watching her with a half-sardonic, half-resigned expression. A mirror, in some ways, of Cruz’s own. They nodded to each other, stepping away from the table. The day wasn’t over, and already they both anticipated the next wave of friction. But for one fleeting moment, they had done as Bobby asked: they’d sat down, aired their grievances, and if not resolved them, at least recognized the necessity of coexistence.

Outside the house, the Texas sun shone bright over manicured lawns and towering trees. Inside, two women from different worlds, forced into the same sphere, prepared themselves for a precarious dance. The tension simmered, thick as the humid air beyond the glass walls, yet neither was quite ready to walk away. For better or worse, they were bound together by politics, ambition, and an uneasy alliance that promised to test every limit of their patience.

When the day of the press event arrived—where a local news crew would film them at home—Cruz woke early, bracing for a final round of décor arguments. To her surprise, Aaliyah had already arranged the living room in a manner that balanced minimalism with a few of Cruz’s personal items. The Force Recon photo sat on a polished side table, angled so the camera might see it. A small southwestern rug, which Cruz had mentioned liking, lay near the couch.

The first thing Cruz noticed was the glare of the lights. It made the entire living room look like a stage set—too bright, too stark, with every imperfection laid bare for the camera. She squinted, regretting instantly that she hadn’t thought to dim them. But the news crew insisted on full illumination, every angle lit for the perfect shot. And so, she sat there, side by side with Aaliyah, trying not to look like a cornered animal.

Though it was nominally a living room, the space felt more like a gallery. Tall windows framed the lush Texas landscape, but the interior décor exuded the cool minimalism of a designer magazine spread. Glass tables, pristine surfaces, an expensive leather couch that refused to break in. Even the pillows—those infamous, ridiculously overpriced pillows—sported patterns that whispered of curated taste and big money.

Across the room, Bobby stood behind the cameras, arms folded across her chest. The faint shadows under her eyes betrayed weeks of insufficient sleep, the toll of managing a campaign always on the brink of imploding. Today, though, her gaze was especially sharp. She’d orchestrated this entire segment, hoping to quell the rumors that Cruz and Aaliyah’s engagement was nothing more than a political stunt. Now, seeing how tense Cruz was, Bobby’s expression pleaded: Try not to blow this.

Cruz let out a slow breath. She wore a dark suit, typical of her campaign appearances, but it felt constricting under the relentless lighting. She’d rather be out at a union hall or a roadside rally, wearing her comfortable boots and gripping a microphone as she spoke passionately about veteran’s rights or education reform. Instead, here she was, turning her entire home—if she could even call this place a home—into a camera-ready spectacle.

Aaliyah looked like she was born to inhabit this space. She sat with one leg crossed over the other, the faintest hint of a perfectly tailored skirt revealing smooth legs, her posture impeccable. A silky blouse caught the overhead lights at just the right angle to highlight the subtle pattern. Her hair fell in a glossy curtain around her shoulders, framing a face touched by a polite, almost regal smile. If Cruz had been planning to sabotage this interview, she realized bitterly that Aaliyah’s composure would make it difficult. The woman was a natural performer—calm, poised, every movement telegraphing confidence.

A short, too-perfect reporter sauntered in front of them, wearing a neon-bright smile that set Cruz’s teeth on edge. The name pinned to her blouse read “Celeste Moreno,” and her too-friendly handshake felt practiced. She gestured for the cameraman to adjust positions, and a second crew member clipped microphones to Cruz and Aaliyah’s lapels. The overhead lights intensified, reflecting off the glass surfaces so harshly that Cruz found herself momentarily blinded.

It was showtime.

“Good morning,” the reporter said, beaming at the camera before turning that radiant smile upon Cruz and Aaliyah. “We’re here today with Senator Cruz Manuelos and her fiancée, Aaliyah Amrohi, getting an inside look at their new life together. Thank you both for having us in your beautiful home.”

Aaliyah inclined her head with graceful politeness, a hostess acknowledging her guests. “It’s our pleasure,” she replied, voice smooth and cultured.

Cruz forced her lips into a tight smile, the corners tugging uncomfortably. “Yeah. Sure.” Her tone was more subdued, an awkwardness she couldn’t quite disguise.

The reporter’s eyes shone as though reading from an invisible teleprompter. “So, how’s engaged life treating you both?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat, adopting that carefully practiced posture that told Cruz everything about the interview was thoroughly rehearsed.

Cruz hesitated, her mind going blank. Her gaze flicked to Aaliyah, who remained relaxed, exuding an air of practiced elegance. The hush stretched for two beats—a painfully long pause on camera. Finally, Cruz swallowed and said, “Great.” Her voice came out more stiffly than she’d intended.

Aaliyah, sensing the tension, picked up the conversational baton. “It’s been an adjustment,” she offered, turning a soft smile toward the reporter. “Cruz is… very passionate, and that carries over into everything she does.”

Cruz felt a spike of annoyance lance through her. She shot Aaliyah a swift side glance that could have cut glass. But Aaliyah just maintained her gracious expression, as though oblivious to Cruz’s glare.

Bobby, stationed off to the side, visibly tensed. Cruz could see it out of the corner of her eye. One wrong word, one cynical remark, and the entire segment could unravel.

The reporter, pleasantly oblivious, pounced on Aaliyah’s answer. “That’s wonderful. And what’s one thing you’ve learned about each other since moving in together?”

Cruz scowled internally. She hated personal questions. She’d rather talk about policy or campaign platforms any day. Still, she mustered an answer. “We, uh…” She cleared her throat. “We’re getting used to each other’s habits.” She dropped her voice a notch. “Some are more annoying than others.”

Aaliyah seized the moment. “For instance,” she said crisply, “I discovered that Cruz loads the dishwasher incorrectly. Every single time.”

The reporter let out a delighted laugh, turning expectantly to Cruz. “Really? Is that a big deal around here?”

With a resigned exhale, Cruz forced a shrug. “And I learned Aaliyah’s entire personality can be summed up by how many throw pillows she insists on buying,” she said, voice deadpan. She glanced at the fancy pillows scattered around the living room, each one embroidered or sequined in a way that made her roll her eyes.

The reporter giggled, leaning into that forced camaraderie that set Cruz’s nerves on edge. “It sounds like you two have quite an interesting dynamic. People can’t stop talking about how you’re balancing a high-pressure campaign with wedding planning. Any tips?”

Aaliyah, in her element, offered a bright chuckle. “Communication is key, of course,” she said, sounding more like a relationship guru than the same woman who threatened to throw out Cruz’s boots only hours prior. “When things get stressful, we remind ourselves why we’re doing this—why we believe in each other.”

Cruz sipped from the glass of water she held, trying to keep her expression neutral. She was certain her eyes betrayed her irritation. If there was any “reminding” happening, it was with clenched teeth behind closed doors. But she had to maintain the ruse, so she plastered on another tight smile.

The interview spiraled into more superficial questions—how they spent their mornings, their favorite meals to cook, their plans for the wedding day. Cruz stuck to the script: mild answers, minimal detail. Aaliyah, ever the consummate performer, steered the conversation with polished ease, deflecting personal details and weaving in hints of romantic tradition. To Cruz, it felt artificial, but the reporter seemed enraptured.

At one point, the reporter asked about their first meeting. Cruz almost winced, remembering that day in the private hotel suite where Aaliyah breezed in with an air of entitlement, ignoring half the room. A complete mismatch from the “fairy-tale chance encounter” they’d concocted for the official story. Aaliyah took the lead, describing some manufactured narrative about a gala, an enchanting first impression. Cruz bit her tongue and nodded, doing her best to appear captivated.

Bobby, from behind the camera, nodded at them both, indicating that they were at least keeping it together. A wave of relief warred with Cruz’s rising sense of claustrophobia. She wanted nothing more than to yank the microphone off, kick the cameras out, and retreat to a quiet corner where she could breathe. Instead, she stayed put, enduring question after question.

After what felt like hours, the cameraman announced he had enough footage. The reporter concluded with a beaming sign-off, thanking them both for their “wonderful hospitality.” In a swirl of movement, the crew packed up lights and microphones, shook hands, and began wheeling their equipment out the door.

Bobby waited precisely five seconds after the last camera guy vanished before stepping forward. Her arms were folded, gaze hard. She looked ready to unleash a tirade, but Cruz beat her to it, rolling her shoulders and standing from the couch.

“That went well,” Cruz muttered with forced blandness, stretching out the stiffness in her back. She tried to disguise the sarcasm, but Bobby picked up on it instantly.

Bobby’s eyes flicked from Cruz to Aaliyah, who still lounged on the couch, crossing one leg over the other. “I will end you,” Bobby said, quietly but with utter conviction. Her tension radiated like an aura, and Cruz recognized the borderline meltdown that Bobby was on the brink of.

Cruz brushed an imaginary speck of dust off her suit. “This is hell,” she mumbled under her breath, more to herself than to anyone else.

Aaliyah rose in a fluid motion, adjusting her blouse so it fell perfectly along her figure. “Oh, darling.” She stepped near Cruz, her voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial tone. “We’ve only just begun.” The subtle curve of her lips communicated a perverse satisfaction in having survived yet another performance.

Cruz felt her anger spike again, wanting to retort that they’d begun a long time ago, the day Aaliyah showed up with her father’s money and a stack of demands. But she held her tongue. She caught Bobby’s worried glance and realized how close they were to fracturing the entire façade. The polling bump from their engagement was fragile enough, and any sign of discord could sabotage the progress they’d made.

Clenching her fists, Cruz forced a brittle smile. She watched as Aaliyah smoothed her hair, drifting away toward the hallway that led to the rest of the house. The faint smell of her expensive perfume lingered, mixing with the odor of the lavish scented candles. The air carried tension heavier than the heat of a Texan summer day.

Bobby exhaled, letting the tension in her shoulders ease just a fraction. “Next time, maybe dial back the snark about her throw pillows,” she said, her tone frustrated. “I can’t salvage every one-liner you hurl at her, especially on camera.”

Cruz shook her head. “If I dial it back any more, I’ll be a mute. She’s the one spinning fairy tales about me being some romantic hero.” She spat out the word romantic as though it stung.

Bobby rubbed her temple, desperation creeping into her features. “Just… keep it together, both of you. The reporters lapped up the entire thing, so maybe we dodged a bullet. But you can’t keep pushing your luck.”

Cruz nodded curtly, not trusting herself to speak. A thousand retorts circled in her mind: about how this entire arrangement was a travesty, how she loathed Aaliyah’s smug composure. She swallowed them down, reminded by the flicker in Bobby’s eyes that the campaign hinged on this uneasy alliance.

She heard a door open behind her: Aaliyah returning to the living room, phone in hand, presumably texting or checking social media. Their gazes locked for a moment. Even from several feet away, Cruz could feel the challenge in Aaliyah’s stance, as though the woman was silently daring her to crack the façade in front of Bobby. Cruz averted her eyes, stepping aside.

“Anyway,” Bobby said, gathering her bag and phone. “I need to get back to the campaign office. There’s a press inquiry from the Capitol Gazette about your wedding date. I’ll handle that. You two…” She trailed off, giving them each a meaningful glare. “Try not to kill each other.”

With that, Bobby hurried out, leaving Cruz and Aaliyah in the once-more quiet living room. Now absent of the reporter’s lights and the cameras, the space felt hollow, almost artificially staged. The remnants of forced cheer hung like an unwelcome fog.

Aaliyah smoothed a hand over the nearest pillow, aligning it with the couch’s edge. “You’re not very convincing,” she said, voice low.

Cruz turned to face her, crossing her arms. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is my aversion to lying about a relationship that doesn’t exist inconvenient for you?”

Aaliyah shrugged, her lips curving into an infuriatingly calm smile. “It’s a lot more than inconvenient, Manuelos, if you expect to win this election. The cameras don’t lie, and neither do the polls. People can spot tension. They can spot cynicism.”

Cruz blew out a breath. “So what do you suggest, oh queen of illusions?”

Aaliyah patted the pillow in a single, dramatic gesture. “Work on your smile. Work on your tone. Stop rolling your eyes at every question. And maybe just pretend you’re happy.”

Cruz let her gaze drift around the immaculate living room, picking up the faint scent of those ridiculously overpriced candles. She thought of the updates from the union halls, from the veterans’ groups. They were counting on her to push back against the corporate machine. Yet here she was, manufacturing an entirely different machine: the façade of domestic bliss.

She forced a mocking laugh, turning away from Aaliyah. “Pretend I’m happy. Right.”

Then, without another word, she strode out of the living room, footsteps echoing against the polished floors. Behind her, Aaliyah remained by the couch, arms folded in silent triumph or annoyance—Cruz couldn’t tell. All she knew was that the interview might have ended, but the real show was far from over. Each day in this house threatened to become another performance, each moment pushing them both closer to the brink.

As she ascended the stairs to her own room, Cruz wondered how long they could keep this act alive before the cracks showed. The final image she carried with her was Aaliyah’s cool smile from across the living room, a ghost of a whisper in her mind: We’ve only just begun.

They no longer sabotaged each other at every turn—just every now and then, in moments of frustration. Their days were punctuated by small arguments: the volume of the TV, the brand of groceries, the temperature setting on the thermostat. Yet in public, they projected a carefully orchestrated united front, attending events together, giving the occasional short interview about how “excited” they were for the wedding. The contradiction exhausted them both.

At night, Cruz often stood at the window of her guest suite, gazing at the manicured lawns and the city lights beyond, questioning if the cost was worth it. She thought of the men and women who believed in her, the poll numbers that had inched ever closer to McNamara’s. If living with an infuriating heiress could tip the scales, maybe she had to endure it.

On her side of the mansion, Aaliyah would sometimes collapse onto the plush bed, phone pressed to her ear as she navigated her father’s world. She might roll her eyes whenever Cruz’s name came up, but she also recognized that their arrangement was shifting public perception in ways beneficial to her own standing. As long as they didn’t kill each other, they’d both get what they wanted.

Yet, beneath the surface tension lay a grudging respect. Cruz found Aaliyah’s unwavering composure almost admirable, if infuriating. Aaliyah discovered that Cruz’s unwavering convictions, while exasperating, held a fierce integrity she couldn’t entirely hate. Still, they maintained their antagonism—too much had been said, too many lines crossed. So each morning, they resumed their small wars: an unspoken promise that the fight wasn’t over.

For now, this uneasy truce held. Their territory war had escalated, leveled off, and transformed into a day-to-day stand-off. Though the house remained a battleground of clashing tastes, it at least functioned as a passable home for the cameras. Neither was truly winning, but neither was losing, either.

And that, ironically, was the closest thing to success they could share.