July 15th
Cruz stood before the full-length mirror in the small dressing room, shoulders tense, gaze steady, trying to conjure any semblance of composure she could cling to. Around her, the sparse décor seemed chosen for functionality rather than comfort—an antique wooden chair to her left, a modest table stacked with leftover wedding paraphernalia to her right. Nothing softened the space or its purpose. She swallowed, frowning at the reflection of the figure staring back.
She was in her Marine Blue Dress Uniform: deep midnight blue fabric that hugged her broad shoulders, the collar stiff and starched to the point of discomfort. Rows of medals gleamed against the precise lines, each representing a chapter of her combat history. She had insisted on wearing them openly, a small victory in a day otherwise taken over by flashbulbs and a thousand grinning strangers. Yet the uniform’s stark elegance felt out of place here, in an environment meant for tuxedos and lily-white dresses, for swirling orchestras and clinking champagne flutes.
Cruz swallowed hard, fidgeting with the jacket’s fastenings one last time. A slight tremor of apprehension rippled beneath her practiced composure. Why does this feel so wrong? she wondered. She might’ve been a soldier, a politician, even something of a celebrity among the working class, but never had she felt so alien in her own skin. The echoes of too many people’s expectations loomed, pressing into her ribs like an unrelenting vise.
A brief rap at the door cut through her thoughts. Then Bobby slipped inside, arms folded over a slightly rumpled tuxedo that had seen better days. The door clicked shut behind her, muffling the hustle of staffers and event coordinators racing through the halls of the rented estate.
“You look fine,” Bobby said, leaning casually against the wall. Her tone was practical, free of sugary sentiment. “Just—try not to look like they’re dragging you to the firing squad.”
Cruz caught her own scowl in the mirror, an involuntary reaction at the word fine.Sure, I look fine, she thought wryly, for someone about to be paraded in front of the entire country. She let out a breath, turned on one heel, and locked eyes with Bobby.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” she said, voice low and tight. “I can’t believe I’m about to… to—”
“—get married on national TV,” Bobby finished with a wry quirk of her lips. “Yeah, I know. Trust me, half the staff had a betting pool that you’d skip town and vanish.”
Cruz gave a humorless laugh, the sound short and tense. “Wouldn’t that have been nice,” she muttered. “You bet against me too?”
Bobby raised both hands in mock surrender. “I had faith in you. Figure if you survived actual combat, you can survive a wedding. Also, I might’ve lost some money on that bet, but let’s not dwell.”
A small, involuntary smirk tugged at the corner of Cruz’s mouth. At least Bobby’s in my corner, she reminded herself. Then, with a final tug at her uniform collar, she squared her shoulders. She forced an inhale through her nose, letting it out in a long, slow exhale. The sense of finality settled over her like a lead blanket. No going back now.
“Let’s get it over with,” she muttered, stepping past Bobby and out into the corridor, her polished shoes tapping a steady rhythm on the polished floor.
On the opposite side of the mansion, Aaliyah Amrohi sat perfectly upright before a massive vanity framed with antique gold filigree. The mirror reflected not just her form but the entire opulent chamber behind her: tall windows draped in ivory curtains, a plush fainting couch, and the shimmering silhouettes of half a dozen garment bags that had been whisked away hours earlier. Now, only the purest, most refined garment remained—a gown tailored for her and her alone.
The dress, spun from the most delicate silk, hugged her frame from the bodice to the hips before sweeping into a graceful train. Every inch boasted painstakingly hand-embroidered details, each petal and swirl a testament to fine craftsmanship. In the flattering glow of the vanity lights, the gown shimmered like liquid starlight, an effect heightened by the discreet crystals embedded along its seams. Aaliyah could see the reflection of her own form, posture as rigid as the gown was fluid—yet, despite the artistry, a nagging tension simmered in her dark eyes.
She let her fingertips rest against the ornate vanity’s surface. This is it, she thought, studying herself with critical detachment. She looked perfect—hair carefully upswept, a few loose curls framing her face. Her makeup impeccable, lips glossy yet subtle, eyes lined with just enough boldness to command attention on camera. She was every inch the poised, collected socialite, a woman who carried the Amrohi name and the entire political spectacle that came with it. Her mother had drilled into her from a young age: Never appear unsure. Never appear unready.
A soft rustle of fabric signaled someone stepping into the room. Aaliyah lifted her gaze in the mirror, seeing her mother’s reflection appear behind her. She exhaled slowly, bracing herself. Her mother wore a flowing gown in muted taupe, diamonds sparkling at her wrists, an image of quiet opulence. More than that, she carried an air of unflappable serenity, the composure that always made Aaliyah feel like a child wanting to prove herself.
“You look breathtaking,” her mother remarked, voice low and measured. She rested a manicured hand on Aaliyah’s shoulder, meeting her daughter’s gaze in the mirror. “A perfect dress, a perfect setting.”
Aaliyah’s lips curved into a small, polite smile, but the tension in her eyes remained. She could sense the unspoken words, the overshadowing truth that hung between them: If only the person waiting at the end of the aisle was different.
Sure enough, her mother’s voice dipped. “If only the groom—” she began. But the phrase ended in a faint pause, the carefully withheld critique poised on her tongue.
Aaliyah tensed, her grip on the vanity’s edge tightening. “She’s not a groom, Mother.”
A soft scoff escaped the older woman, though she kept her tone mild. “She’s not a husband, either,” she countered, trailing off with the implied meaning as clear as day.
Of course. Her father had always expected a man from a wealthy, conservative family. The fact that Aaliyah had chosen someone so diametrically opposed to that vision only compounded his disdain. The rift between father and daughter had grown dangerously wide, culminating in this day—this wedding, half staged for politics, half for personal rebellion.
Aaliyah rose from the vanity stool in one fluid motion, the silk gown rustling like a whisper. “It’s time,” she said, a chill in her voice. She met her mother’s gaze straight-on, refusing to flinch. “I’m getting married, and I’d appreciate your support—whatever that looks like.”
For a flicker of an instant, her mother’s face softened, a pang of emotion shining in those otherwise composed eyes. But the tenderness vanished as quickly as it came. The older woman nodded, stepping aside so Aaliyah could move toward the door. The corners of her mouth curved in the faintest expression of resigned acceptance.
“Very well,” she said, voice subdued. “Shall we join your guests?”
Aaliyah didn’t respond, only inclined her head in a gesture of thanks. She swept across the room, the gown’s train trailing behind her like a shadow. Outside the corridor, a line of attendants waited, each holding some item or piece of the ceremony. They stood back as she passed, murmuring compliments. Aaliyah offered each a polite smile, forging the image of serene confidence. Inside, her heart pounded with an undertone of something she couldn’t name—anxiety, anticipation, or perhaps regret.
The hallway opened onto a broad landing at the top of a grand staircase, twisting gracefully down to the mansion’s foyer. Through the high arched windows, bright daylight cascaded in, illuminating the swirling motes of dust that seemed to shimmer in the air. A waiting staffer approached, stammering about final checks, verifying that the string quartet had taken position. Aaliyah half-listened, offering a quick nod as her mind raced. She wondered if Cruz was in place yet, clad in that stiff uniform, as out-of-place in a high-society wedding as a bull in a porcelain shop. The thought stirred equal parts amusement and apprehension.
Reaching the foot of the stairs, she paused, listening for the faint strains of music. The wedding coordinator hurried over with last-minute instructions, reminding her to keep a measured pace, to wait for the exact cue from the quartet. Aaliyah exhaled softly, nodded, and tried to keep her hands from trembling. This was, after all, an event orchestrated to prove a carefully crafted narrative: that she and Cruz loved each other, that politics could merge with romance, that family ties remained strong. All illusions she’d spent months perfecting.
“Alright,” the coordinator whispered, gesturing toward a broad set of double doors that led to the grand ceremony hall. “They’ll open when the music shifts. That’s your cue, Ms. Amrohi.”
Aaliyah steadied herself, forcing a composed smile onto her face. The hush before those doors felt immense, as though every breath she took was magnified. She imagined the sea of journalists, donors, and military buddies pressed into the same space, eyes seeking any sign of imperfection. Then she pictured her father, regal and disappointed, and her mother’s tightly controlled face. I can do this, she reminded herself. I must.
The early afternoon sun hung over the Texas hills, merciless and radiant, casting long, sharp shadows across the driveway of the sprawling ranch-style mansion. It was a day that balanced on the knife’s edge between possibility and disaster—a day that had been teased in gossip columns and political blogs for weeks. Journalists and camera crews thronged beyond the security gates, eager to capture any glimpse they could of the event about to unfold. Here, at the carefully selected private estate, Senator Cruz Manuelos and Aaliyah Amrohi were about to pledge their vows. To some, it was a spectacle: a union of politics and power. To others, it was a farce. Only time would tell which narrative would dominate.
Cruz stood at the estate’s main entrance, half hidden behind an ornate pillar carved with intricate patterns that suggested rustic luxury. Her shoulders felt weighed down by her tailored Marine Corps Dress Blues—dark blue, carefully pressed by some unfortunate campaign staffer at dawn. The air smelled of desert sage and cut grass, but it also carried a tinge of tension so thick she felt it in her bones. She’d fought in wars, survived political mudslinging, and navigated the daily skirmishes of living with Aaliyah, yet nothing had prepared her for the surreal weight of a nationally televised wedding.
She glanced out over the broad courtyard. Stone pathways wound through meticulously trimmed lawns, tall mesquite trees offering pockets of dappled shade. Somewhere beyond her line of sight, past those final security checkpoints, sat a legion of supporters, reporters, and protesters—each group clamoring for a piece of the wedding story. The phrase public spectacle barely covered it.
The ranch-style mansion, selected by Bobby, a cluster of campaign strategists, and Aaliyah’s PR team, formed the backbone of this entire performance. It was grand, yes—almost palatial in size—but it also had that veneer of Texan authenticity. Low-slung architecture, wide porches, terracotta roofing. It was supposed to remind onlookers that Cruz was still of the people, a working-class soldier turned politician, even though she was about to wed into one of the wealthiest families in the country. The double front doors, carved from solid oak, stood propped open, revealing a sliver of the opulent interior.
Cruz exhaled sharply, the dryness in the Texas heat catching at the back of her throat. She flexed her hands, knuckles tightening as she tried to chase away the nagging sense that her entire life was tilting. Keep it together, she told herself. This was the big day. She’d told the press for weeks that she and Aaliyah were genuinely, irrevocably in love, and now, the cameras would feed that illusion to every household in America.
From behind her, a muffled voice piped up. “Senator, can I get you some water?” She turned to see a campaign staffer, a kid barely out of college, holding a pitcher of iced water with trembling hands. His expression said it all: We’re counting on you not to mess this up.
Cruz mustered a quick nod of thanks, but she waved him off. Her throat felt parched, but nerves swirled in her stomach in a way that water wouldn’t fix. I just need five minutes of peace, she thought. But in this moment, peace was unattainable.
She spotted Bobby striding across the courtyard, phone pressed to her ear. The woman looked exhausted, dark crescents etched beneath her eyes, hair styled into a neat mullet that threatened to unravel if she so much as exhaled too hard. The moment she caught sight of Cruz, she gestured emphatically, as if to say, We have to talk, now.
Cruz braced herself, forcing a polite half-smile onto her face as Bobby walked up. “Your phone’s been blowing up,” Bobby began in lieu of a greeting, voice taut with stress. “We’ve got at least three major networks stationed outside the gates, plus a swarm of local affiliates. Social media’s lit up with hashtags. Everyone’s waiting for the moment you walk down that aisle.” She paused, eyeing Cruz’s stiff posture. “You ready?”
A bitter laugh almost escaped Cruz’s throat, but she swallowed it down. “Sure,” she answered. “As ready as I can be for a wedding that’s more PR stunt than personal milestone.”
Bobby’s lips thinned, but she didn’t dispute it. “Just remember: the second the cameras pan over, this has to look real.” Her voice dropped lower. “Everything we’ve built rides on this day. The new poll numbers are neck and neck with McNamara’s. If the wedding coverage lands well, we might pull ahead. If it looks forced or if you freeze up, we could lose the momentum.”
Cruz nodded, gratitude and frustration swirling. She understood the stakes. The entire race for governor might hinge on this show of unity with Aaliyah. She rubbed a hand over her temple, half-hoping the adrenaline would keep her from noticing how stifling the air felt. “Got it, Reyes. Where’s… she?”
Bobby’s posture shifted. “Inside, in the grand ballroom. Final touches or something. Probably perfecting a million details. She wanted absolute control of the interior décor, you know.”
Cruz did know. All part of our compromise, she recalled. The venue’s exterior was a nod to Cruz’s Texan roots, while the inside bore every hallmark of Aaliyah’s high-society flair. Not that Cruz had set foot in the main ceremony hall yet. She’d avoided it, too busy stealing a few final moments outside, trying to gather her nerves.
“At some point, you’ll have to face her,” Bobby continued, softer. “The photographer wants shots of you both separately before the ceremony. Then a few joint pictures once everything’s official.”
Cruz groaned. Official. She had to remind herself that by the end of the day, she’d legally be Aaliyah’s spouse. The entire arrangement made her chest tighten. It’s just politics, she told herself, reciting the same tired mantra. We do what we must to win.
She squared her shoulders, turning to enter the house. Just before she passed through the doors, she caught a glimpse of a cluster of picket signs outside the gates—progressive supporters chanting encouragement, offset by a smaller group scolding her for selling out to big oil money. The press cameras panned across them, each sign a silent condemnation or endorsement. Damn it, she thought. Let them judge. I’ve got a job to do.
Inside, the estate’s foyer opened onto a sweeping corridor lined with tall mirrors framed in antique gold, leading to the main event space. The hush of air conditioning caressed her skin, a welcome respite from the brutal sun. But the calm was deceptive. She could already hear the faint hum of voices from deeper in the estate, mingling with the notes of classical music drifting through the corridors.
Her heart pounded as she drew closer. Passing staffers nodded at her, some offering polite greetings, others simply hurrying by with trays of champagne or floral arrangements. The air smelled like lilies and roses—a floral extravaganza that must have cost more than Cruz’s entire campaign staff’s monthly salaries combined. She tried not to let the extravagance annoy her, but it pricked her senses all the same.
At last, she reached the grand ballroom. Peering through the arched entry, she inhaled sharply. The transformation was breathtaking: high, vaulted ceilings draped in soft white fabric, massive windows letting in beams of Texas sunlight filtered through tinted glass. Chandeliers shimmered overhead, their crystals scattering rainbows across the floor. Everywhere Cruz looked, there were tables set with gold-rimmed plates and flickering candles inside glass cylinders. The décor had a thematic color palette of deep burgundies, emeralds, and navy blues—a nod to both Cruz’s Texan identity and Aaliyah’s refined taste in jewel tones.
Yet, to Cruz, it felt suffocating. Like a stage built for a production that didn’t reflect her actual life. And indeed, it was. Because this is what Aaliyah does, she reminded herself. She constructs illusions, polishes everything into an image of perfection.
Her gaze roved across the crowd already gathered: a swirl of dignitaries, wealthy donors, and politicians in suits that cost more than the average Texan’s monthly rent. They looked comfortable here, sipping champagne, murmuring in conspiratorial hushes. Their eyes flashed with cunning—the sort of cunning Cruz had come to expect in backroom deals and quiet endorsements.
At the far side of the room, she spotted a small cluster of her own circle, folks who stuck out like sore thumbs in this high-class setting. She recognized a few old Force Recon buddies, each wearing suits that didn’t quite fit, shifting awkwardly and scanning the crowd with the watchful alertness of trained soldiers in unknown territory. They’d come to support her, and she felt a surge of gratitude for them braving this social minefield. She also glimpsed Randy, her running mate, fiddling anxiously with his tie and checking a phone for updates. The tension in their small group was palpable—like they were ringers at a game no one had taught them to play.
Meanwhile, at the prime VIP section, she saw Aaliyah’s father, Asmar Amrohi—resplendent in a tailored suit, posture erect, face betraying no emotion. Next to him, Aaliyah’s mother sat with a polite, distant smile. In her eyes, Cruz perceived a quiet acceptance laced with reluctance—like she’d made peace with a wedding she neither disliked nor fully endorsed. Around them were various members of the extended Amrohi family, each scanning the room or conversing with measured politeness. Some wore expressions of open skepticism, their glances at the rest of the crowd betraying confusion at how a woman like Cruz Manuelos had ended up tying herself to their empire.
Still standing in the doorway, Cruz blew out a breath, forcing her shoulders down. You can handle a firefight. You can handle this. Right on cue, Bobby materialized at her side, hooking an arm through Cruz’s elbow in a show of support. “Time to make your rounds,” she whispered, voice pitched low. “Show them you’re not scared.”
Cruz gave a tight nod, letting Bobby lead her toward the throng. Step by step, they navigated pockets of conversation. The hush never fully broke—everyone was in a state of patient anticipation, awaiting the ceremony’s beginning. The faint strings of a quartet played near the front, providing a refined soundtrack to the tension.
Whispers followed them:
“Is that Cruz? She looks so different in her uniform.”
“She’s pulling it off, though, isn’t she?”
“Do you think this wedding will shift the polls enough?”
“At least she’s not caving on everything. I hear the ranch was her idea.”
Cruz tried to keep her chin up, responding to the occasional handshake or softly uttered greeting. She recognized some faces from prior fundraisers, others from quick introductions at political luncheons. Each greeting she forced out felt like an effort, her mind still spinning with the knowledge that in less than an hour, she’d stand at the altar with Aaliyah. A far cry from the quiet civil ceremony I once pictured, she mused. But at least it’s not a literal palace.
Eventually, they reached the small circle of her former-Marine buddies. Two Cups, Tucker, Tex—they were all there, forcibly stuffed into jackets with hastily tamed hair. She found herself exchanging quick smiles, subdued jokes about once more unto the breach, but there was an underlying sympathy in their eyes. They knew how out of place she felt in this gilded environment.
“Looking good, sarge,” Tex teased, adjusting his own tie. “Didn’t think you would ever wear your dress blues again.”
Cruz snorted. “I don’t. The staff insisted.”
Tucker gave a quiet chuckle. “We’ll be cheering you on,” he said, voice earnest. “Still not sure how we ended up at a wedding, but we’re proud of you.”
Cruz felt a swell of appreciation. These men, who had served alongside her in conditions far more dire than this, had stepped out of their comfort zones to witness her tying the knot in a swirl of cameras and donors. Their presence eased some of her tension, though it also magnified the sense that her life had taken a bizarre turn.
Bobby tapped her on the shoulder. “Time’s running short,” she said. “The ceremony starts in twenty minutes. And you still need to see the officiant, finalize last-second details.” Her gaze flickered around the room, as though scanning for an incoming threat. “Have you seen Aaliyah?”
Cruz’s eyes darted about, scanning the throng of guests, but didn’t spot that telltale glimpse of silk or a silhouette with perfect posture. She’d expected to see Aaliyah commanding the center of attention, greeting donors and socialites with that poised confidence. But Aaliyah was nowhere to be found. A thread of anxiety tugged in her gut. Is she having second thoughts?
“Not yet,” Cruz murmured. “She’s probably in her bridal suite or something, finalizing her makeup?” She let out a humorless laugh. “I’m sure she wants everything perfect.”
Bobby nodded, unconvinced, but moved on. They parted ways with the former-Marines, meandering deeper into the crowded space. Cruz caught the edges of hushed discussions, picking out phrases like oil interests, governor’s seat, PAC funding, all while waiters floated past with trays of sparkling wine. The air felt electric—a fervor for the day’s spectacle plus the underlying knowledge that this union might shift the entire political landscape.
As they approached the far corner of the room, Cruz caught sight of the officiant: an older judge wearing a crisp black robe, skimming through notes with the intense concentration of a person aware the entire country would watch. The judge looked up as Cruz neared, offering a thin-lipped smile. “Senator Manuelos,” he greeted. “Congratulations on this momentous occasion.”
Cruz nodded stiffly, burying her discomfort. Momentous occasion, indeed. She made polite small talk, confirming the ceremony’s structure: a short reading, the exchange of vows, rings, a final pronouncement. Short, sweet, and broadcast to millions. The judge seemed kind enough, but even his eyes flickered with curiosity. Who is this Marine to marry the daughter of Asmar Amrohi?
“Alright then,” the judge concluded, offering a handshake. “We begin at five sharp. Please be in position at the front by five till.”
Bobby placed a reassuring hand on Cruz’s shoulder, guiding her away. “Aaliyah should be here soon,” she said. “I’ll check with the wedding coordinator.” She fished her phone from her pocket, already typing texts. “Just don’t vanish, okay?”
Cruz gave a sardonic half-salute. “Yes, ma’am,” she muttered, leaning against a marble pillar. Just fifteen more minutes. Then everything would be locked in place: the cameras rolling, the guests hush, the judge’s voice echoing in the grand space, and she’d be saying “I do” to a woman she had once scorned. The weight of it threatened to crush her, but she braced her feet, inhaling deeply. You’ve handled worse.
Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Asmar Amrohi stepping away from the VIP cluster, heading her direction. The older man’s posture was straight, his suit tailored to perfection, hair shot with silver, eyes cold. Cruz felt her pulse spike. She forced herself to remain calm as he approached. He stopped a polite distance away, expression unreadable, but something like displeasure burned in his gaze.
“Senator Manuelos,” he said in a low voice. “I trust the arrangements meet your requirements.” It wasn’t really a question—more a barbed statement. “Aaliyah supervised every detail.”
Cruz cleared her throat. “It’s quite a venue,” she replied, not offering a direct compliment. “Your daughter has exquisite taste.”
Asmar inclined his head, a gesture so slight it might have been a tic. “Taste, yes,” he said. “But I question her judgment.”
Cruz bristled at the veiled insult, but she refused to let it show. “I’m sure you do,” she answered, voice carefully even. “But as long as Aaliyah and I are content with the arrangement, that’s all that matters.”
A heavy silence passed between them. Asmar’s gaze flicked toward the cluster of Marines, then to a set of donors across the room. “You’re not the man I intended for her,” he said finally, his tone just above a whisper. “But it appears you’re the one she’s chosen.”
Cruz forced a humorless half-smile. “That’s how it works,” she said. “We don’t always get to pick who shows up in our lives.”
Asmar’s lips flattened. Before he could respond, a call from across the room summoned him away—a slight gesture from one of his associates. He gave Cruz a final, inscrutable stare. “Good luck,” he murmured, then turned on his heel and strode off, leaving a swirl of tension in his wake.
Cruz exhaled, releasing tension from her shoulders she hadn’t realized she was holding. Man, that was fun. My father-in-law is a riot, she thought, sarcasm biting. She let her gaze wander, catching glimpses of last-minute flurries: staffers adjusting chairs, checking the camera feeds, ensuring that everything was perfect for the live broadcast. A swirl of overhead lights brightened, signaling that the official filming was about to begin.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, pulling her from the anxious spiral. She fumbled it out, reading a quick text from Bobby: She’s ready. We’re starting. Another message popped up from some local press contact wishing her luck. Then, the phone blinked off.
With a sinking sense of inevitability, Cruz straightened her uniform, brushed off non-existent lint, and smoothed her hair. One of the staffers signaled from across the room, beckoning her to the ceremonial arch near the front windows. She started forward, weaving through the crowd. Conversations hushed at her passing. People parted like a wave, all eyes on her. A hush fell, and the quartet segued into a gentle, romantic piece that was presumably chosen by Aaliyah.
The warm Texas evening sky stretched overhead, a tapestry of honeyed gold and burnt orange melding seamlessly into amethyst and deep sapphire along the horizon. It was the sort of twilight that felt almost designed for romantic occasions—soft light, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of blooming wildflowers, and the distant hum of cicadas. Yet for Cruz Manuelos, every whiff of sweet air felt oppressive, a reminder that this day was not hers to savor but to endure.
Set on the manicured lawn of a private estate—one so meticulously selected it might as well have been a Hollywood set—rows of immaculate white chairs faced an elevated platform draped in burgundy silk. Crystalline floral arrangements in bold jewel tones lined the aisle, each bloom carefully chosen to complement the event’s overarching theme: power, opulence, and a touch of Texan authenticity. The entire affair was orchestrated to captivate. Everywhere one looked, ornate details showed that no expense had been spared to tie romance, politics, and spectacle into one.
Cruz stood at the head of that aisle, the gold of the setting sun kissing the crisp lines of her Marine Blue Dress Uniform. Once upon a time, wearing these blues made her feel centered, proud of her service. Now, pinned with medals and ribbons that should have felt like a second skin, she only felt an odd sense of displacement. Her mouth was dry, her throat constricted, and her jaw set so rigidly it ached. I can handle this, she told herself, though her fists curled at her sides like she was bracing for the start of a firefight.
The crowd, settled in neat rows, appeared rapt. Near the front, an entire section was devoted to influential politicians, high-profile donors, and carefully handpicked media. This group exuded wealth and polish: men in designer suits, women in sophisticated dresses, their jewels glimmering under the soft light. Further back, Cruz spotted a smattering of her own circle—some Marine buddies clearly ill at ease in formal attire, stiff in their seats and exchanging guarded glances. The swirling dynamic between these two worlds was almost palpable.
She adjusted her cuffs, the only motion she permitted herself. Longest mission of my life, she thought grimly. She’d faced hostile territory, both literally in combat zones and figuratively in cutthroat political spheres, but this wedding—this carefully choreographed union—felt like the pinnacle of her endurance. Cameras from every major network captured her from every angle, lenses glinting in the sinking sun. The knowledge that millions watched from their living rooms, waiting for the perfect shot, tightened the knot in her stomach.
A hush settled over the crowd like a collective intake of breath. Even the setting sun, blazing low in the sky, seemed to pause, bathing everything in a molten halo of gold. Heads turned in unison, a gentle murmur rippling through the rows of guests. She’s here.
Cruz forced herself to stand straighter, her heart pounding beneath the crisp lines of her Marine dress blues. The uniform, usually a source of comfort, felt snug around her shoulders today. She swallowed, trying not to show the slight hitch in her breathing. This was all for show—she reminded herself—just an act.
And yet, she couldn’t stop her pulse from kicking into high gear when Aaliyah stepped into view.
The world seemed to hold its breath. Aaliyah was clad in a white silk gown that skimmed the floor with liquid grace, delicate silver embroidery gleaming in the sunlight. A modest veil pinned with tiny crystals framed her face. Each step was measured, poised, like every movement had been choreographed to perfection. Photographers scrambled for vantage points, cameras clicking in a fervent attempt to capture her in that ephemeral twilight glow.
Cruz felt her chest tighten. She’d known Aaliyah would look flawless—Aaliyah always looked flawless. Still, the sight of her in that dress, every angle perfectly accentuated, was enough to make Cruz’s carefully schooled expression falter for the briefest second. Don’t stare, her mind warned. She’s just playing the part. But the flicker of awe churned inside her, unbidden.
Aaliyah moved closer, and the gentle swish of her dress against the polished floor seemed to echo in Cruz’s ears. Cruz’s mouth felt strangely dry. She’s gorgeous, she thought, then cursed herself for it. This was a marriage of convenience—a carefully orchestrated lie. She tore her gaze away for a split second, focusing on a vase of extravagant flowers nearby, anything to steady the sudden wobble in her gut.
Cruz clenched her jaw, reminding herself to exhale. She risked another glance at Aaliyah—a fleeting look that made her heart thud. She’s just so… No. Get it together. This is about polling, about winning an election, about playing a role until the cameras shut off. But the shimmer of that gown, the tilt of Aaliyah’s lips, stuck in her mind nonetheless.
Meanwhile, Aaliyah’s gaze swept over the venue—spotting key allies, her father’s circle of friends, and a few donors—before landing squarely on Cruz. For a moment, her breath caught. The entire political arrangement might have been her idea, but seeing Cruz in those sharply tailored Marine dress blues gave her pause. The uniform was perfectly fitted, badges and medals gleaming. There was something quietly powerful about Cruz’s rigid stance, the soldier’s bearing that clashed so compellingly with this polished, romantic setting. Aaliyah felt a small jolt of surprise—and, reluctantly, admiration—flare in her chest.
She forced her composure back into place with practiced ease. She couldn’t allow her expression to betray the flicker of attraction. Not here. Not now. This was about optics. About the cameras. Yet she couldn’t deny that Cruz looked devastatingly attractive dressed in crisp blues, meeting the moment with grave seriousness. The tension between them crackled with an unexpected undertone, more potent than the pure antagonism that usually passed for their dynamic.
Her mother slipped into a seat in the front row, next to her father, who looked like he might shatter the wooden armrests at any second. Bobby hovered near some official cameras, frantic tension on her features, while a few of Cruz’s old squadmates stood behind them, self-conscious in their borrowed suits. The entire hall brimmed with watchers, witnesses, cameras.
Showtime. Aaliyah inhaled one last breath, feeling the structured bodice of her gown press against her ribs. No one would see the flicker of uncertainty in Aaliyah’s eyes or the steel behind Cruz’s forced calm. The world only saw two people, stepping into the spotlight for a wedding that might, or might not, reshape their destinies.
When at last Aaliyah reached the front, standing mere feet away, the judge cleared his throat, welcoming everyone with a reverent hush. Cruz held out a hand—an almost mechanical gesture, but it was what the script demanded. Aaliyah placed her hand gently in Cruz’s. Their eyes locked, the swirl of the audience fading to a dim roar.
For better or worse, Cruz thought. This is the moment we commit to the lie.
And as Aaliyah faced Cruz, hearing the officiant’s voice echo through the hush, she braced herself for the vow that would tie her to this brash Marine, not just in private agreement but in the glare of unrelenting public scrutiny.
The judge’s voice resonated across the hushed room, solemn and low: “We gather here today to witness the union of Senator Cruz Manuelos and Aaliyah Amrohi…” He continued, speaking of unity and love, each phrase carefully chosen so it wouldn’t betray that half of the vow was a political arrangement. The cameras panned across the crowd, capturing faces of hope, cynicism, or polite neutrality.
Cruz sensed the cameras zooming in, capturing this private instant. Aaliyah flicked her gaze upward, leaning close enough for only Cruz to hear. “Try not to look like you’re planning your escape,” she murmured, the faintest hint of mirth coloring her tone.
Cruz tilted her head, face impassive. “Try not to look like you enjoy this too much.”
A small gleam lit Aaliyah’s eyes—an unspoken acknowledgment of the game they were playing. Then the officiant cleared his throat, commanding the crowd’s attention. The hush thickened, a sense of collective anticipation thrumming in the twilight air.
The officiant’s voice was practiced and warm, gliding through the opening lines about love, unity, and the profound meaning of marriage. Cruz barely heard him. She felt Aaliyah’s presence at her side, close enough that their arms almost brushed, the subtle shift of fabric as Aaliyah held her bouquet in front of her. The swirling notes of the string quartet, set to a gentle romantic piece, drifted on the breeze.
At last, the officiant motioned for Aaliyah to speak her vows. She turned to face Cruz, taking her hands with a delicate grip that felt warm yet carefully controlled. Of course, Cruz thought, she’s been preparing for this speech her entire life. Aaliyah’s voice emerged, low and intimate, carrying just enough emotion to enchant a crowd without crossing into melodrama.
“Cruz is strong,” Aaliyah said, tone gentle. “Fierce. Unwavering.” She paused, letting the words settle. “She is the kind of partner I never dared dream of—someone who stands by me, refusing to yield, refusing to give up when the odds are against her. She’s shown me that no obstacle is too great, that no barrier is unbreakable.”
A ripple of sentiment wafted through the audience. Cruz caught glimpses of moist eyes among the front rows, some senator’s wife dabbing carefully at her mascara, a donor leaning toward his companion whispering how romantic. The cameras shifted angles, capturing every subtle shift in Aaliyah’s expression.
“I never expected to find a love so powerful, so steadfast—but there she was,” Aaliyah continued, voice laced with sincerity that made Cruz’s stomach twist. “She is my home.” She paused just long enough for the statement to resonate, then gently squeezed Cruz’s hands, as if to seal the vow with a silent promise.
Cruz swallowed, forced her shoulders to remain steady, her face to reveal nothing. She knew it was an act—a brilliant, enthralling performance, but an act all the same. You’re good at this, she thought darkly. Damn good.
The officiant turned to Cruz, who braced herself. She could feel every muscle in her body tense. A wave of anxiety rippled through her chest, but she met Aaliyah’s gaze, inhaled a slow, shallow breath.
When she spoke, her voice felt off-kilter, caught between sincerity and compulsion: “Aaliyah is brilliant,” she began, the words rough on her tongue. “A force of nature.” She hesitated, searching for lines that could match the poetry Aaliyah had delivered. But her mind stayed stubbornly blank. “That’s why we work,” she finished, clumsy, blunt. Crisp, no-nonsense.
A soft chuckle arose from a corner of the crowd. Possibly a friend from her Marine days recognized that Cruz was not a speechmaker in the realm of love and devotion. But it was enough. She felt Aaliyah’s fingers tighten, whether out of comfort or warning, she wasn’t entirely sure.
Then came the final pronouncement. The officiant’s voice rose slightly, calling attention to the next moment. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you… Mrs. and Mrs. Manuelos.” Applause swelled around them, a wave of clapping hands and delighted murmurs. Cameras flashed rapidly, capturing the bridging of two worlds.
The applause thundered, yet Cruz heard none of it. She felt the sudden hush in her own mind, the elasticity of time stretching. This was it—the final step in their meticulously planned performance. A swirling medley of notes from the quartet accompanied the roars of the crowd, and all eyes zeroed in on them. The kiss. She’d practiced it in her head, told herself it would be a quick, inconsequential press of the lips, more symbolic than anything else.
But in that elongated second, Cruz froze. Her hands, still clasped with Aaliyah’s, hung limply at her sides, her jaw tightening until it almost ached. It felt wrong, more public than any battlefield. All the bright lights, the stirring music, the silent demands of the watchers pounded in her ears, urging her to do it, to seal the deal, to complete the theatrical finale.
Aaliyah, however, didn’t wait. She stepped forward, bridging the gap with smooth confidence. One hand rose to Cruz’s cheek, finding the line of her jaw with a delicate insistence. Her palm felt warm against Cruz’s skin, her thumb brushing just faintly, almost intimately. Cruz’s pulse surged, confusion flickering in her gut. Then their lips met.
If the crowd expected something quick and effortless, that’s exactly what they saw—except a fraction too long. Aaliyah lingered in that kiss, drawing it out just enough for the cameras to catch the tilt of her head, the subtle arch that turned the moment from obligatory to almost sensual. Cruz’s mind reeled: she caught the soft trace of Aaliyah’s perfume, a swirl of jasmine and some dark undertone that reminded her of midnight gardens. She felt the shift of Aaliyah’s breath, the subtle press of lips that should have been purely ceremonial.
A hush of astonishment rippled through the audience, quickly transforming into a roar of approval. In that single, held moment, the line between performance and reality flickered. Cruz’s heart hammered, the edges of her consciousness narrowing until she felt only that contact, that ephemeral warmth. Then, just as quickly, Aaliyah pulled back, hands sliding away with effortless grace, leaving Cruz standing there, blinking, chest tight.
The applause erupted. Whistles, cheers, cameras going off like fireworks. The crowd soared to its feet, some folks calling out their names, others wiping tears of romantic joy. Cruz gazed at Aaliyah, who offered a radiant, glowing smile to the masses—like a goddess of public relations. The corners of her eyes reflected triumph, or maybe just relief. She had sealed the act with a gesture so perfect the press would highlight it for days.
Cruz, for her part, felt unsettled. She’d practiced the script, endured the day’s ceremonies, expected to feel numb through the final step. Instead, a sliver of genuine shock rippled through her. She wasn’t sure if she despised or appreciated the fervor behind that carefully orchestrated kiss. That was too real, a voice in her head whispered, or at least it felt that way.
But the moment passed. The string quartet launched into a celebratory piece, and they turned to face the crowd, arms momentarily linked. Cameras pivoted to catch the newlyweds’ expressions, capturing an image that would be splashed across front pages by morning: two women, one in a Marine uniform, the other in a breathtaking gown, sharing the onset of wedded bliss beneath a sky streaked in pink and gold.
Bobby hovered on the periphery, relief evident in her posture. She’d been watching with tension etched into her brow, but now she applauded with the rest. Cruz spotted Tex and Two Cups in the third row, wearing wide grins, while Aaliyah’s father looked on with a quietly cold expression. No one missed that. Yet the general swirl of applause overwhelmed any single reaction.
Cruz felt Aaliyah slip her hand through her arm. They started their walk down the aisle together, past cheering guests, a confetti of flower petals drifting around them. Photographers captured every step, but Cruz’s focus remained on the hammered sense of dissonance in her chest. We did it, she told herself, a mechanical echo. We’re wives now. The final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place, forging a union that guaranteed campaign momentum for Cruz, and—perhaps—some intangible leverage for Aaliyah.
Halfway down the aisle, Aaliyah leaned in, voice a subdued whisper meant solely for Cruz. “You held yourself together,” she murmured, the faintest tinge of amusement lacing her words. “Congratulations.”
Cruz cleared her throat, eyes forward. “That was… something,” she managed, tone caught between dryness and genuine confusion. She refused to admit how the lingering impression of that kiss still clung to her lips like a phantom.
Aaliyah only smirked in response. Calculating to the last breath, Cruz thought again, but she caught a flicker of something else in Aaliyah’s expression—maybe a trace of vulnerability. Before Cruz could parse it, the crowd closed in with well-wishes and exultant cheers, sweeping them into the momentum of the reception.
They reached the end of the aisle, stepping off onto the lawn where rows of staffers guided guests toward a grand pavilion set for dinner and dancing. The sun had dipped low, painting the estate in shades of tangerine and violet. A cluster of microphones and cameras awaited near a small podium—some short address or photo-op was obviously scheduled next.
Flashes popped like miniature explosions in every corner, capturing the instant for front-page headlines: Manuelos and Amrohi Wed in Star-Studded Affair: A Political Powerhouse Emerges. The string quartet slipped into a triumphant melody. Cruz stepped back, letting Aaliyah’s hand slip from hers. Applause thundered across the hall, from ex-Marines who whooped and hollered, to donors politely clinking glasses, to Asmar offering a restrained smile. The final shot of the live broadcast would be them, newly pronounced spouses, flanked by the swirling spectacle of a meticulously orchestrated wedding.
Cruz swallowed, her mouth dry. She felt Aaliyah’s grip tighten slightly on her arm, an almost imperceptible squeeze that said, We did it. They turned to face the crowd, accepting the wave of attention that cascaded over them. For an instant, Cruz glimpsed the complicated gleam in Aaliyah’s eyes. It spoke of relief, victory, maybe a hint of sadness.
And so the dance began: a swirl of guests eager to extend congratulations, cameras chasing after every angle, the hum of celebration mixed with the sizzle of political tension. The rest of the day would be a parade of toasts and staged photos, each corner of the estate hosting different segments of the reception. We’re going to have to keep smiling, Cruz thought. Keep playing the role until the last reporter leaves.
Yet inside these luxurious walls, the world believed in the cold illusions of romance and destiny. Cruz forced a bright grin, leaning in to accept well-wishes from half a dozen donors in a row, while Aaliyah navigated her father’s circle with equal aplomb. The two of them locked eyes across the throng at one point, exchanging a glance that mingled triumph with exhaustion. We did it, it said. No going back.
For better or for worse—for the sake of the campaign, for the sake of both their futures—they’d said “I do.” And the entire world had watched.
Cruz felt Bobby intercept them, ushering them gently to the side. “Twenty minutes of wedding portraits, then we’ll move to the first dance,” Bobby murmured. She cast a quick, anxious glance at Cruz. “You okay?” she asked under her breath, concern etched across her features.
Cruz nodded stiffly. “Fine,” she lied, posture still rigid. She didn’t dare talk about the rattled swirl of her thoughts. The performance must continue.
Aaliyah turned to the waiting photographers, donning a gracious smile. She posed effortlessly, one arm loosely circling Cruz’s waist in the practiced manner of a woman who’d attended a hundred galas. Cruz let herself lean in for the shot, forging a passable softness in her expression. The camera shutters clicked, capturing a tableau of perfect wedded bliss under a drifting sky.
No one in that moment, not even the most invasive reporter, would guess the tumult behind Cruz’s eyes or the complicated swirl behind Aaliyah’s polished façade. All they’d see was a love story. A triumph of progressive values, a bridging of backgrounds, a union bound for political stardom.
And for now, that was enough. As the final round of camera shutters faded, and the staff directed them toward the next phase of the celebration, Cruz inhaled a shaky breath. We made it, she thought, half disbelieving. But at what cost?
With Aaliyah’s hand resting lightly against her side, they progressed to the banquet hall, stepping into a roar of applause that seemed to come from every direction. Evening light streamed in through tall windows, and guests were already swirling with cocktails, laughter, and speculation. The world might never realize just how orchestrated it all was, how every vow, every flourish of romance, had been planned like a mission.
But Cruz realized, with a pang, that she might never fully forget the fleeting jolt of warmth in that overly rehearsed, thoroughly staged kiss—a jolt that had nearly felt real. And as she marched deeper into this new life, one she’d sworn to maintain for the sake of her campaign, that single, paradoxical sensation might haunt her more than any battlefield memory ever had.
The reception hall gleamed under the glow of a cascade of chandeliers, each fixture dripping with delicate crystals that refracted light into dancing gold shards across the polished marble floors. From above, one would see a vast, open space dressed in elegance, with rows of round tables neatly arranged around a central dance floor. White tablecloths fell in perfect folds, anchored by centerpieces of fresh white roses twined with greenery. At each seat, gold-rimmed glassware caught the reflections of the chandeliers, while monogrammed napkins provided a tasteful nod to the newly joined names: Manuelos and Amrohi.
Outside, the Texas evening had given way to a deep twilight, but inside, the atmosphere was anything but serene. Music from a live string quartet drifted through the air, weaving soft, classical strains with the buzz of conversation and occasional bursts of laughter from the assembled guests. Serving staff dressed in discreet black attire navigated between tables, topping off glasses of champagne and offering delicate hors d’oeuvres. The event had been meticulously orchestrated, a pageant to celebrate what the world believed to be a modern-day fairytale marriage.
Yet for Cruz, that shimmering ambiance felt more like a cage.
She lingered at one edge of the expansive room, half shadowed by the alabaster column behind her. Her uniform was the same Marine Blue Dress she had donned for the ceremony, medals polished, collar starched, each button gleaming. She looked the part of an honored guest rather than a bride, but the rigid lines of her spine suggested her discomfort ran deep. A tumbler of whiskey rested in her palm, ice clinking softly whenever she lifted it for a sip.
It was her safety net tonight—something to hold on to, to anchor her in the swirl of lace, perfume, and quiet political dealings. If she had to stand there—if she had to endure the forced smiles and endless stares—at least she could do so with a measure of whiskey burning through her veins.
“This is a goddamn circus,” Cruz muttered under her breath, knowing her comment would vanish beneath the room’s hum.
Right beside her, like a painted portrait of poised composure, stood Aaliyah. She wore a second, more practical dress for the reception—still luxurious, of course, a gown of creamy satin that skimmed her figure with effortless grace. She had changed out of the heavy layers of her wedding attire, but the refined shape, the subtle sparkle at the neckline, and the immaculate fit still declared her status among the wealthy and well-connected. Her posture was straight, her chin lifted, and her lips curved in that polite, nearly photographic smile that never seemed to falter in public.
She made a low, dismissive sound at Cruz’s complaint. “It’s a symphony,” she corrected, swirling her glass of champagne. The bubbles caught the chandelier light, producing a miniature, mesmerizing swirl of reflected gold. “Try not to ruin the music.” Her tone held a faint note of amusement, the sort that suggested she found the entire affair under perfect control.
Cruz sniffed, huffing a short laugh that contained no real humor. “Of course you see it as orchestrated. To me, it’s chaos.” Her gaze flicked across the room, taking in the swirl of donors deep in conversation, the ex-military guests wearing suits that made them fidget, the occasional camera crew capturing candid glimpses of the newlywed couple.
The difference in their perspectives might as well have been etched in stone. Where Aaliyah recognized patterns and opportunities—a masterpiece of political cooperation—Cruz only saw a hostage situation. She took another sip of whiskey, savoring the slow burn. At least the liquor’s top-shelf, she conceded.
Suddenly, a figure waved from near the dance floor: Bobby, partially obscured by a tall floral arrangement of ivory roses. With the lights reflecting off her short hair, Bobby’s expression was unreadable from the distance, but Cruz caught the slight jerk of her chin. She didn’t need to guess the meaning: Time to face the next stage of the performance.
Aaliyah turned her head, following Cruz’s line of sight. She placed her champagne flute on a passing server’s tray with the easy precision of someone who had attended a thousand galas. Then she looked at Cruz, a glint of mischief sharpening her eyes. “Ready, dear wife?” she murmured, voice pitched low so only Cruz could hear.
Cruz’s stomach turned at the address. Wife. It felt alien on her tongue, even after all the planning, the vow exchange, and the ring that weighed on her finger. She forced her shoulders back, ignoring the twinge in her spine. “Let’s get it over with,” she muttered.
Aaliyah smiled sweetly, her expression impeccable for the press. “Try not to look like you’re preparing for a root canal, darling,” she teased, voice feathered with false endearment. Cruz set her jaw but obliged as Aaliyah took her hand and guided her across the reception hall’s marble expanse.
They passed tables where important guests hovered, eyes bright with curiosity or, in some cases, envy. Some offered toasts with glinting champagne flutes, others gave discreet nods. Cameras flashed with a gentle click near the corners, capturing each step they took. The hush that fell as they approached the center was a testament to how many people wanted an unobstructed view. Of course, Cruz told herself. The grand first dance. The highlight reel for tomorrow’s press coverage.
The dance floor was cleared, an open patch of gleaming marble where they were expected to swirl, all eyes transfixed. On a dais to the side, the string quartet’s tune shifted from bright chatter to a slow, romantic melody. Bowstrings drew out elongated notes, weaving a tapestry of gentle waltz.
Cruz drew in a breath, letting Aaliyah position her arms. For a second, neither moved. Her posture felt unnatural, as though each limb belonged to another person. She could sense the cameras zeroing in on them. A swirl of perfume teased her nose—Aaliyah’s signature fragrance, some layered exotic essence that felt far too refined for this moment.
Aaliyah’s breath brushed Cruz’s ear, a playful note in her whisper. “Try not to look like you’d rather be chewing glass,” she murmured.
Cruz exhaled. “I make no promises.” And then she moved, stepping into the measure of the waltz, her movements rigid at first, uncertain. She’d danced a few times in her life, sure, but never under such scrutiny—never with a woman she barely tolerated in a lavish wedding gown.
They swayed, drifting across the dance floor in slow arcs. To the cameras, they might have looked dreamlike, the perfect newlywed couple gliding through their first dance. But Cruz felt every ounce of tension like a coiled spring in her shoulders. She knew Aaliyah felt it too; the press of her palm against Cruz’s uniform was gentle but coaxing, as if urging her to relax.
“You’re terrible at this,” Aaliyah said softly, her voice low enough not to carry beyond them.
Cruz’s lips curved into the ghost of a smirk. “And you’re a control freak. That makes two of us.” A slight tilt of her head allowed her to catch Aaliyah’s gaze. She spotted the flicker of amusement there, or perhaps it was just the overhead lights dancing in her eyes.
They continued to orbit each other, letting the music guide their steps. If one looked close, they’d see the mechanical nature of it: each shift precisely measured, each pivot almost robotic. But from a distance, awash in the warm glow of chandeliers, it appeared fluid, romantic. The small crowd that encircled the dance floor wore matching expressions of admiration, filming on phones or snapping photos. They don’t know it’s all an act, Cruz reminded herself.
Somewhere near the back, Cruz glimpsed a handful of her old squadmates. Tex, still grimacing in the confines of his too-tight suit, gave her a thumbs-up. Tucker nodded, a grin tugging at his mouth as if to say You got this, boss. The sight offered a momentary flash of comfort, a reminder that not everyone here was part of the polished political machinery.
The music tapered off, replaced by a surge of applause. Aaliyah gently let her hand slip from Cruz’s, turning to bow her head modestly, acknowledging the cheers. Cruz offered a polite nod, ignoring the dryness in her throat. They retreated to the side, stepping into the shadow of a table draped in glimmering cloth, where Bobby quickly rushed up.
“Great job, you two,” she whispered, breathless as if she’d been the one dancing. “Photos look amazing. Keep it up.”
Cruz only huffed, reaching for a glass of water from a passing tray. This is only the beginning, she thought, scanning the schedule that had been hammered into her head: cutting the cake, the bouquet toss, the speeches—an entire itinerary designed to feed the cameras and enthrall the public.
--
The wedding cake stood at the far side of the hall, an opulent five-tier structure that resembled a towering sculpture rather than a dessert. Each layer was adorned with pristine white fondant, traced with delicate gold leaf patterns, and topped with fresh flowers matching the day’s color scheme. It gleamed under its own dedicated spotlight, a showpiece for the newlyweds to slice together in front of the enthralled crowd.
Cruz approached the table with Aaliyah at her side. God, how big is this thing? she wondered, eyeing the swirling detail and intricate sugar-work. A wave of mild confusion washed over her at the notion of feeding cake to her new wife in front of hundreds of guests.
She leaned in slightly, voice hushed so that only Aaliyah could hear. “I don’t get why we have to feed each other,” she grumbled, eyes flicking to the cameras that had clustered for a prime shot.
Aaliyah arched a brow, lifting the ornate silver cake knife from its display. “Because it’s expected,” she replied, her tone unwavering. “Smile.” She aimed the word at Cruz like a command, turning back to face the room, positioning the knife against the lowest tier. A swirl of server staff hovered behind them, ready to whisk away slices of cake for VIP guests.
Cruz forced a tight-lipped grin, the kind that barely curved her mouth. The crowd hushed in anticipation as she took up a matching fork. The cameras zoomed in. She heard the faint voice of a reporter narrating: And now, the couple will perform the ceremonial feeding…
Inside, Cruz’s nerves flared. Let’s get this over with. She slid the fork under a small wedge of cake that Aaliyah had just cut and turned back to face her. The delicate pastry reeked of richness, a swirl of buttercream and probable insanity in each slice.
Aaliyah waited, lips parted in a poised half-smile, apparently trusting that Cruz would place a small, neat bite in her mouth. Instead, feeling a burst of mischievous tension, Cruz drew the fork up swiftly, pushing the entire wedge of cake forward. Aaliyah’s eyes widened in the millisecond before the morsel landed in her mouth with a surprisingly forceful push.
Her shoulders jolted, hands gripping the edge of the table as she tried not to sputter. Cameras flashed in a white-hot barrage, capturing the moment of comedic shock. Soft gasps and contained laughter bubbled from the audience, some charmed, others murmuring about how “playful” the new couple was.
Cruz leaned back, fork in hand, feigning innocence. The corners of her lips twitched with the threat of a smirk. That’s payback for the first dance, she thought.
Aaliyah composed herself instantly—eyes narrowing, though her public smile stayed pinned. She dabbed at her lips with a linen napkin, clearing away the stray bit of frosting. “You’re lucky there are cameras,” she whispered, voice deceptively calm.
Cruz shrugged, setting the fork down. “You’re the one who demanded we do this.” Then, more softly, “I think we both know it’s all for show.”
A polite round of applause and mild laughter swelled from the guests, many missing the tension crackling beneath the veneer of this comedic moment. The newlywed pair turned to wave, Aaliyah giving a nod to the staff. Immediately, attendants stepped in to slice the rest of the cake and offer it to the visitors, deflecting further curiosity about the little spat.
--
Not half an hour later, Aaliyah took the floor again, this time to the center of the hall. The hush that followed was immediate, as the bride in her shimmering gown commanded the attention of all. Her bouquet—a smaller, more refined version of the extravagant one from the ceremony—was clasped lightly in her hands. She paused, scanning the crowd with a gracious smile, watchers leaning forward in anticipation of the age-old tradition: the bouquet toss.
Cruz hovered near the edge, hands shoved in her pockets, a faint scowl creeping onto her face. She turned when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye—Bobby, sidling up beside her. The campaign manager’s arms were folded, eyebrows raised in silent commentary on the evening’s series of forced traditions.
Cruz inclined her head toward the spectacle. “So, what exactly is the point of this? Something about the superstition that whoever catches the bouquet is next to get married?”
Bobby sighed, her entire posture telegraphing weariness. “Yes, in a nutshell. One more archaic ritual in this laundry list of wedding nonsense.”
Cruz barked a short laugh. “Least we’re consistent with the archaic nonsense, right?”
Before Bobby could respond, Aaliyah took a slow, dramatic breath and spun around, carefully angling her throw to sail over her shoulder. A small gathering of women behind her squealed and lunged, arms flailing, as the ring of onlookers parted to watch the comedic scramble for the bouquet.
It soared in a brief arc of white petals and satin ribbons. Then, as though guided by comedic fate, it landed neatly in Bobby’s outstretched hands. The hush that followed was so abrupt that even the string quartet hesitated. Bobby stared at the bouquet, her face a mask of horror.
A beat of stunned silence.
Then Bobby shoved the bouquet at the nearest staffer, stepping briskly away from the fray. “No,” she announced, her voice carrying a thread of panic that made Cruz stifle a laugh. “Absolutely not. I’m done.” With that, the beleaguered campaign manager marched straight toward the open bar, presumably to drown her night in something stronger than water.
Cruz let out a loud guffaw, ignoring the stares of a few passing socialites. “Guess we won’t see Bobby tying the knot soon,” she remarked with a wry grin. The tension in her shoulders eased for a moment—another fleeting reprieve from the wedding charade that demanded her constant vigilance.
Over near the bar, Bobby flagged a bartender for a double shot of something likely expensive, the irony of the moment lost on no one who witnessed it. The well-intentioned staffer who now held the bouquet glanced around sheepishly, then set it on a table as if it were radioactive. Laughs trickled through the crowd, and the short comedic episode melted into the general hum of conversation. The press snapped a few final pictures, hoping to glean a comedic angle for their coverage. The newlyweds, it seemed, presided over a wedding that was not only glamorous but filled with slightly unorthodox humor—just enough to keep the cameras enthralled.
Cruz shook her head, releasing a half-smile. She could feel Aaliyah’s gaze flick her direction. When she glanced across the room, she locked eyes with her new spouse. Aaliyah’s lips curved in an almost sardonic grin, as if to say We’re getting through this, one tradition at a time. Cruz gave a subtle nod, acknowledging that despite every tense moment, every forced display, they were still here, fooling the world for the sake of a political gamble.
Tomorrow, the headlines would sing praises of a “magical night” and a “fairytale wedding,” cameras capturing only the glitz and romance. None would detail the silent barbs, the forced gestures, or the sense of entrapment that shadowed both parties. But that was the nature of illusions—if the audience wants to believe, it’s easy enough to sell them the show.
And so, beneath the golden chandeliers and the swirl of expensive perfume, the wedding reception pressed on, a masterfully choreographed production. Cruz, draining the last of her whiskey, decided it might be easier to just keep playing her part. Aaliyah, returning from a quick pose in front of a camera crew, resumed her polished stance at Cruz’s side, greeting a new wave of guests with a gracious tilt of her head. The cameras continued to roll, capturing every glimmer, every laugh, every perfect detail, while the newlyweds navigated the fine line between genuine moments and stage directions.
For this single evening, the illusions would hold. And come morning, the world would be left with their own version of events—a love story spun from a thousand practiced smiles and carefully placed camera angles, culminating in a day that glowed with orchestration as much as it did with celebration.