July 16th
Sunrise spilled through the suite’s towering windows, streaking the space in gold and revealing the austere opulence that Cruz had chosen to ignore for most of the night. She stirred at the far side of the room, propped awkwardly on a couch that seemed designed more for display than for rest. The silky cushions offered little comfort, and every joint in her body clamored in protest as she gingerly sat up.
The makeshift blanket of her dress blues coat slid off her shoulders, pooling in a wrinkled heap against the tufted armrest. Beneath the morning rays, Cruz squinted, catching sight of the gold band still circling her finger. Her lips thinned, an exasperated sigh escaping her throat. Still real, still married, she thought bitterly, rolling the ring back and forth, half-hoping it might vanish if she kept moving it.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling the weight of yesterday’s spectacle—a day that had begun with a flurry of forced smiles and ended with vows she’d never truly imagined reciting. A dull ache nestled between her shoulder blades, courtesy of the couch’s unforgiving design. Bracing herself on her elbows, she cast a reluctant glance toward the heart-shaped bed. It lay empty, a patchwork of rumpled sheets and rose petals leftover from the wedding night illusions.
Then she saw her—Aaliyah, standing on the private balcony. Her silhouette took shape through the tinted glass door, etched against the Austin skyline that glowed like molten brass in the early sun. Aaliyah wore a pale silk robe draped loosely around her frame, hair pinned up in a neat twist, and in one graceful hand, she held a porcelain coffee cup. She appeared every bit the regal bride—composed, indifferent, surveying the city as if it were her domain.
Her posture made Cruz’s teeth clench. She shook out her limbs, trying to banish the stiffness in her back and shoulders, and rose to her feet. Might as well face the day, she told herself. Her bare toes sank into the lush carpet, a harsh reminder that this entire suite was designed to coddle newlyweds. She snorted at the thought, adjusting her rumpled uniform shirt. Newlyweds, she echoed in her mind. It tasted like a foreign word on her tongue.
Cruz cleared her throat softly but didn’t speak. Perhaps it was her form of protest—this silent refusal to engage in more scripted dialogue. Aaliyah, on the balcony, spared a single glance over her shoulder, just enough to confirm Cruz was awake. The minimal shift in her stance carried a message: I see you, it said, but I have nothing to say. The morning hush expanded, tension pulsing in each quiet second.
A moment later, the door to the suite swung open without warning. Bobby burst in, a whirlwind of pent-up frustration clad in a tailored polo and slacks, phone in one hand, an overstuffed folder in the other. She slammed the door behind her with more force than necessary, turning to look first at Cruz, then at the half-empty bed.
“You two have a national morning interview in an hour,” she declared, scanning the room with the authority of a commanding officer. “Up. Dressed. Now.” Bobby’s voice carried the exhaustion of someone who’d been up since before dawn, juggling press calls, scheduling mishaps, and the infinite demands of a new power couple.
Cruz grimaced, pressing a hand to the back of her neck. “Christ,” she muttered. “Can I at least get coffee first?”
From the balcony, Aaliyah took a final sip of hers and turned gracefully. “I already had mine,” she said softly, her words drifting on the edges of a sigh. The glint in her eyes suggested she found Cruz’s plight mildly amusing.
Cruz bit back a retort. This marriage is going to kill me, she thought, heading for the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. She felt the band on her finger grind slightly against her palm, a silent reminder that her ring—and her situation—weren’t going anywhere.
Forty-five minutes later, in a temporary dressing room set up by the hotel staff, Cruz found herself slumped in a makeup chair. She was flanked by a mirrored vanity lined with cosmetics and hair products she didn’t recognize. Two uniformed campaign staffers hovered in the background, triple-checking details for the upcoming interview. A makeup artist fussed around Cruz’s cheeks, lightly dusting them with a neutral palette that apparently looked best under the bright lights of daytime television.
Bobby paced back and forth, phone in hand, reading messages, occasionally snapping instructions to any staffer within earshot. “You two are making your first appearance as a married couple,” she reiterated for what felt like the twentieth time that morning. “It’s prime coverage. We need you both to come off as comfortable, loving, and unified. Sell it.”
Cruz bristled at the phrase. She’d grown to hate those two words, sell it. She forced her gaze to the mirror, catching the reflection of her own frown. The dissonance between her normal state and the carefully sculpted face looking back was jarring. “This is stupid,” she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest, though the movement only made the makeup artist tut in frustration.
Behind them, leaning against the dressing room’s door, Randy stood with a bemused grin lighting up his face. He wore a crisp suit that he’d evidently thrown on with less fuss than Cruz had endured. “Jesus, Manuelos,” he drawled, amused, “you look like you just got shot.”
Cruz turned a dead stare on him. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Randy’s smirk was both sympathetic and unsympathetic all at once. “Right. Let’s keep that out of the interview, yeah?” He cast a side glance at the makeup artist, who had paused with brush poised in midair, uncertain how to proceed with this banter.
Cruz’s lips curved into the faintest of wry smiles. “I hate you.”
Randy patted her shoulder with mock comfort. “I love you too. Now do me a favor—show some teeth when the camera starts rolling. Last thing we need is you scowling your way through a happy newlywed interview.”
The makeup artist resumed her delicate work, tapping some finishing powder along Cruz’s jawline. A pang of guilt threaded through Cruz’s frustration. She knew these people were on her side, working to keep the campaign afloat, but it didn’t dampen her sense of being an actor in a play she never auditioned for.
She tilted her head slightly as the artist reached for a small tube of lip color. “For definition,” the woman murmured, voice gentle but insistent. Cruz suppressed another groan.
Meanwhile, across the small space, Aaliyah radiated composure as usual. She sat in a separate chair, adjusting a slim diamond bracelet and assessing her reflection with methodical calm. Not a single hair looked out of place, and her face already wore that practiced serenity that television lights wouldn’t dare to wash out. She checked the angle of her ring, rotating it fractionally so the diamond cluster caught the overhead glow. Cruz watched the silent ritual with a grudging awe. She’s good at this, she admitted to herself.
Finally, Bobby exhaled, checking the time on her phone. “Alright,” she announced. “Interview in fifteen. We’ll do a quick run-through of topics: the wedding, your policy collaboration, your philanthropic collaborations—whatever spins well. Aaliyah, keep being perfect.” She offered a tired half-smile in the bride’s direction, then turned to Cruz with a near plea in her eyes. “Cruz, try not to look like you’re being held hostage.”
Cruz snorted, crossing her arms. “But I am being held hostage.”
The small coterie of staffers dared a few nervous chuckles, though tension fluttered behind their eyes. They all knew the score—this entire interview hinged on presenting a coherent, convincing narrative of deep affection. Another rung on the ladder to securing crucial donors and swaying the public. Cruz forced herself to nod once in acknowledgement, as if to say I’ll give it my best shot.
At last, the campaign staff led them out into the hallway, where a makeshift set awaited. Cameras had been wheeled into a lounge area with a pristine cream sofa for them to sit on. Large studio lights glared overhead, reflecting off the polished tile floor. Each step Cruz took felt heavier than the last, her ankles itching to turn around and walk right back to the anonymity of a typical day in the Senate office.
Aaliyah’s hand slipped around Cruz’s arm, the gesture seemingly affectionate. But beneath that gentle contact was a silent directive: Work with me. We have a job to do. Their eyes met, and Cruz glimpsed a flicker of steel in Aaliyah’s gaze—a challenge but also a kind of unwavering commitment.
Swallowing her discontent, Cruz set her jaw and offered a faint smile to the reporter waiting with a microphone in hand. The morning lights burned overhead, making her squint. Cameras trained on them, capturing every nuance of posture, every breath, each shift of eye contact. She heard the hiss of a producer counting down.
Randy hovered off to the side, arms folded, lips pursed in silent encouragement. Bobby stood near him, phone in a death grip, ready to tackle any last-minute fiasco. The stage was set for the next act of the show. Cruz steeled herself, leaning ever so slightly toward Aaliyah in a move that the cameras would interpret as affection, inwardly wondering how she’d ever manage to find enough bright and shining words for an interview about a marriage that, to her, might as well be a prison sentence.
As the red recording light blinked on, she heard the reporter greet them with a beaming smile. The interview had begun. And somewhere deep in her chest, Cruz felt a jolt of resigned acceptance. You wanted to save your campaign, she reminded herself. This is the price.
She plastered on a polite smile, the one that never reached her eyes. And next to her, Aaliyah performed her own brand of effortless charm, the diamond on her ring finger flashing for the cameras. Across the room, Randy gave her a subtle thumbs-up, while Bobby tapped her phone with nervous energy.
Cruz forced herself to meet the reporter’s gaze, voice calm and steady despite the storm inside. Yes, everything is wonderful, she’d say. Yes, we’re so in love. The script was well-rehearsed. And no matter the cost, she’d deliver her lines.
Everything had been carefully chosen to evoke a sense of polished, modern romance. Here, in the heart of this artificially constructed environment, Cruz and Aaliyah Manuelos sat side by side, newly wed, newly televised, and decidedly exhausted.
Cameras stationed in a half-circle looked on like silent spectators, capturing every shift of posture, every flicker of expression. The cameraman hovered off to one side, counting down to the on-air segment, while make-up artists made last-second touches to hair and foundation.
Cruz sat stiffly in a simple yet stylish couch, posture demonstrating military discipline and exuding a subtle undercurrent of discomfort. She wore a tailored blazer, crisp shirt, and dark jeans—an outfit that tried to juggle the line between approachable candidate and authoritative senator. She had tried to argue for something simpler, but Bobby had insisted on the formal jacket, wanting her to project confidence alongside her new wife.
Her new wife—Aaliyah—seemed sculpted from an entirely different mold. She occupied her seat with effortless grace, delicate white dress hugging her figure, hair in gentle waves that spilled over her shoulders. Lights glinted off a few understated pieces of jewelry at her ears and throat, accenting the soft radiance of her skin. Most striking, however, was the gold ring on her finger.
They were seated close enough that the cameras would show their proximity, letting the watchers at home see the faint suggestion of shared affection. The shape of the morning-show set created a pleasant, informal environment, complete with a small coffee table, and a vase of vivid blossoms. It was a place designed to put guests at ease. For Cruz, it felt more like a spotlight scorching every edge of her façade.
In front of them, perched on another sleek chair, was the host—a woman in a fitted blue blazer, her short hair framing her face in neat, bouncy curls. She radiated an easy warmth, the kind that made morning viewers think of friendly neighbors and shared breakfasts. She clasped her hands and leaned forward just enough to exude sincerity. As soon as the stage manager signaled, she turned to the cameras with a beaming smile.
“Welcome back, everyone!” she began, voice filled with congenial pep. “As promised, we have some very special guests this morning: Senator Cruz Manuelos and her new wife, Aaliyah Manuelos.” She pronounced Aaliyah’s new name with careful clarity. “Thank you both for being here, and first of all—congratulations on your wedding!”
Cruz felt a prickle of self-consciousness, but she forced herself to produce a polite nod and a slight smile. Aaliyah, on the other hand, returned the host’s greeting with a ready, gracious smile that looked as genuine as dawn. She leaned in, every bit the composed socialite, lips curving in just the right shape to evoke friendly sincerity.
“Thank you,” Aaliyah said, turning momentarily to share that smile with Cruz, letting the cameras capture a moment of supposed marital warmth. “It’s been quite a whirlwind, but a beautiful one. We appreciate you having us here.”
Cruz shifted, acknowledging with a curt nod. “Yeah,” she added, the word feeling clumsy on her tongue. “It’s been… eventful.” She forced herself not to grimace at how lame that sounded.
The host’s laugh was mild and pleasant as she refocused on them both. “From what I saw, the ceremony was breathtaking. And that kiss! You two are absolutely electric together.”
At the mention of the kiss, Cruz’s stomach fluttered. She pictured how Aaliyah’s hand had cupped her jaw, how she’d momentarily forgotten that everything was staged. But only momentarily. She felt heat creep up her neck.
She sensed Aaliyah glance sideways, possibly reading that flicker of hesitation in Cruz’s eyes. Adapting with characteristic smoothness, Aaliyah reached for Cruz’s hand, fingers lacing with hers. To the cameras, it would appear the unspoken language of a loving spouse. To Cruz, it was the press of nails against her palm—gentle, but firm, a reminder to keep her mask in place.
“Cruz has always been the strong, silent type,” Aaliyah explained, her voice soft yet imbued with a gentle pride that made the host’s face light up. “But she has her ways of showing affection.”
Cruz heard the host’s delighted chuckle, saw the cameras shift in to capture a close-up of the couple’s entwined fingers. She swallowed and forced a wry smile. “Right. Aaliyah brings that side out of me.”
Aaliyah’s nails pressed just a fraction harder against Cruz’s palm in silent warning. Cruz fought the urge to yank her hand free. Her entire being bristled at the absurdity of it, yet she couldn’t deny that it worked. The cameras panned around them, and from the vantage of any viewer at home, they must have looked like a content, slightly bantering pair of newlyweds.
The host, evidently picking up on the comedic dynamic, smiled broadly. “So tell us, how is married life treating you both? Has anything changed since the wedding, or is it just a continuation of the bond you already had?”
Cruz sensed an opening—this was a carefully teed-up question about their personal life, designed to show the human side of a politician. If only she had a real love story to reference. But she didn’t. Her mind blanked, and for an instant, she considered telling the truth—we’re not in love, we barely know each other, we did it for the campaign. Instead, she felt Aaliyah’s subtle shift next to her, as if offering a cue.
“Well,” Aaliyah began, voice infused with a self-deprecating laugh, “the biggest change is that people keep expecting us to be honeymooning in some tropical paradise right now. Unfortunately, the campaign schedule didn’t get the memo.”
Cruz mustered a low chuckle of her own. “Yeah, no time for beaches when there’s a state to run.”
“So no immediate plans for a getaway, then?” the host teased, leaning forward conspiratorially.
Aaliyah shook her head in an eloquent motion. “Someday, hopefully soon. For now, we’re focused on the campaign and the issues Texans are facing.”
Something about how Aaliyah delivered that line struck Cruz as brilliantly rehearsed—like a student repeating a perfect monologue. Still, the host and the cameras devoured the performance.
The interview ambled through a series of soft, personal questions: How did you propose? Who said “I love you” first?—the typical, fluff-laced inquiries that morning audiences adored. Cruz found herself following Aaliyah’s lead, adding a dry comment here, a half-laugh there, letting Aaliyah shape the story with romantic illusions that sounded plausible to the outside world. Meanwhile, Cruz simmered beneath every sweet anecdote, chafing at the knowledge that each word was a lie. Her ring felt heavier with each passing minute.
The host then pivoted, brightening even further. “Alright, Senator Manuelos, your campaign has seen a massive boost since your engagement. In fact, some are calling you the rising star of progressive politics. How does that feel?”
Finally—a question she could tackle without the suffocating veneer of affection. Cruz sat a bit straighter, shoulders no longer quite so rigid. “We’ve worked hard to build a campaign that actually represents working-class Texans,” she replied, voice finding its authentic edge. “We’re not about politics as usual. We want real change—healthcare, education, living wages. Things people have needed for decades.”
Aaliyah stayed silent, letting Cruz have her moment, but the corners of her eyes remained watchful.
The host nodded with genuine warmth. “That’s amazing. Of course, your marriage has garnered a lot of attention too—some see it as a sign of stability, a demonstration of your openness to all communities. But, others have questioned the integrity of your platform, given your new ties to one of Texas’ wealthiest families. Any thoughts on that contradiction?”
There it was—the pointed question. Cruz felt her stomach clench. She opened her mouth, words jamming in her throat. How can I claim to despise corporate influence when I just married into an oil fortune? She had no clean answer. She froze for a beat, half a second that broadcast her anxiety to anyone perceptive enough to notice.
But Aaliyah, deft as ever, stepped in. “It’s funny,” she remarked, a touch of wry humor lacing her voice. “People often bring up my father’s name when discussing our marriage. But Cruz didn’t marry my father—she married me.” She turned to Cruz with a small, affectionate smile that might just have been real. “I believe in her platform, which is precisely why I stand beside her.”
The host’s eyes widened, impressed. “So, you two share the same vision?”
Cruz found her voice again. “Exactly. Our marriage doesn’t change my stance on corporate influence or how I want to see Texas grow. We’re still focusing on the same issues I’ve always fought for.”
The host nodded. “Well said, both of you.” She glanced down at her notes, shifting to a more neutral expression. “Alright, before we wrap—people want to know. As newlyweds, what’s one surprising thing you’ve learned about each other since the wedding?”
Cruz blinked, some of her tension easing as she realized this question was a lighter endcap. She cast a quick glance at Aaliyah, letting her mouth twist into a faint smirk. “She owns way too many shoes.”
A sweet giggle rippled from the host, while Aaliyah feigned an indignant gasp, placing a graceful hand to her chest. “Excuse me, but someone has to maintain our sense of style.” She cast Cruz a playful, sidelong glance. “Meanwhile, she drinks the worst coffee imaginable—black, scorching hot, no sugar, no cream. Like it’s a point of pride.”
The host laughed, her eyes flicking between them as the camera zoomed in for close-ups of their interplay. “That’s adorable! Quite the dynamic you two have.”
Cruz mustered a small, genuine-sounding chuckle. In that second, her gaze caught Aaliyah’s, and for an instant—just a fraction of a heartbeat—she sensed something shift in those dark eyes. A flicker of real amusement? Concern? Something that wasn’t just stage presence. Cruz inhaled quietly, her chest tightening with a stab of confusion. Could it be real?
But the moment slipped away as quickly as it arrived. The host gestured, turning to face the main camera. “Well, Senator Manuelos and Mrs. Manuelos, thank you for joining us this morning. Best of luck on the campaign, and we’ll be watching closely. It’s been a pleasure having you two.”
They both responded with practiced smiles, Aaliyah’s quick and graceful, Cruz’s still a bit stiff. The cameras continued rolling until the producer signaled the segment’s end. The lights dimmed just a touch, an invisible release of tension.
Only then did Cruz feel the sudden quiver in her arms, a leftover adrenaline rush from the on-air façade. A hush descended as the host thanked them off-camera, and studio techs began dismantling the set. The swirl of staffers parted around them, giving them space to stand from their chairs.
Aaliyah withdrew her hand from Cruz’s, sliding it into the pocket of her dress. She turned to greet the host with a parting word, that effortless courtesy drifting from her lips like second nature. Cruz exhaled, half-listening, half-lost in her own storm of conflicting emotions. How can she do this so smoothly?
Bobby emerged from behind a tangle of cords, phone in hand, satisfaction plain on her face. “Well done, both of you,” she said briskly, not quite letting the tension out of her shoulders. “This should play great on the morning news cycle.” She flagged down a waiting assistant. “Let’s get a copy of the segment for social media highlights. A few choice clips, minimal editing. Emphasize the lovey dynamic between Cruz and Aaliyah. People will eat it up.”
Cruz stuffed her hands into her blazer pockets, feeling unclean. “Eat it up,” she echoed under her breath, the words tasting bitter. When do I get to be real? she wondered.
At her side, Randy approached, fiddling with his own tie. “Nice job, you two,” he said, voice pitched low enough not to carry beyond them. “Could almost believe you’re actually into each other.” He shot Cruz a wry grin.
Cruz scowled, but there was a flicker of dryness to it. “Beat it, Calloway.”
Randy raised his palms in a mock gesture of surrender, stepping aside. “Just saying—sometimes illusions work wonders. Keep it going.”
Aaliyah stepped closer, crossing the studio floor with the smooth gait of someone who belonged in a place of bright lights and polished floors. The overhead illumination caught highlights in her hair and glinted against that ring on her finger. “Ready to head out?” she asked, posture all refined calm. “Or do you want to endure more small talk?”
Cruz nearly groaned. She imagined the typical post-show routine—reporters might hover, staffers might call for a quick behind-the-scenes photo, some donors or local watchers might appear. The entire ordeal felt like quicksand dragging her deeper. “No,” she said, the word heavy. “I’m done for the day.”
Aaliyah gave a nod, comprehending the exhaustion behind Cruz’s voice. Their eyes met, just long enough for another flicker of that unspoken understanding: We’re stuck in this together.
As they followed Bobby and Randy toward the exit, the swirl of producers and camera operators parted, offering polite nods and scattered “congratulations.” Cruz managed curt acknowledgments, Aaliyah giving graceful waves. She held her posture upright, but inside, the day felt as if it had gone on forever—even though it was still morning. Married life, she thought ironically, a giant PR campaign.
They stepped into the hallway, bright overhead lights replaced by more subdued corridor fluorescents. Outside, the cacophony of city traffic wove through the building’s tinted windows. For a moment, Cruz couldn’t decide which pressure was worse: the gaze of the cameras or the knowledge that, once they left this building, they’d again be subject to a waiting press cluster, hungry for more glimpses of the newlyweds. The ring weighed on her finger like a question she couldn’t answer.
“Car’s ready out front,” Bobby said, scanning her phone. “We’ll do a quick statement for local press outside, then you can head back to the campaign headquarters or wherever else you want to vanish. The honeymoon suite is already checked out—publicly. We made sure the staff got the right story out there.”
Cruz gave a noncommittal grunt. Aaliyah smiled politely at Bobby. “Sounds perfect. Lead the way.”
So the day’s illusions would continue, each step choreographed by the campaign’s tireless planning. They would slip into the waiting black SUV, wave politely from behind tinted windows, and let the headlines read Newlywed Power Couple Sits for First Post-Wedding Interview. Everyone would see a romance that soared above politics, forging new ground for Texas and for the families that married it. Just enough truth to make a convincing lie, Cruz reflected, a hollow ache forming in her chest.
At last, they emerged out into the parking lot, the Texas sunlight blazing far brighter than the studio lighting, momentarily blinding them. A swirl of local reporters crowded near, kept at bay by stanchions and campaign staff. Cameras panned their direction, capturing them stepping outside together. The murmuring crowd parted, and they paused, giving the obligatory wave. Cruz wore a half-smile that felt unnatural, but it was overshadowed by Aaliyah’s radiant composure.
In that breath of a moment, Cruz heard the cameras shuttering, the hum of onlookers straining to see, the distant horns of downtown Austin. Another day, another performance. She flexed her fingers, feeling the gold ring press into her flesh. Across the polished hood of the waiting SUV, she caught a reflection of her face, and beyond that, Aaliyah’s figure, ring glinting too.
Randy nudged her lightly from behind, prompting them forward. “Let’s go,” he said softly. “You two did great. Time to get out of here.”
Aaliyah leaned in with a smile meant for the cameras, but her voice was pitched low, meant only for Cruz. “Another check on the to-do list,” she murmured. “One step closer.”
Cruz exhaled, letting the tension seep from her shoulders, though it refused to leave entirely. Yes, it was one step closer to her ultimate goal: winning the governorship, implementing change. But it still felt like a mountain of falsehoods lay ahead. She offered Aaliyah a small nod, acknowledging the silent alliance they’d forged. The illusions would remain intact—for now.
Together, they moved toward the SUV, a swirl of staffers at their flanks. The city’s heat hit them full-on, a harsh dryness to the air that reminded Cruz of desert missions past. Yet it was different now, layered with the claustrophobia of public opinion and the stifling closeness of the ring around her finger. And as she stepped onto the curb, Aaliyah’s hand skimmed lightly against her wrist, that simple contact telling Cruz everything she needed to know about the present condition: We’ve got this, at least for today.
Cruz slid into the backseat, Aaliyah settling in next to her. The tinted windows closed out the screaming brightness, leaving them in a muted bubble. Randy and Bobby took up seats in front, already immersed in a swirl of phone calls and text messages, planning the next event on the campaign docket. The engine purred, and the vehicle pulled away from the curb, dissolving into city traffic.
Through the tinted glass, the lines of buildings streaked by, occasionally broken by bright green signage or a crowd crossing at the lights. A newscast billboard declared: CRUZ & AALIYAH: NEW TEXAS POWER COUPLE? Cruz let her head loll back against the headrest, feeling the vibration of the road beneath the car’s tires. She closed her eyes, the day’s tension swirling behind her lids.
She felt a subtle shift in the seat next to her. Aaliyah, adjusting. Cruz pried an eye open, glimpsing the reflection of the ring on Aaliyah’s finger, identical to her own. How long can we keep this up? she wondered. But for now, there was no answer, only the hush of the car’s air conditioning and the hum of the city, both pushing them onward to the next performance. They’d succeeded this morning, fending off skepticism, polishing their image as a devoted pair. Tomorrow, another challenge would arise, and the next day, another.
But for the time being, they existed in a moment of respite—two strangers, wives by contract, joined for the cameras in a carefully curated love story that neither was fully certain how to end. And in the hush of the SUV’s cabin, overshadowed by the hum of official business going on in the front seat, they let themselves breathe, rings flashing quietly on their hands, the illusions still intact.
The campaign office buzzed with overstimulated energy. Half a dozen screens on the far wall displayed various news stations, each cycling through headlines about the now-viral interview between Senator Cruz Manuelos and her newly minted wife, Aaliyah Manuelos. On the biggest screen in the center, a live feed of Twitter hashtags scrolled relentlessly. Staffers, phones in hand, darted around the open space, exchanging grins and frenetic updates.
Bobby was perched on the edge of a conference table, balanced a laptop on her knees. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered, eyes darting across the column of trending topics. “They love you two.” She refreshed the feed for what seemed like the twentieth time in ten minutes. “You’re at the top. #CruzAndAaliyah. #PowerCouple. #CampaignWife. You name it.”
Cruz stood near Bobby, arms crossed, doing her best not to look flustered. Her posture stiffened each time the screen refreshed to reveal more gushy tweets about her so-called fairytale romance. She let out a grunt, the sound echoing in the chaotic office. “Of course they do,” she said flatly. “Everyone loves a damn romance.”
Aaliyah stood a few feet away, perfectly composed, sipping coffee from a delicate mug. Where Cruz looked tense in her loosened tie and rumpled shirt, Aaliyah appeared every bit the immaculate figure the media had come to adore. She arched a brow at Cruz’s remark. “Well, darling,” she said, voice dripping with mild amusement, “at least you know your suffering makes for excellent entertainment.”
Cruz turned to scowl at her, opening her mouth as if to fire back, but she caught the faintest glimmer in Aaliyah’s eyes—part teasing, part something else. Instead of snapping, she rolled her eyes with a huff, trying to steady the warmth that flickered in her chest. “Wonderful,” she grumbled. “So I’m the designated clown for this circus?”
“Clown, war hero, awkward lovebird—whatever they want you to be, I suppose.” Aaliyah’s lips curved slightly, and Cruz couldn’t decide whether that smile was mocking or genuinely amused. The way it softened the corners of Aaliyah’s mouth made Cruz want to stare a little too long.
Bobby, oblivious to the undercurrent between them, slammed her laptop shut. “All right,” she announced, sliding off the table. “Rally in twenty minutes. Polling station results coming in soon. Let’s keep the momentum.”
“Momentum.” Cruz grimaced. “Sure.” She cast a quick glance at Aaliyah, who merely sipped her coffee as though the rest of the office’s frenzy were beneath her notice.
In truth, Cruz couldn’t deny the mild spike of adrenaline she felt each time they locked eyes. She chalked it up to the stress of an orchestrated relationship—but part of her recognized a restless hum under her skin that had nothing to do with politics. She told herself it was silly. Aaliyah was the heiress she’d disliked on principle, the polished socialite who could spin any narrative to her advantage. And yet, Cruz found her gaze lingering on how neatly Aaliyah’s hair framed her face, how the light in the office caught the subtle highlights at her temples.
A staffer rushed up, phone in hand. “Senator, Ms. Reyes,” the staffer said breathlessly, “we’ve got media requests out the door. People want quotes about your interview, the honeymoon suite, everything.”
Bobby nodded, taking the phone. “I’ll triage. Keep them in a holding pattern.” As the staffer scampered off, Bobby turned back to the pair, her expression grave. “We’re about to drown in interviews if we’re not careful. The public’s convinced you’re the real deal.”
Aaliyah lowered her mug, setting it aside on a desk. “Well,” she drawled, “that’s the point, isn’t it?” She turned to Cruz, lips quirking at the corners. “If you’d like to practice more lines of devotion, we can schedule a rehearsal after the rally.” A teasing light danced in her eyes.
Cruz exhaled sharply. “You think I need practice? Didn’t you see the Twitter meltdown? People apparently think I’m ‘awkward and in love. Help,’” she quoted wryly, recalling a tweet Bobby had read out loud.
“Awkward and in love is better than stoic and robotic,” Bobby interjected, tapping a pen against her palm. “You two nailed the interview. That final moment—” She snapped her fingers. “Magic. The public is enthralled, and our poll watchers say we’ve already bumped two percentage points in the last hour.”
Cruz gave a resigned shrug, her shoulders still tense beneath the collar of her shirt. “Great. Now I need actual coffee that doesn’t taste like watery ash.”
“Oh, here we go again,” Aaliyah teased, gathering her things from a nearby chair. “If you insist on trashing your taste buds, at least spare me the details.” She cast an amused glance in Cruz’s direction, half-lidding her eyes in a mock sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to stage an intervention.”
Cruz turned to her fully, crossing her arms again but with a flicker of a smile tugging at her lips. “Intervention, huh? You sure you can handle it, princess?”
Aaliyah tilted her head, the overhead fluorescent light catching the faint gold in her hair. “You might be surprised what I can handle, Senator.” For a second, the usual ice in her tone softened, and Cruz found herself wondering just how much more lay under that polished exterior. She quickly shoved the thought aside. This is just an act, she reminded herself. None of it is real.
Still, the memory of how Aaliyah’s hand felt in hers during the interview lingered—warm, slender fingers that she’d had to peel herself away from once the cameras shut off. Even now, she flexed her own palm like she could still feel the phantom press of Aaliyah’s grip. It made her insides twist in an unfamiliar way, and she hated that a tiny spark of interest might be forming where animosity had once been so clear.
Bobby cleared her throat, cutting through the moment. “All right, newlyweds.” She gestured toward the office door. “We’ve got a staff briefing in five. Let’s move. And for the love of everything, if reporters come sniffing around, keep up the banter. They can’t get enough of this back-and-forth.”
Aaliyah shot Bobby a knowing smile. “We’ll be sure to grace them with a perfectly rehearsed spat. Right, darling?” She set a light hand on Cruz’s forearm, letting it linger a moment longer than absolutely necessary.
Cruz almost forgot to breathe, scolding herself for noticing how Aaliyah’s dark lashes framed her eyes. “Yeah, sure,” she muttered, pulling her arm free in a way that she hoped didn’t look too flustered. “Whatever keeps the cameras rolling.”
As they exited the office, staffers rushed by, phones buzzing and laptops open, each hustling to ride the wave of viral success. The overhead lights flickered slightly, straining under the building’s taxed power grid. Someone joked about how they should set up a coffee station in the hall to save time—and Cruz privately vowed to smuggle in her battered coffee pot if she had to.
Aaliyah walked beside her, posture a lesson in poise, but there was an undercurrent of humor in her expression. She cast sidelong glances at Cruz, as though waiting for her to trip or say something sarcastic. Cruz caught those looks and felt another mild flutter in her chest.
They paused at the elevator, waiting for the next available car. Bobby had already barreled down the stairs, barking orders into her phone. Alone for a beat, the two of them stood, the ambient noise of the building swirling around them.
“You do realize,” Aaliyah said quietly, glancing at Cruz through half-lowered lids, “that if we keep up this entire honeymoon charade, we might need more… intimate photos?” Her tone was slightly playful.
Cruz wrinkled her nose but couldn’t stop her lips from curving. “You think I can’t handle a fake cuddle session? Bring it on.”
Aaliyah’s returning smile was all polished amusement. Yet Cruz thought she saw something behind it, a glint of genuine warmth that might have been overshadowed by cynicism on any other day. “Be careful what you wish for,” she murmured, stepping forward as the elevator chimed.
They stepped in. The doors slid shut behind them, leaving them in a hush broken only by the hum of machinery. Cruz’s heartbeat drummed a little louder in her ears. She focused on the elevator panel, ignoring how Aaliyah’s reflection in the metal doors made her think of how stunning she had looked on camera earlier, that slight flush in her cheeks, the casual confidence in every gesture.
For her part, Aaliyah smoothed a wrinkle in her blouse, pointedly avoiding Cruz’s gaze for a moment. She had her own swirl of thoughts, unspoken, about how damned sharp Cruz looked in uniform. It was ridiculous how a uniform could transform someone so thoroughly—Cruz had that sense of strength and honesty that Aaliyah found… well, appealing, if she was being entirely honest. And it made her uneasy to acknowledge it.
At the next floor, the elevator jerked to a stop. They stepped out into the clamor of staffers once again, the moment of hush evaporating. The veneer of professionalism slid back into place, each of them ready to do what they did best: put on a show for the sake of a campaign they both needed to win.