August 11th
The backstage area thrummed with restless energy, a pulse of sound and motion that thrived just beyond the thick black curtains. So many bodies moved in the shadows—stagehands hustling to adjust lighting, campaign staffers rushing to confirm last-minute details, security guards monitoring each corridor. The air felt heavy with anticipation, charged as though someone had fed the entire venue an electric current. The Dallas crowd, thousands strong, was already at a fever pitch, their voices blending into a low roar that reverberated through the walls like distant thunder.
Cruz stood off to one side, half hidden behind a partition of stage flats and campaign posters. Her posture radiated tension: shoulders squared, arms crossed over a navy blue blazer that she’d already begun to resent. The fabric felt rigid, the starched collar tight against her neck. She could have worn something more comfortable—just a shirt, no jacket—but Bobby had been adamant. They want someone who looks ready to govern, Bobby had said, thumping a clipboard against her palm. Give them that.
Now, Cruz found herself perched on a small metal stool, trying not to let her leg bounce with pent-up nerves. The roar of supporters from the main auditorium made everything else feel unreal, like standing at the threshold of a colosseum. She inhaled, drawing in the faint smell of sawdust from the stage sets and the tang of sweat from the staff moving around her. It wasn’t just Cruz’s policies they loved anymore. It was the story, the spectacle, the romance. The edges of her mouth twitched in something close to a grimace.
Overhead, stage lights flicked on and off in test patterns, casting lurid pools of brightness along the edges of the curtain. Sometimes, between the parted drapes, she caught glimpses of the jam-packed seats. The crowd was massive: men and women of all ages holding signs aloft. Many read MANUELOS & CALLOWAY FOR TEXAS or POWER TO THE PEOPLE in bold type. A few displayed more personal messages, like We Believe In You, or Veterans For Cruz. But the ones that rankled her the most were the brand-new slogans Bobby and the team had introduced: LOVE WINS: TEXAS’ FIRST WIFE & WIFE POWER COUPLE. She couldn’t look at them without feeling her stomach twist.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath, rubbing her temples. She glanced at Bobby, who was standing a step away, tapping a pen against her clipboard in rapid beat. “I’ve never needed a damn circus to prove I can lead.”
Bobby paused in her flipping through pages of scheduling notes and phone messages. She fixed Cruz with a pointed stare, her brows arched in that I’m too tired to humor you expression. “You still don’t get it, do you?” she said, her tone almost gentle, though the frustration simmered underneath. “They don’t just want a leader, Cruz. They want a story.”
Cruz’s jaw tensed. She’d heard this line a thousand times, but it still made her want to argue. “I hate that,” she said. “I hate that it’s not enough for me to have good policies or a solid track record. Now, I need to trot out a… a—” She waved a hand in the air, searching for the right phrasing. “A grand romance, I guess,” she finished bitterly.
Bobby pressed her lips together in a half-sympathetic, half-resigned smile. “I know. That’s why it’s working.” Her phone buzzed, and she glanced down at the screen. “They love you, you know,” she offered, a quick extension of solace. “But they also love the image of you and Aaliyah together, bridging two worlds. It’s not just a gimmick—some folks really believe it’s hope.”
Cruz’s scowl softened for a fraction of a second. She wanted to believe that too, or at least respect the sincerity of the crowd’s desire for hope. But how could she, when her entire marriage was a well-crafted production? She opened her mouth to snap back, but the sudden click of heels on the polished concrete drew both their attentions.
Aaliyah strode into view, carrying herself like she was pacing the halls of her father’s estate rather than the backstage of a raucous political rally. She wore a cream-colored tailored suit, perfectly fitted at the waist, the trousers falling in neat lines that accentuated her height. A subtle row of pearls at her collar added an extra layer of elegance. Even with the swirl of activity around them—staffers brushing past with clipboards, a stagehand hauling coiled cables—Aaliyah projected a serene confidence. It made Cruz’s nerves flare for reasons she couldn’t fully articulate.
As Aaliyah approached, she let her gaze flick over Cruz, taking in the stiff blazer, the faint sheen of sweat at Cruz’s temple. Then she allowed herself a slight smirk. “You could at least look excited, ya hayati,” she teased, her voice low, modulated to carry just enough to Bobby’s ears but not the rest of the staff.
Cruz felt her molars grind at the endearment. She was aware Aaliyah used these little linguistic flourishes only when she wanted to push Cruz off-center, to remind her they were playing roles. “That word just gave me heartburn,” she muttered. The dryness in her tone underscored her annoyance, but behind that, a small pang of something she refused to name.
Bobby snorted, burying her face in the next page of notes to hide the grin. Aaliyah’s smirk widened, undaunted. Without missing a beat, she reached out, fingers brushing the lapel of Cruz’s blazer, and then moving upward to adjust Cruz’s tie. The act was intimate, but also calculated, a display for any staffers or journalists who might glimpse them from behind the drapes. Cruz caught a faint whiff of Aaliyah’s perfume—something floral, with a twist of sandalwood. She fought the urge to recoil, reminding herself that the cameras could be anywhere.
“All better,” Aaliyah said softly, stepping back. Only her eyes betrayed the victorious amusement she felt at getting a rise out of Cruz. “The people love a devoted wife, after all.”
Cruz exhaled slowly through her nose, letting the tension roll out of her shoulders in a forced wave. “Sure,” she deadpanned. “Wouldn’t want them to think we’re not head over heels.” Sarcasm dripped from her words.
Aaliyah merely pivoted, scanning the stage area for a moment. In the hazy light, her face was a picture of refined calm—cheekbones highlighted just enough by subtle cosmetics, lips in a neutral tone that conveyed authority rather than showy glamor. She was poised, the living embodiment of the perfect political partner that the campaign had spent months promoting.
“Thirty seconds, people,” came a call from a stage manager with a clipboard and headset. “Senator Manuelos, we’re going to do the opening first. Then Mrs. Manuelos steps on after the policy portion.”
Bobby nodded vigorously, motioning for Cruz to take her place at the side of the stage. “Give them your main policy hits, then bring Aaliyah on to close. Remember,” she added quietly, leaning in, “show unity. Even if it kills you.”
Cruz swallowed, adjusting the lapel of her blazer one last time. Unity, she thought. We’ll see.
She approached the side curtain, peering out at the vast, roaring crowd. The Dallas venue was packed to capacity, an ocean of bodies waving homemade signs, chanting, pumping their fists in unison. Giant banners with her face loomed overhead, next to smaller ones with Randy Calloway’s name. The loudspeakers throbbed with an energetic beat, and neon confetti flickered under the overhead lights. This was the big rally that Bobby had spent weeks hyping on social media—where Cruz would unveil her final push for the next round of fundraising and secure her position as the clear progressive frontrunner. And we have to wrap it all in this love story packaging, she fumed inwardly.
At the stage manager’s prompt, Cruz strode forward, blinking momentarily against the floodlights that slammed down on her from overhead. Cheers erupted, wave upon wave of applause. The presence of thousands of supporters cheering her name should have been exhilarating, but the knowledge that so many had come expecting not just policy, but also the romance—the newly married soldier-senator and her brilliant heiress wife—gnawed at Cruz’s pride.
She smiled, though it felt stiff at the corners of her mouth. “Hello, Dallas!” Her voice, relayed through the microphone, rebounded off the walls, and the crowd answered with a collective roar that rattled her bones.
Get through this. She inhaled, then launched into what she knew best: the issues. She spoke about workers’ rights, the urgent need for solid living wages, the years of bureaucratic neglect that had failed to support veterans, teachers, nurses—those who kept society’s engines running yet were always overlooked. She hammered on corrupt corporate donors, the same foes she’d been fighting since her earliest campaigns. Her voice found its natural strength, each syllable backed by a passion that had always guided her through the political gauntlet.
And the crowd responded. They waved their signs, chanted her name, let out thunderous applause whenever she finished a point. She felt an exhilarating sense of purpose flooding her veins, a reminder of why she’d entered politics in the first place. Yes, this is what I’m here for, she thought. Not the wedding charade.
Then, inevitably, the speech shifted. She felt the energy palpably shift too, as though the collective gaze of the crowd turned expectant. They wanted more than policy. They wanted the love story. That was the new angle, after all.
With a tiny knot of dread forming in her stomach, Cruz signaled to the side of the stage. It was time for Aaliyah’s cameo. Just a cameo, the plan had said—A simple wave, a short speech. Sell the newlywed angle, then fade back. But the moment Aaliyah stepped onto the stage—cream suit pristine under the spotlight—Cruz sensed the tide change. The cheers didn’t just rise; they roared, a wave of excitement that dwarfed anything Cruz had heard minutes prior.
Aaliyah came forward with a confident stride, lifting a hand to greet the crowd. A hush fell, an almost tangible shift in focus. She caught Cruz’s eye briefly, a silent question in her gaze, Ready? Then she took over.
“Thank you, Dallas,” Aaliyah said, voice clear as a bell, carrying an undercurrent of gentle fervor. The microphone caught every breath, amplifying it across the massive venue. “I’m not here as a politician,” she began, addressing the crowd with a sincerity that even Cruz found disorienting. “I’m here as someone who believes in Cruz’s vision for this state—who believes that we can build a Texas that values every worker, every family, every person who calls this place home.”
The crowd cheered on cue, but there was a different intensity behind it. A surge, as if they recognized something about Aaliyah’s presence. Even though she lacked Cruz’s war-hero background or official campaign role, she had a compelling aura that compelled the masses to lean in.
Aaliyah paused, letting the applause build before continuing. “I married a woman who fights for Texas,” she said, her voice rising just enough to cut through the noise. “She fights for the people. For change that matters.”
Her words hung in the air, the crowd’s roars escalating. Cruz felt her pulse quicken. She realized with a pang that Aaliyah was forging a connection with them that had little to do with campaign talking points and everything to do with story. This wasn’t the usual marriage cameo, the docile nod and wave. Aaliyah was carving her own space on the platform, weaving herself into the campaign narrative in a way that overshadowed the typical supporting spouse role.
She continued, voice warm and resonant. “Texas, we all know how it feels when the system fails us—when corporate interests dominate our government, when working families struggle to make ends meet, when veterans don’t receive the care they deserve. We’ve seen it firsthand.” She turned her head, letting the bright overhead lights reflect off her eyes. “But this—this movement—is about refusing to accept that status quo.”
Cruz found herself stepping back, almost as if the spotlight no longer belonged to her. A swirl of confusion mingled with a begrudging admiration. She’s too good at this, Cruz thought, heart pounding. Too natural. Too prepared.
Aaliyah let a breath settle, scanning the crowd’s upturned faces. Then she focused her gaze on one of the cameras near the front, taking a single step forward. “Cruz fights for Texas,” she declared, words crisp. “So, Texas? It’s time to fight for her.”
The crowd responded with thunderous applause, a deafening volume that made Cruz’s ears ring. Banners waved frenetically, confetti shot from small cannons near the back, and the entire auditorium erupted in chaotic, triumphant cheers. The noise pressed against Cruz’s skull, an avalanche of sound that made her realize how thoroughly Aaliyah had seized control of the narrative.
Cruz swallowed, flexing her fingers on the mic stand, momentarily unsure how to proceed. She’d planned for a neat wrap-up, maybe wave Aaliyah on, share a quick embrace for the cameras, then step off to do the meet-and-greet. Instead, Aaliyah had whipped the crowd into a fervor that overshadowed anything Cruz had done before.
In that pounding sea of noise, Aaliyah turned, a luminous smile crossing her face. She extended her arm, palm open, offering it to Cruz. The hush that lingered on the edges of the cheering told Cruz the cameras were capturing every moment, every breath.
Cruz’s instincts warred. For a fraction of a second, she hesitated, heart in her throat, resentful that Aaliyah could so effortlessly overshadow her, resentful that she’d been cornered into this public display of unity. Yet a deeper voice reminded her: They love this. They want to see your union. And she thought about Bobby’s words—They don’t just want a leader, they want a story.
Grudgingly, she placed her hand in Aaliyah’s, letting the warmth of her palm envelop her own. The crowd’s cheers surged yet again, the wave cresting so high that Cruz felt it physically in her chest. She could almost sense the cameras zooming in, capturing their linked hands in high definition.
Aaliyah leaned into the microphone once more, voice calm though the crowd’s roar was anything but. “Texas, I believe in this woman,” she said, head tilted slightly toward Cruz. “Because she believes in you.”
Another explosion of cheers and applause, now peppered with ear-splitting whistles. For a moment, Cruz felt dizzy. Her mind flickered to the vows, the staged kiss, the illusions of their carefully orchestrated wedding. She could see the entire timeline that had led them to this point—brutal battles with corporate-funded rivals, scraping for resources, the desperate need for legitimacy in a race stacked against her. This is what it took, she told herself, a show. A love story.
The swirling wave of confetti from overhead soared under the bright lights, as the final chord of the event’s soundtrack blasted through the speakers. Cruz let Aaliyah guide her away from the microphone stand, letting the rally staff lead them deeper onto the stage so they could wave to the throngs of sign-wielding supporters. Flashbulbs erupted like miniature fireworks. Cruz forced a confident half-smile, though she felt rattled to her core.
Nearby, Randy watched from offstage with a blend of admiration and amusement. The dynamic had changed the moment Aaliyah took the microphone, and even he could see how the crowd had devoured the display. This was the wave they needed to ride, the wave that might carry them to the governor’s mansion.
Finally, the overhead lights dimmed, signifying the end of the rally. Cruz and Aaliyah withdrew from the platform, still clasping hands, the crowd chanting Cruz’s name as staffers rushed around them. Back in the backstage gloom, Bobby greeted them, eyes alight with a mixture of relief and triumph.
“That was… unexpected,” Bobby breathed, phone already lighting up with text messages. “But it was good. Damn good. Aaliyah, you are a natural up there.”
Aaliyah gave a faint, gracious nod, her expression more subdued now that they were out of the public glare. “I just said what needed to be said.” She released Cruz’s hand, allowing her fingers to slide away gently, the last hint of the performance.
Cruz rocked on her heels, adrenaline still surging. She could feel the dryness in her throat, the tightness in her chest. “You flipped the script,” she murmured, voice carefully free of accusation. “You didn’t just wave and say hi. You… took over.”
For a moment, Aaliyah studied Cruz, the usual guardedness replaced by a flicker of sincerity. “I saw the crowd,” she said softly. “I knew what they needed to hear.” Then, sensing tension, her tone slipped back into calm neutrality. “And it worked.”
Bobby cut in before Cruz could respond. “It more than worked,” she confirmed, glancing at her phone. “Social media is exploding with #FightingForHer and #CruzAndAaliyah. People love it.” She paused, expression flicking between the two women. “You’re unstoppable right now. Keep leaning into it. This is how you win.”
Cruz exhaled, letting a wave of exhaustion seep through her muscles. Yes, this might be how she won. She wanted to be grateful, but something about the entire spectacle left a bitter taste in her mouth. Still, she mustered a curt nod, forcing a half-smile for Bobby’s benefit.
Randy sidled over, patting Cruz on the shoulder. “Hell of a rally, boss,” he teased, searching her eyes. “Didn’t realize you were letting Aaliyah do your job now.”
She shot him a look that promised retribution, but her words came out dry. “Shut up, Calloway,” she said, though no real animosity bristled. They were all part of the same machine.
Aaliyah removed her cream blazer, revealing a sleek silk blouse underneath. She brushed a few strands of hair aside, looking as composed as if she’d just stepped off a runway instead of out of a raucous political rally. She caught Cruz’s gaze again, but neither said anything. There wasn’t a need for words. They’d both done their roles, played the crowd like a well-orchestrated duet. One step closer, Cruz reminded herself, echoing the same phrase that had sustained her through so many illusions.
As staffers bustled to tear down the stage props and stow away the leftover confetti canons, Cruz drifted to the edge of the backstage area. She peered around the curtain, scanning the rows of folding chairs, the throng of supporters milling about. A subtle pang of conflict laced her thoughts: these were her people—the working-class families, the veterans, the everyday Texans who believed in her cause. And they cheered at the sight of her and Aaliyah holding hands, exalting their union as a symbol of something bigger.
It made sense, in a warped, politics-as-theater way. People wanted hope, unity, love. If presenting them with that narrative advanced the fight for justice, maybe it was worth it. She swallowed hard, pressing a hand to the collar of her shirt. But does it have to feel like giving up a piece of myself? she wondered.
Behind her, Aaliyah let out a sigh, low enough that Bobby and Randy wouldn’t hear. Cruz turned just slightly, glimpsing the barest flicker of something vulnerable in Aaliyah’s profile—a dip in her brow, a tension in her jaw. But when Aaliyah felt Cruz’s gaze, that ephemeral crack sealed, replaced by cool composure. She gave Cruz a small nod, as if acknowledging the weight they both carried.
“You were good up there,” Cruz found herself saying, voice a little raw. The admission tasted odd, but she felt compelled to let Aaliyah know she recognized the skill it took.
Aaliyah’s lips curved in a faint half-smile. “We both were.” Her gaze darted over Cruz’s shoulder, checking for eavesdroppers. Then, softly, “I meant what I said about believing in your platform. I didn’t just… spin that.”
Cruz blinked, a flicker of uncertain gratitude stirring in her chest. Before she could craft a response, Bobby beckoned them both. “A quick press meet near the side exit, then the caravan heads to Fort Worth for the next rally,” she said firmly. “Let’s keep the momentum going.”
“Next rally,” Cruz repeated under her breath, the exhaustion nipping at her heels. But she squared her shoulders, stepping off the stool she’d used as a perch. They’d have to maintain the illusion a while longer. She could do that. She’d survived worse.
The hum of the crowd beyond the curtains had begun to thin, some supporters funneling out to their cars or heading to smaller meet-and-greet zones. As Cruz and Aaliyah made their way to the exit corridor, staffers murmured “Great job, Senator,” or “You too, Mrs. Manuelos.” The swirl of movement parted around them like water around the bow of a ship.
Just outside the building, chain-link fences formed a makeshift press area where local reporters and bloggers buzzed, waiting to lob questions. Cruz exchanged a glance with Aaliyah, seeing her gather herself, slip on the gracious public face once again. Cruz inhaled deeply, glancing at the gold band on her finger, a testament to the image they were forced to uphold.
Yes, Aaliyah had overshadowed her on stage, hijacking the narrative in ways Cruz hadn’t anticipated. But it had ignited the crowd like nothing else. A double-edged sword, Cruz reflected. She’d have to adapt if she wanted to remain in control of her own campaign. But for now, she’d accept the fire Aaliyah brought, let the media devour the image of a fierce Marine war hero and her elegant, powerhouse heiress wife forging a path to the governor’s seat.
As the steel exit door banged open, a volley of camera flashes assaulted them. Bobby guided them to a designated spot behind a lectern, and Randy flanked them, arms folded, a grin still dancing on his face at the memory of the day’s success. Cruz stood tall, clearing her throat as the reporters fired off questions. Aaliyah slipped to her side, lightly resting one hand at the small of Cruz’s back—an intimate, supportive gesture for the cameras.
And so the performance continued, questions about policy and marriage, about poll numbers and future expansions, swirling in a chaotic dance. But beneath it all, Cruz felt that tug of friction, a mix of pride and aggravation. Aaliyah had changed the game this afternoon, showing them all how adept she was at capturing hearts and headlines.
She’s always one step ahead, Cruz thought again, forcing a polite smile in the direction of a reporter. I need to be careful not to lose myself in her narrative. As she answered a question about the legislature, her mind spun with strategies for tomorrow, next week, next month. She needed to figure out how to balance the romance the people craved with the seriousness of her platform—otherwise, she risked being overshadowed in her own campaign.
Yet a seed of admiration lingered in that frustration. Perhaps that energy could be harnessed, if they worked together carefully. The memory of Aaliyah’s voice echoing across the stage—“I stand by her—not just as her wife, but as someone who believes in what she is doing.”—stirred a reluctant gratitude. If the facade was going to hold, it might as well burn brightly, powering Cruz’s fight for the changes she’d dedicated her life to achieving.
Eventually, the press gaggle wound down, staffers ushering the media aside so the team could move on to the next event. Cruz exhaled, shoulders tight, the day’s exhaustion layering with the adrenaline crash of a major rally. She glanced sideways at Aaliyah, who met her gaze steadily. Neither smiled, but an unspoken understanding hung between them.
They walked to the waiting SUV in step, the riotous crowd behind barricades cheering them on. Cameras followed, snapping final shots of the couple climbing into the vehicle. As the door shut, sealing them in a cocoon away from the mania, Cruz sank into the seat, letting out a long breath. One rally down, many to go.
Bobby and Randy clambered in as well, quickly launching into updates: funds raised, social media spikes, phone calls from potential donors. Aaliyah nodded at appropriate intervals, already scanning her phone for mention of the rally’s coverage. Cruz stared out the window, watching the Dallas skyline recede as they pulled away.
Inside the car, the hush of the climate control replaced the roar of the cheering crowd. She caught a faint reflection of herself in the tinted glass—disheveled hair, taut expression, ring glinting under the overhead light. She turned to see Aaliyah reading something on her screen, a subtle frown crossing her brow.
Cruz spoke quietly, not wanting to draw Bobby and Randy’s attention. “Thanks… for backing me up on stage,” she said, feeling awkward. “Even if it was more than I expected.”
Aaliyah lowered her phone, eyes flicking toward Cruz. For a moment, the set of her mouth softened. “We’re in this together,” she said simply, letting the words hang without further flourish. Then she returned to her phone.
Cruz shifted, not sure how to parse that response. She decided not to force any more conversation. The city lights blurred past, and the car merged onto a highway that would carry them to the next wave of supporters, the next stage. In the hush of that ride, she considered the vow, the illusions, and the surprising force of Aaliyah’s presence. She wasn’t sure whether to brace herself for the next time Aaliyah flipped the script, or to accept that maybe, just maybe, forging a new story was what it would take to bring real change to Texas.
Clenching her fists softly, Cruz let out a final, steadying breath. We’ll do this, she told herself. We’ll do whatever it takes. And if Aaliyah continued to surge ahead, rewriting the script of Cruz’s own campaign, Cruz would just have to adapt—maybe even learn to trust that unstoppable drive, if it truly led them both toward victory.
Cruz’s gaze bore into the laptop screen, the pale glow casting hard shadows across her features in the otherwise dark room. Outside, a moonlit hush blanketed the city, broken only by the faint hum of passing cars. But here, in this dimly lit campaign office repurposed as a late-night war room, the quiet was tense, loaded with the potential for political disaster. She tapped the space bar, pausing the video as if freezing it could halt its damage. Then, unable to help herself, she pressed play again.
The attack ad began anew, slick and insidious. Ominous music rumbled from the tinny laptop speakers, a low orchestral note that evoked images of deep shadows and hidden threats. The screen cut to black, then flashed an image of Cruz mid-speech at a rally from a year back. Her voice, once clear and full of conviction, poured from the speakers in carefully chosen sound bites.
“Can we trust Cruz Manuelos?” intoned a somber male narrator, his every syllable steeped in cold disdain. A single line of white text materialized across the screen in block capitals: CAN WE TRUST HER? Cruz clenched her jaw at the sight.
The ad seamlessly spliced her own proud statements from earlier in her political career—clips of her denouncing billionaire influence, corporate greed, backroom deals. “I won’t be bought,” her recorded voice declared, strong and sure. “I won’t be another politician in the pockets of billionaires.” The words echoed in the otherwise silent room, cutting through the night with a bitter edge.
Then came the twist. Footage flickered of her lavish wedding ceremony, captured in cinematic slow motion. A swirl of white rose petals, shimmering chandeliers, elegantly dressed guests, and opulent decor. The camera lingered on a close-up of Cruz and Aaliyah exchanging rings, the images tinted to look saccharine and unnervingly polished. Cruz noticed the sly editing—the swirling montage placed side by side with her old sound bites, creating a sharp contrast that made her entire wedding look like a decadent feast of hypocrisy.
“She says she’s for the people,” the narrator’s voice droned, “but she married into big oil money.” The shot froze on an image of Aaliyah’s father, Asmar Amrohi, notorious billionaire, exactly the type of someone the campaign had tried to keep at arm’s length. Next, text over black: JUST ANOTHER POLITICIAN. And with a final ominous pulse of the music, the ad ended.
The laptop’s screen went dark, the condemnation echoing into the silence of the room.
Cruz snapped the device shut, her fingers balled into a fist against the glossy wooden table. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She’s painting me as a sellout, Cruz thought, acid burning in the pit of her stomach. This is the angle McNamara decided to take. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to bury the sudden surge of anger. But it was no use—the advertisement had nailed its point with brutal clarity.
Bobby, who had been lingering a few steps away, arms folded over a wrinkled blazer, exhaled softly. The overhead fluorescents buzzed, lending the corners of the room a harsh, clinical glow. “Because that’s how it looks,” she said at last, not unkindly. “When the average voter sees you railing against billionaires for years, then sees those wedding pictures—” She paused, as if unwilling to finish the thought. Instead, she lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.
“I never sold out,” Cruz muttered, voice low. “I took no corporate PAC money. I never changed my stances on worker protections or veterans’ benefits or anything.” She pushed the laptop away, as if repelled by its presence. “It doesn’t matter, does it? The only thing people will see are the headlines: War Hero Politician Marries Oil Heiress—Hypocrisy at Its Finest.”
Bobby set her phone down on the table, stepping closer. She spoke gently but firmly, the tone of someone too tired for delicacy. “If they can frame you as inconsistent—someone who said ‘I won’t be bought’ and then married into a billionaire dynasty—well, that’s a narrative that writes itself.” Her gaze flicked across Cruz’s face, measuring the tension in the taut lines of her jaw. “We can’t let them spin it unchallenged.”
Cruz shook her head and stood, turning toward the window. Through the glass, she caught a glimpse of the city’s midnight skyline—silent towers dotted with a thousand scattered lights. She remembered the earliest days of her campaign, forging her grassroots movement with single-minded conviction. Now I’m dealing with wedding gossip overshadowing actual policy. She pressed two fingers against her temple, warding off the headache that threatened to bloom.
Across the room, curled in an armchair, Aaliyah looked unbothered by the negativity swirling through the ad. She swirled a glass of wine, leg crossed elegantly over the other, her robe parted just enough to reveal a glint of perfect pedicure. The hush in her posture and the faint smirk edging her lips were the only signs she was paying attention.
“It’s a good ad,” she remarked, voice smooth. “Slick production, well-timed arguments, hits exactly where you’re vulnerable.” She took a lazy sip, eyes half-lidded as she regarded Cruz.
“Must be nice to be so calm while we watch them trash our entire campaign,” Cruz bit out, turning sharply from the window.
Aaliyah raised a brow. “I’m not calm. I’m calculating.” She pointedly set the wineglass aside on a side table. “If I were calm, I’d do nothing. We hit back. Harder.”
Cruz scoffed. “I don’t like playing dirty.”
Aaliyah’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t about playing dirty. It’s about fighting fire with fire, and we’re already in the flames, in case you haven’t noticed.”
The tension in the room peaked. Bobby, face set in stoic lines, observed with a flicker of apprehension. She’d watched these spats unfold before, but never with so much on the line. McNamara’s ad was savage, she thought. We need a savage response, or everything we’ve built falls apart.
Cruz let out a sharp breath, voice dipped low. “So, what—spread rumors about McNamara? That’s not me. That’s not what this campaign is about.”
Aaliyah regarded her for a moment, the light from a desk lamp illuminating the faintest gleam in her dark eyes. “No. Not rumors. Facts. We show them who you are, what you’ve done, and we do it in a way that undermines McNamara’s entire premise.” She pressed the tips of her fingers together, leaning back in her seat. “Let me do it for you, if your conscience is too delicate to handle the spin.”
Cruz bristled at the implied insult, but before she could snap back, Bobby intervened. “Aaliyah,” she said, clearing her throat, “maybe the better approach isn’t digging McNamara’s skeletons out of the closet. We’ve always planned a strong counter-narrative, but now we need to accelerate it.”
A hush pervaded the room as they weighed next steps. The hum of overhead lights and the dull whir of an AC unit filled the silence. Cruz felt her pulse thunder in her ears. If I let Aaliyah shape the message, can I trust her not to overshadow me again?
At length, Cruz nodded curtly, exhaling. “Fine. Let’s see what you have in mind. But no cheap shots. I want truth, not more illusions.”
Aaliyah slowly unfurled from the armchair, the wine forgotten. “Truth, darling, is that your entire life story trumps McNamara’s claims if we present it correctly.” She smoothed her robe. “You’ll see. By morning, I’ll have something prepared.”
Cruz tossed and turned that night, she finally gave up on sleep around 5 a.m., rummaged for a hoodie, and headed to the study. The house was silent except for the distant hum of a city waking up. She expected to find an empty desk, maybe a pot of stale coffee. Instead, she stepped into a hive of organized chaos.
Aaliyah, impeccably dressed even at dawn—fitted blouse, neat slacks, hair pinned in a low bun—sat at the head of a large table. Half a dozen media strategists were scattered around, laptops illuminating tired faces. A digital whiteboard on the far wall displayed a half-complete storyboard for a new ad. The black frames flickered with bullet points, notes, suggested voiceovers, and potential footage to splice in.
Bobby hovered near the table, arms folded, eyes flicking from one laptop screen to another, offering small corrections or suggestions. A hush fell when Cruz entered, as if the entire room recognized that the candidate had arrived. She took in the sight: the glossy tabletop covered in phone chargers, scribbled notepads, empty coffee cups, and the tension that only major crisis-mode campaigners could exude.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Cruz muttered, stepping closer to Aaliyah’s side. She was too tired for scathing remarks this early. “You all being in my house at the ass crack of dawn doesn't even surprise me anymore. What have you got?”
One of the lead strategists, a wiry man in his thirties, gave a quick nod. “We’re finalizing the storyline for the counter-ad. Mrs. Manuelos’ direction was to lean on your record, your authenticity, and position the marriage as an added strength, not a liability.” He tapped his screen, launching a rough cut of the new commercial. “We think it’s close.”
The overhead monitor blinked to life. The lights dimmed in the room, and everyone hushed. Cruz settled her hands on the back of an empty chair, bracing herself as the opening frames rolled.
It began with a stark, bright image, contrasting the shadowy negativity of McNamara’s ad. A rhythmic drumbeat provided an undercurrent of energy. On-screen, black-and-white footage of Cruz in a Marine uniform flickered, the camera capturing a slice of dust-laden desert with Cruz in the middle, forging ahead in full gear. The clip paused dramatically, then cut to color shots of her advocating in the State Senate—passionate, unwavering. Next came a moment from her recent union hall speech, sleeves rolled up, face intense as she dismantled some corporate-friendly legislation.
Then the narrator’s voice—a woman’s this time, calm but commanding—spoke over the montage: “They say Cruz Manuelos married into power. But maybe power finally married into integrity.”
Cruz’s throat went tight at that line. She recognized the brilliant pivot: they were taking McNamara’s exact argument and flipping it. The footage changed to Aaliyah, standing next to Cruz at a rally, both wearing determined expressions. A freeze-frame captured Aaliyah mid-speech, eyes blazing with conviction, as the camera zoomed gently in.
Then came a direct address: Aaliyah on-camera, speaking softly but clearly. “She’s fought for Texas her whole life,” Aaliyah’s voice said, crisp yet earnest. “And now? I stand with her.”
The montage ended on a black screen. Text faded in: MANUELOS FOR TEXAS. INTEGRITY, POWER, AND CHANGE. The final drumbeat echoed, and the ad cut out.
Nobody spoke for a moment, the air heavy with unspent tension. Cruz found her heart pounding, though she willed her face to remain impassive. She had expected something good, but the direct clarity of that final punch felt almost unstoppable. They’re not just voting for me, she realized with a rush of conflicting emotions. They’re voting for us.
Bobby broke the silence, clapping once in excitement. “That’s it,” she declared, turning to Cruz. “We blast that online, push it to donors, then do a targeted ad buy on local stations. Hits everything McNamara attacked and flips it around.”
Cruz breathed out slowly, letting her hand drop from the chair. “It’s… effective,” she admitted. “Hard-hitting without being dirty.” She glanced at Aaliyah. “I see you’ve put yourself front and center.”
Aaliyah tilted her chin slightly, expression unreadable but for a faint glitter in her eyes. “They’re not just voting for you, Senator,” she repeated, tapping a manicured nail against the table. “They see me. They see us. Better to embrace it on our terms than let McNamara define it.”
Cruz pressed her lips together, half a mind to argue but unable to find a flaw. “I still hate that I can’t just stand on my own two feet. But I can’t deny the ad is good.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Do what you have to do. Just release it quickly. We can’t let McNamara’s narrative linger.”
With that, the strategists jumped into gear, finalizing file formats, drafting immediate press releases. Bobby began snapping orders about scheduling a live stream in two hours to “break the internet” with the new video. The tension dissolved into a buzz of excitement, each staffer feeding off the sense that a once precarious campaign might be back on stable ground.
In the corner, Aaliyah rose from her seat, smoothing her blouse. A swirl of subdued cologne or perfume trailed her as she approached Cruz, bridging the gap that separated them. Though the rest of the room was humming, they had found an island of quiet near the windows.
Cruz’s gaze drifted over Aaliyah’s poised posture—no visible sign of the exhaustion that had to be weighing on them both. “Did you stay up all night working on this?” Cruz asked, a subdued note of gratitude creeping into her normally gruff voice.
Aaliyah nodded. “Someone had to. McNamara’s ad was dropping overnight, and we needed to respond with something equally decisive.” Her eyes held that thoughtful, calculating glint. “You can’t fight your way through every problem by straightforward means. Sometimes you need a different angle.”
Cruz inhaled, letting the hum of chatter fill the background. “I just hate that it revolves around—” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely, unable to articulate the marriage.
Aaliyah nodded in understanding, for once her tone gentle. “I know,” she said. “But this is where we are. Embrace the situation, or let McNamara capitalize on it. There’s no middle ground.”
Their gazes locked, an undercurrent of tension humming. Once again, Cruz felt that blend of resentment and reluctant respect for this woman she’d married. She dropped her eyes first, running a hand over her closely cropped hair. “Right.” She forced a sardonic quirk of her lips. “Let’s see how the public reacts to you making cameo appearances in all my campaign ads.”
Aaliyah’s lips curved into a small, teasing smile. “I’d prefer to call it strategic partnership.”
Before Cruz could respond, Bobby’s voice rang out. “It’s up! We posted the ad. Social media is blowing up—holy shit, you guys gotta see this.” She turned her phone, showing a rapidly updating feed of tweets and comments. The staffers around her let out murmurs of excitement.
Cruz and Aaliyah stepped over, scanning the screen. Sure enough, the new ad was pinned at the top of the official campaign account. It had garnered thousands of retweets and comments in mere minutes. The phone beeped every few seconds with new notifications. Scrolling through, Cruz saw messages of support like “This is the real Cruz we know!” and “So McNamara tried to knock them down for a wedding? Lame. #TeamCruz.”
Then came the snarkier responses:
“McNamara dissed Cruz’s marriage? That ad is savage. LOL.”
“When you shade a Marine, you better not miss #CruzandAaliyah #MarriageGoals.”
“Sorry, but this ad makes me want to go to war for them. And I hate war.”
“I don’t even care if it’s partly an arrangement, can we talk about how fine they both are? #WifeGoals #CruzandAaliyah2024”
Cruz’s lips parted in a short exhalation. She felt both relief and unease. Relief, because the tide of public opinion was surging back in her favor. Unease, because it meant doubling down on the narrative that she and Aaliyah—two strangers forced into a union of convenience—were genuinely in love. This is the price, she reminded herself with resignation.
A short laugh escaped Bobby, who glanced up from her phone to grin at Cruz. “Told you,” she said. “Told you it’d work. McNamara’s rattled. I’m hearing from donors who got her ad first that they’re reconsidering her approach.”
“That was only an hour,” Cruz remarked, sinking into a chair. Her posture relaxed slightly, but exhaustion lined her face. She pinched the bridge of her nose, searching for the next step. “We need to keep this momentum. If we let up, she’ll come at us again with something even nastier.”
Aaliyah took up her wine glass again, though it was early in the day, though late for her. “Oh, she will. But we’ll be ready. We can’t let McNamara paint you as a contradiction. The narrative’s ours to control now.” Her voice was almost lazy, a slow confidence. She turned to Bobby. “Have we set up the next wave of local TV slots? I want us hammered into every local station’s rotation within twenty-four hours.”
Bobby nodded, swiping across her phone. “We’re on it. I’ll coordinate with the media buyers.” She angled her phone away from a staffer. “We’ll also do a blitz on the talk shows. People love a good redemption arc—falsely accused of selling out, now proven a real champion. That’s the angle.”
Cruz gave a small grunt of assent. “Fine. As long as we don’t stoop to smear campaigns. Let’s keep it honest—my record speaks for itself.”
Aaliyah’s gaze flicked over to Cruz, a faint wryness on her lips. “Honesty can still be delivered with flair. That’s all we did—highlight your truths in a frame that dismantles McNamara’s argument.” She paused, swirling the wine. “And center me enough so that no one can claim we’re ashamed of the marriage. Quite the opposite.”
A sudden wave of fatigue hit Cruz, and she sagged against the chair’s back, eyes sliding shut for a moment. She was so tired of illusions, of playing up this romance. But the result was undeniable. This single ad had reversed the vicious blow from McNamara, turning cynics into cheering fans. Maybe Aaliyah was right, she conceded grudgingly. If I let her fight dirty for me in a clean way, we stand a chance.
When she opened her eyes, Bobby was rattling off new tasks to the staffers. The strategists typed feverishly on their laptops, finalizing short social videos, scheduling next steps. Aaliyah had turned her attention back to her phone, presumably scanning messages for the next angle. The room bustled with a sense of victory—a victory in a single battle, if not the entire war.
Cruz glanced around, noting the stacks of campaign paraphernalia along the walls: T-shirts that read INTEGRITY & POWER, boxes of flyers with her face printed in bold lines. The merchandise no longer had just her name either; many items also touted Aaliyah’s involvement or their joint monogram: C&A, Building a Better Texas.Unreal, Cruz thought, a hint of bitterness returning. But it’s working.
She cleared her throat, pulling Aaliyah’s gaze from the phone. “Thanks,” she said quietly, voice carrying over the low murmur in the room. “For the ad. I appreciate it.”
Aaliyah studied her for a moment, then nodded once. “We’re in this together,” she said simply. No teasing, no smugness. Just a statement of fact.
A tension-laden silence passed between them. Cruz’s mind flickered to the memory of the day they’d signed the marriage contract, each pen stroke sealing a precarious alliance. We may have begun this for politics, she acknowledged inwardly, but now we’re forging something else—maybe a machine powerful enough to stand against any attack. She wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or uneasy at that thought. So she said nothing.
Into that silence, Randy arrived, practically bounding in with a coffee in hand, eyes bright. “Hey folks, just saw the ad. You’d think it was directed by Hollywood. Social media is losing it. I love it.” He clapped Cruz on the shoulder. “Not so bad having a wife who can produce blockbuster political content, huh?”
Cruz gave him a withering look. “You’re too chipper. I haven’t had enough coffee for that.”
He only grinned, unoffended. “I’ll brew a fresh pot.” Then, noticing Aaliyah’s cool stance and the faint hush swirling around them, he toned it down. “But yeah, we’re definitely responding to McNamara in the best possible way. Let’s keep up the momentum.”
Bobby checked her watch. “Time for a debrief,” she declared. “We need the next steps hammered out. Cruz, Aaliyah, can you both stay for a half hour while we finalize the campaign schedule for the next three days?”
Aaliyah nodded, sipping the last of her wine. “Of course.”
Cruz set her phone to silent, pushing away the last remnants of frustration. “Sure,” she said, though a dull ache persisted behind her temples. At least now she could see a path forward. She wasn’t alone, for better or worse.
Bobby signaled everyone to gather around the table, staffers taking seats, laptops reopened. The mood was tense but charged with possibility. As they reviewed the day’s timeline, the new social media angles, and the next wave of donor calls, Cruz realized that the main topic of conversation was no longer her rumored hypocrisy but the ad that had turned it on its head. Power married into integrity, indeed.
Halfway through the meeting, Bobby’s phone chimed. She tapped it, eyes scanning a message. A grin spread across her face. “Local polling’s showing minimal damage from McNamara’s piece,” she announced. “This might be the first time we’ve gained sympathy from an attack ad that big. They’re calling it ‘the blow that boomeranged.’ People love the Marine background spliced with the wedding shots, but on our terms, not McNamara’s. They see you as a real person, Cruz, with a wife who’s an asset, not a liability.”
Cruz let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Good,” she said simply, meeting Aaliyah’s gaze across the table. For once, she allowed a trace of gratitude to surface.
Aaliyah inclined her head. “Now that we’ve neutralized the immediate threat,” she said to the room, “we should escalate. Focus on a positive message that ties your record to a future blueprint for Texas. Show them that the wedding was one piece of your life, not a contradiction. Prove you can be married to a well-connected businesswoman and still fight for the everyday Texan. Because you are.”
Cruz studied Aaliyah carefully. The woman’s posture was impeccable, her expression unwavering. The sincerity in her words sounded genuine, though Cruz couldn’t fully be sure. “Alright,” she muttered, “we’ll do that.” She paused, then forced herself to add quietly, “Thank you.”
Aaliyah’s lips curved in a small, almost private smile. “You’re welcome, Senator.”
The hours that followed were a blur of phone calls, draft statements, and a constant flood of notifications on every device in the room. By noon, the new ad had racked up hundreds of thousands of views. Donors who’d been skittish the previous night started calling with pledges to reaffirm their support. On the campaign’s official page, a new wave of volunteers signed up in response to the galvanizing power of that short commercial. It’s working. The knowledge both soothed Cruz and unsettled her.
At some point, Randy returned with fresh coffee, placing a mug beside Cruz’s laptop. She murmured a “thanks,” sipping the strong brew in an effort to stay alert. She rubbed her temples again, the stress creeping back. Everything hinged on illusions—though illusions built on partial truth. Her record was real, her convictions genuine. Aaliyah’s presence was the main façade, yet it was also becoming a critical asset. She could taste the irony: She doesn’t trust me any more than I trust her, but we need each other.
In the late afternoon, Bobby had set up an internal press briefing. Cruz delivered a brief statement to local reporters, highlighting her longtime service to Texas and reaffirming that her marriage changed nothing about her stances. A question popped up about why Mrs. Manuelos had so much screen time in the new ad. Cruz paused, but before she could stumble, Aaliyah stepped in with that calm, articulate manner.
“Because we’re in this together,” she said, voice unwavering. “Texans deserve to know that I stand by Cruz’s policies fully, not passively.” Then she pinned the reporter with a direct look. “I find it curious that people expect me to be silent. I refuse. This is about Texas, all of us.”
The reporter had blinked, nodding hastily as if scolded. Cruz had suppressed a crooked smile. She’s unstoppable, she thought. And maybe that’s a good thing.
By early evening, the makeshift war room quieted a bit, staffers drifting out for takeout food or brief catnaps. Bobby guarded the door, phone always pinned to her ear, while Randy typed feverishly on a laptop, coordinating donors. Cruz found herself at the back of the room, leaning against a window, arms crossed, gazing out at the faint haze of the setting sun. Another day almost gone, another blow to the campaign averted. How many more hits can we take, though?
Aaliyah’s soft footsteps approached. She stood by Cruz, not quite looking at her. They lingered in companionable silence, each absorbing the hum of the printers and computers around them. Finally, Aaliyah spoke, voice low. “You did well today. Stood your ground without stooping to cheap shots.”
Cruz snorted quietly. “Thanks to your ad. I hate to admit it, but it’s brilliant.”
She felt more than saw Aaliyah’s slight shift, an acknowledgement. “I told you, this is a partnership,” she said, a gentle but resolute statement. “We fight best when we use every advantage we have, together.”
Cruz glanced at her ring, the gold band glinting in the overhead fluorescent. Together. She nodded slowly, letting the tension in her chest ease a fraction. “Alright,” she said softly. “Let’s keep fighting, then.”
Somewhere near the table, Bobby’s phone chimed again, and she hurried off with exasperated excitement. The sun sank lower, painting the horizon in shades of amber and rose. The day had begun in darkness, overshadowed by an attack ad that threatened everything. Now, it ended with a sense of cautious victory. We’re still in the fight, Cruz thought, a swirl of relief and determination spurring her on.
As the office slowly cleared, staffers heading home or to crash in campaign bunkrooms, Cruz found herself alone with Aaliyah by the large window. The city lights blinked on, a slow wave of luminescence across the skyline. She studied the reflection of her ring in the glass. A carefully curated union, she reminded herself, but one that had given them the upper hand in a day that could have destroyed them.
Aaliyah turned, meeting Cruz’s gaze. For a fleeting moment, an unspoken understanding passed between them: an acceptance that they’d waged a campaign of illusions and half-truths, yet in doing so, they might just secure the real change they’d both claimed to believe in. Cruz managed a tired, but genuine smile, which Aaliyah returned in kind, albeit with her characteristic poise. They might not fully trust each other, but for this fleeting instant, they shared a sense of mutual respect.
Thus ended the first real shot fired in what would become a full-blown political war. One day’s battle was won, though many more lay ahead. With a final glance at each other, they parted ways in the quiet office, the night whispering through the cracked windows. Tomorrow, the fight would continue, but tonight, at least, they could rest knowing they had fended off McNamara’s savage thrust. And in the hush that followed, Cruz felt the faint spark of relief that maybe they had the upper hand now.
The house was bathed in a soft, late-night hush, as though every wall, every piece of furniture had drifted into a patient doze. Outside, the world was still wide awake: distant traffic and the faint glow of streetlights lay beyond the carefully manicured grounds, but within these glass walls, time felt suspended. The only sound punctuating the silence was the subdued hum of the air conditioning, keeping the warm Texas night at bay.
In the living room, overhead lights were dimmed to a mellow glow. Cruz sat slouched on a low-slung couch of white leather that gleamed faintly under the subtle illumination. Her posture was far from the rigid bearing she usually displayed onstage. Tonight, she looked drained, shoulders slumped, hair pulled into a loose, haphazard tie at the nape of her neck. A whiskey glass rested in her right hand, and in her left, she held her phone—though she wasn’t actively scrolling. Instead, she stared at it like it might spring to life and bite her.
She was exhausted but restless. Late-night political talk shows had been running segments about her campaign nonstop. Hosts chatted enthusiastically about her recent surge in the polls, about the formidable presence of her wife. The swirl of coverage seemed unrelenting.
The phone buzzed once more with a new notification. Cruz huffed, thumbing the screen open to see another wave of social media reactions. They were all the same: clips from her latest rally, from the campaign ad that had gone viral, from the interview in the honeymoon suite. Especially the interview. She gritted her teeth, scanning a few highlighted tweets:
“Cruz and Aaliyah are unstoppable.”
“Actual power couple, can’t wait to vote for them.”
“Cruz is so awkward it’s adorable, and Aaliyah’s got that queen energy.”
“I don’t care if it’s staged, I love them.”
A swirl of conflicting emotions knotted in Cruz’s chest. This media frenzy was exactly what she’d needed to stand a fighting chance against her well-funded opponent. The public was devouring this improbable romance: the gritty war hero turned senator and the poised billionaire heiress. It captured hearts, garnered sympathy, boosted her poll numbers. It was perfect.
And it felt like it was spinning out of her control.
She set the phone aside, letting it clatter onto the glass coffee table. The whiskey in her other hand sloshed, and she took a slow sip, savoring the burn at the back of her throat. Maybe it would numb the growing unease. Maybe it would drown out the voice reminding her that none of this was real. The more the public believed, the more she felt like a fraud in her own campaign.
Across the room, perched in a sleek armchair, sat Aaliyah. Even at this late hour, she appeared flawlessly composed. She wore a satin blouse in a deep emerald shade that set off the soft glow of her skin, and her legs were crossed with effortless elegance. A cup of tea balanced on the armrest, steam curling upward in delicate wisps. Her manicured nails tapped gently against a tablet propped on her lap, the screen reflecting data that Cruz knew was likely poll numbers, donation breakdowns, maybe the latest trending hashtags.
Cruz watched her for a moment, silently. There was something so precise, so irritatingly regal about the way Aaliyah moved: her back never quite touching the chair, her posture impeccable, as though cameras might still be rolling. And yet, for the first time in weeks, Cruz found herself noticing more than just the perfection. She noticed the subtle tension in Aaliyah’s shoulders. She noticed how the corner of Aaliyah’s mouth twitched whenever a new alert appeared on the screen, as if stifling a flash of worry or relief. Beneath that veneer of control, there was a human being.
Cruz’s gaze lingered a second too long, and she coughed lightly, tearing her eyes away. Focus, Manuelos. You’re not here to admire her. She’s your biggest headache, remember?
Aaliyah didn’t look up from her tablet as she spoke, her voice soft and controlled. “We’re closing the gap,” she said. Tapping the screen, she scrolled a bit more. “Two more points, and we’ll be tied with McNamara.” There was no exclamation of excitement, no giddy triumph—just a calm statement, like reading an unremarkable statistic from a stock portfolio.
Cruz forced out a scoff. “We?” She tugged at the collar of her T-shirt beneath her half-unzipped jacket. The hint of heat in the living room felt suddenly stifling.
At that, Aaliyah’s gaze lifted. The faint glow from a nearby floor lamp illuminated her features—delicate cheekbones, polished makeup that had probably been flawless at dawn and remained so now. Her eyes, a soft green or grey (Cruz couldn’t quite tell in the muted light), found Cruz’s with a kind of amused challenge. “Yes. We,” she repeated calmly. “Unless you’ve got another fiancée waiting in the wings who’s boosting your polls.”
Cruz clenched her jaw, swirling the remaining whiskey in her glass. She despised the smug note that snuck into Aaliyah’s tone, though she couldn’t deny that the heiress had earned at least some of it. The campaign was skyrocketing precisely because of the carefully orchestrated narrative around their marriage.
She drained the glass and set it beside her phone. “I remember a time when I didn’t have to rely on big-money donors and billionaires’ daughters,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.
Aaliyah arched a perfectly shaped brow. “Reminiscing about the good old days, Senator?” Her voice was lightly teasing, but not hostile. “I would’ve assumed you’d appreciate the help right now, seeing as it’s your name on those ballots.”
A flicker of tension passed through Cruz’s chest. “Don’t remind me,” she said, leaning her head against the back of the couch and staring at the ceiling. She let out a slow breath, the lines of her face etched with fatigue. “It’s just—this is bigger than me now, bigger than the campaign I started. It’s about us, apparently.” A dryness crept into her tone on that last word.
For a moment, Aaliyah didn’t reply. She swiped to another screen on her tablet, presumably checking the latest wave of social media responses. The hush between them was not the usual antagonistic quiet. It felt almost reflective, like both were taking a step back from the endless bickering that had defined their arrangement.
Eventually, Aaliyah spoke, her voice gentler than usual. “This was never going to be small.” She locked the tablet, placing it on the arm of the chair. “You’re a Marine turned senator, and I’m…” She trailed off, letting that thought fill the space. “I’m my father’s daughter, for better or worse. Two high-profile worlds colliding—how could it be anything but grand?”
Cruz lifted her gaze to Aaliyah and found the woman looking at her directly, unguarded. In that moment, the glimmer of Aaliyah’s eyes seemed less like a carefully engineered façade and more like genuine compassion—or at least understanding. And damn if Cruz didn’t find herself momentarily captivated. She’d always acknowledged Aaliyah’s beauty: anyone with eyes could see that. But she’d never really noticed how that beauty, combined with a certain softness in her expression, could unearth a pang of longing in Cruz’s chest. A longing she tamped down instantly.
She forced a laugh, throaty and sarcastic. “Well, you handle it like it’s second nature,” she said. “Sometimes I think you’d be just as comfortable running your own campaign, if it came down to it.”
Aaliyah inclined her head. “I’ve been trained for this kind of social maneuvering since birth,” she said softly. “But I won’t pretend it’s easy. This arrangement, in particular, has been…challenging.”
Challenging was a mild word for two people forced to share a roof, orchestrate a fake marriage, and pretend to be deeply in love under the public microscope. Cruz pressed her lips together, torn between bitterness and a flicker of empathy. She’d never liked Aaliyah’s world of polished wealth, and Aaliyah had made it clear she found Cruz’s rough edges a constant annoyance. Yet here they were, forging an unstoppable force, at least in the public’s eye.
Her phone vibrated again—a fresh wave of tweets, retweets, articles. The conversation on late-night news shows must have looped back to the “Cruz and Aaliyah phenomenon.” She almost didn’t want to look.
“You know,” Aaliyah ventured, her gaze lingering on the whiskey glass now empty on the table, “you’re allowed to enjoy the fact that people love this. That they love you. It doesn’t have to feel like a betrayal of your roots.”
Cruz stiffened. A part of her bristled at the suggestion that she was longing for validation. But a deeper part recognized that Aaliyah had a point. She’d built her career on honesty, on being herself, and now the entire nation was charmed by a version of her that was partly real, partly manufactured for the cameras. Maybe that was what stung—knowing that while they adored her transformation, they weren’t seeing the pure reality.
“I just—” Cruz paused, pressing her palms flat on her thighs. “I used to know exactly who I was. Then I stepped onto the campaign trail for governor, and every day, I feel like I lose a bit more control.” She cast a glance at Aaliyah. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe I should just grin and bear it.”
In the quiet that followed, the air conditioner kicked on again, a soft whoosh of cool air that made the curtains flutter. Aaliyah’s phone chimed with a soft alert—likely more polls or social media commentary. She checked it quickly, tapping out a short response.
“According to the latest numbers,” she said, placing her phone aside, “people are calling us unstoppable. They’re enthralled by the war hero and the billionaire’s daughter forging a political empire.” A laugh, soft and ironic, escaped her. “They’re practically salivating for the next chapter.”
Cruz huffed, sinking into the cushions. “Yeah, well, let them salivate. I just want to make it to election night without losing my mind.” Despite her sharp words, the corners of her mouth curved up in a faint smile. “And maybe not kill each other in the process,” she added, tone lighter than before.
Aaliyah mirrored the faint smile. “Agreed. Though I imagine Bobby would riot if either of us ended up in jail for murder.” She paused, then reached for her tea, sipping it with a slow, reflective air. “Truth be told, I…didn’t think I’d get used to this. Our arrangement. But it’s getting easier, in some ways.”
Cruz stared. Was that the faintest confession that Aaliyah was also struggling? For a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. Ultimately, she just nodded, letting the gravity of the moment fill the space.
“Yeah,” she said at last, voice subdued. “Guess it is.”
Neither spoke for a few heartbeats. They simply sat there, bathed in the dim lamplight, aware that tomorrow would bring new headlines, new talk show speculation, new lies to maintain. But for now, the hush felt almost comforting, a brief interlude in the ongoing performance.
After a while, Cruz let out a slow breath and rose from the couch, reaching for the empty whiskey glass. “I’m calling it a night,” she announced, voice gruff to mask the flicker of nerves that her admission had dredged up. “You want any more tea or whatever you fancy people drink at midnight?” The question emerged more playful than scornful.
Aaliyah smirked, setting her cup down. “I’ll manage, darling,” she said with a hint of amusement. “But thank you for asking.” That last part, though mild, felt like the first genuine courtesy they’d exchanged in days.
Cruz lingered a moment, grappling with an odd surge of warmth. Then she nodded and turned away, phone in one hand, glass in the other. As she crossed the threshold toward the hallway, the reflection of the living room in the polished floor glinted at her: a woman perched regally in an armchair, and a battered senator stepping away into shadows. Yet somehow, they weren’t adversaries at this moment. They were co-conspirators sharing a victory that neither could fully claim alone.
She disappeared around the corner, the sound of her footsteps fading. Aaliyah remained in the quiet living room, eyes lingering on the spot where Cruz had sat. Outside, late-night talk show pundits no doubt continued dissecting the unstoppable new power couple, but inside, they were just two people—each fighting for something bigger than themselves, neither quite sure what was happening beneath the surface of their polished performance.