September 2nd
The transformation of Manuelos Campaign Headquarters was impossible to miss. Not long ago, the fluorescent-lit warren of offices and cubicles had felt drained of energy, inhabited by aides who dragged themselves from one phone call to the next. They had battled exhaustion, frustration, and the ever-present knowledge that Senator Cruz Manuelos was trailing behind McNamara with few realistic hopes of catching up.
Now, everything crackled with life and urgency. Rows of staffers hunched over laptops that gleamed with updated polling data, phone lines lit up with donors—real donors—seeking direct lines to the candidate. Desks were cluttered not with stale coffee cups but fresh documents detailing new contributions, upcoming rallies, and invitations to high-profile political events. Conversations buzzed with optimism, as if everyone, collectively, had decided that losing was no longer an option.
Bobby, the campaign manager who’d practically lived in these offices for months, surveyed the controlled chaos with a mix of pride and relief. Her sneakers tapped against the scuffed linoleum floor as she ducked between staffers’ workstations, checking on progress. She could almost taste the excitement—like electricity that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Mere weeks ago, she’d half expected to find the staff crying in the break room from the stress. Now, they were beaming at the thought of what was coming next.
The reason was splashed across every screen in the headquarters: the polling data. Senator Cruz Manuelos was now a single point ahead of Joe McNamara in the race for Governor of Texas. A near-miracle, considering that just weeks prior, McNamara had reigned from a double-digit lead, bolstered by big-money donors and decades of establishment ties.
Bobby hurried into the main conference room—a long, rectangular space dominated by a broad wooden table and a bank of monitors along one wall. Each monitor displayed a different set of numbers: trending poll aggregates, fundraising totals, demographic breakdowns. She flung herself into a rolling chair at one corner of the table, where an open laptop blinked with fresh notifications.
“This is it,” she announced, hardly containing her grin as she reviewed the latest figures. “This is the shift we needed.”
Her voice echoed against the plaster walls, competing with the faint hum of the air conditioning. Cruz, seated at the head of the table, lifted her eyes from a stack of papers. She wore a short-sleeved button-down and jeans—an outfit that reflected her working-class roots and her reluctance to dress for flash. Her posture was tense, but not from hopelessness this time. It was the tension of someone gripping the reins of a bucking horse that she was now, surprisingly, guiding in the right direction.
Cruz’s gaze locked on the monitors. They displayed bar graphs in bright colors: a wave of new donors, a spike in social media approval, and, most critically, a line that now placed her above McNamara—albeit by the slimmest of margins. She pressed her lips together, then exhaled in a measured way. Relief and disbelief warred in her expression.
She murmured, “Yeah. We’re closing the gap.” As if speaking it out loud might jinx everything.
Bobby gave a nod, eyes still flicking between the screens and her own laptop. “More than closing. We’ve practically overtaken. Your numbers shot up after the debate. We’re getting major donors who wouldn’t even return our calls before.” Her grin widened. “They’ve seen you as the underdog for too long. Now they’re smelling victory.”
The mention of major donors made Cruz shift in her seat, a prickle of discomfort coloring her face. She had always run on grassroots funding—small donations, union support, and the power of everyday Texans. Now, corporations and high-society elites were courting her. She swallowed against the bitterness that rose in her throat. She had spent years raging against corporate PAC money, yet here she was, married to an heiress, watching fancy checks roll in.
“Even McNamara’s attack ads aren’t sticking anymore,” Bobby continued, tapping furiously on her keyboard to open a new set of analytics. “People love the ‘Cruz and Aaliyah’ story. They bought it. The marriage, the unity, the ‘power couple’ narrative—it’s working, Cruz. They’re calling it the biggest political romance in Texas since… well, ever.”
Cruz’s jaw tightened. “Ironic, isn’t it? That we needed a fake marriage to push us over the edge.”
Bobby’s typing paused, and she glanced up. “You call it fake, but you stepped in for her during that debate, remember? That was real. People saw it. They saw you, defending your wife—and they loved it.”
Cruz’s shoulders tensed at the memory of that debate. McNamara had attacked not just her campaign, but the validity of her marriage. Cruz had fired back, telling McNamara to keep her wife out of cheap political shots. And the audience had roared. It had been the closest thing to authenticity in the entire staged arrangement—something that had come from her gut rather than from a script.
“It wasn’t about love,” she grumbled. “It was about the principle of the thing—she was going after Aaliyah to score cheap points.”
“Sure,” Bobby replied, her tone flat. “But the voters don’t see it that way. They see a war-hero-turned-senator protecting her wife, refusing to let a rich politician tear her down. That resonates.”
Cruz swallowed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She hated how necessary the optics were. “Don’t remind me,” she muttered. “Policy should matter more than who the world thinks I’m sleeping with.” Her face heated slightly at the words. She and Aaliyah might share a roof, but that was the extent of their marital intimacy.
Bobby rolled her eyes. “You’re overthinking it. Enjoy the win.” She turned back to her screen. The chirp of Slack notifications and the ring of multiple phones merged into a cacophony. In every direction, staffers jumped to answer.
For a moment, Cruz stared at the data: the rising lines of approval, the big, bold text showing her at 46% to McNamara’s 45. So close. So precarious. If she stumbled now… no, she couldn’t think like that. She had to keep pushing.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway. Aaliyah stepped into the conference room, her presence immediately drawing glances from the staffers stationed at monitors along the walls. She wore a pale pink blazer over a sleek top, paired with tailored trousers and heels that gave her an air of unflappable confidence. A single gold pendant gleamed at her collarbone, subtle but expensive. Her posture was regal, even in a busy campaign office.
Cruz felt her pulse jump, though she tried to hide it behind a neutral expression. She still wasn’t used to the visceral reaction she sometimes had to Aaliyah’s presence—an awareness of the woman’s polished beauty that made Cruz’s chest feel tight. She forced herself to exhale slowly. This was the deal. This was the arrangement. Don’t let your feelings show.
Aaliyah crossed to Bobby’s side, gazing at the monitors. “I see everything’s on track,” she remarked, voice poised. “Approval ratings, funding boosts, positive media sentiment… it’s all lined up.”
Cruz grunted softly. “Glad you approve.”
Aaliyah arched an eyebrow, the corner of her lips curving into a faint smile. “I merely acknowledge the facts. You give me too much credit if you think I orchestrated all of it.”
“You orchestrated plenty,” Cruz grumbled, crossing her arms.
Bobby shut her laptop. “Right—lovebirds, let’s keep the banter to a minimum today. We have a big event tonight.”
Cruz’s upper lip curled. “The gala. Right. Where I get to dress up and pretend I’m best friends with a bunch of wealthy donors. My favorite.”
Aaliyah smirked, flicking an invisible speck of dust off her blazer. “You mean you don’t relish the idea of discussing tax breaks with retired oil barons over champagne?”
A short laugh escaped Cruz. “I’d rather run a marathon in flip-flops.”
Bobby snorted. “Look, you can hate it all you want, but this gala is key. Big donors, big press. It’s not just about money anymore. It’s about showing the establishment that you’re ready to sit at the grown-ups’ table.” She pinned Cruz with a serious look. “No screw-ups. We’re almost there.”
Cruz sighed. “Yeah, yeah.”
Aaliyah folded her arms, the subdued gold of her bracelet catching the overhead light. “I have a new dress coming in,” she said, tone casual but laced with meaning. “A show of elegance for your supporters. And for the cameras, of course.”
Cruz’s mouth twitched. She could just see it: Aaliyah gliding through a sea of tuxedos, turning every head, commanding conversations with that quiet steel behind her flawless exterior. Meanwhile, Cruz would feel like a fish out of water, tugging at the collar of her formal suit and hoping she didn’t step on someone’s toe.
Bobby hopped to her feet. “Six hours to the event. I need to confirm catering, background checks for the security detail, and coordinate with the venue about seating. You two should go get ready. Try not to kill each other in the meantime.”
Cruz stood, rolling her shoulders. “I’ll do my best, but no promises if some donor starts spouting corporate nonsense.”
“That’s exactly the attitude we’re trying to avoid, Senator,” Bobby scolded, eyes narrowing.
Aaliyah pursed her lips in mock sympathy. “Just remember, darling—you’re playing a role. And from the looks of it, you’re not half-bad.”
Cruz narrowed her eyes. “Thanks, princess. Appreciate the vote of confidence.”
Ignoring the tension that hovered between them, Bobby grabbed her phone and hustled out, already engaged in a frantic call with the fundraiser coordinator. The ring of phones and the clack of keyboards intensified as the door swung shut, leaving Cruz and Aaliyah in a muted hush.
A staffer at a nearby desk glanced over, likely curious about the dynamic. Cruz offered the staffer a curt nod, and Aaliyah swept past with cool grace, leaving the conference room.
Cruz followed a step behind, her gaze inadvertently drifting to the subtle sway of Aaliyah’s hips. She caught herself looking and forced her eyes to the side, annoyed at the involuntary reaction. She had long since accepted that Aaliyah was attractive—anyone with eyes could see that. But the notion of feeling drawn to her, especially after months of antagonism, tied Cruz’s stomach in knots.
They walked through the main bullpen of the headquarters. Staffers parted to let them pass, giving polite, congratulatory smiles or quick updates on scheduling. In return, Aaliyah nodded with her trademark politeness, while Cruz mumbled “Thanks” or “Great job” to each. The hum of printers and the soft shuffle of people leaning over desks gave the space an undercurrent of relentless momentum.
Reaching the hallway that led to their private offices, Aaliyah slowed, pressing a button on her phone. “I’ve arranged for a small group of out-of-state donors to get VIP access tonight,” she remarked. “Friends of my father’s, mostly. Old money, but they’ve been fence-sitters. This could solidify their support.”
Cruz suppressed an eye-roll. “Great. More suits telling me how to run the state.”
Aaliyah’s eyes glimmered with mild amusement. “They’ll be telling you how much money they’re willing to give. There’s a difference.”
They arrived at the door to Cruz’s office. She paused, hand on the doorknob, turning to face Aaliyah. For a moment, neither spoke. She noticed the faint sheen of stress in Aaliyah’s eyes, the micro-frown lines at her brow as if some underlying tension weighed on her, too. She recalled that the last fundraiser they attended had gone smoothly only because Aaliyah had guided her through each introduction like a well-rehearsed dance. Much as she hated to admit it, Cruz needed Aaliyah’s polish to navigate the labyrinth of donors and power brokers.
Cruz inhaled. “Thanks… for setting that up,” she said, voice quieter, more genuine than usual. “I know it’s not easy for you either.”
A flicker of surprise crossed Aaliyah’s face, quickly masked by a small, composed nod. “I can handle it,” she replied, but her tone carried a hint of something softer. “See you at home, Senator.”
She turned and walked down the hall, heels tapping. Cruz stood there, the door half-open behind her, watching Aaliyah’s retreating figure. She hated how her gaze traveled, how she found herself admiring the lines of Aaliyah’s suit, how the pastel color complemented her complexion. She reminded herself this was all for show—just an arrangement to boost the campaign. Yet, something in her chest tightened at the thought of them facing the gala together, side by side, pretending to be in love.
Stepping into her office, Cruz dropped into the worn leather chair behind her desk. She glanced at a corner shelf where she’d propped a small photo of her Force Recon unit—a reminder of who she’d been, and who she’d vowed to remain. She thought about the upcoming gala: the handshake tours with donors, the polite applause, the small talk about stock portfolios.
But she also imagined, for a fleeting moment, dancing with Aaliyah under glittering chandeliers, cameras snapping from every angle, the two of them exuding confidence. If she was honest, something about that scene sent a charge through her veins—part nerves, part something else she refused to name.
Closing her eyes, she allowed herself a moment of stillness in the swirl of deadlines and obligations. She recalled how Aaliyah had looked when she stepped into the conference room: poised, unflinching, yet faintly burdened by the demands of being both an heiress and a political wife. Cruz wondered if Aaliyah disliked these fundraisers as much as she did, or if she thrived on them, the same way a seasoned performer relishes the stage.
Regardless, the numbers didn’t lie—they were winning now. In politics, winning often required bending your ideals, forging alliances you’d never have imagined. And, apparently, it could require marrying a polished heiress who turned out to be more than the sum of her designer outfits.
Cruz breathed out heavily, then shoved aside the swirl of conflicting thoughts. She had to prepare for the gala: pick out a suit that didn’t look too cheap, practice her small talk, brace herself for the forced smiles. If this was the price of victory—if it moved her one step closer to reforming veteran healthcare, boosting education funding, and actually serving the people of Texas—she’d pay it. She’d pay it for as long as it took.
Still, an unwelcome little voice at the back of her mind wondered if she was simply rationalizing. If, underneath the idealistic veneer, she wanted to be near Aaliyah, to see her shine under the spotlight, to stand at her side. That voice was a distraction, and Cruz silenced it with a grim set of her jaw. She had promises to keep—promises to the voters, to her staff, to everyone who believed in her vision.
Outside her office, the campaign staff bustled with renewed vigor, celebrating each new donor email, each new poll that swung in their favor. The hum of success was seductive, almost drowning out the cost. Almost.
Cruz glanced at the time. Five hours left before she had to leave for the gala. That gave her just enough time to shower, find a decent tux or suit, and try not to punch a mirror out of frustration. She’d endure the speeches, the toasts, the photo ops. She’d stand next to Aaliyah, who would look effortlessly stunning, and they’d present the perfect front to the moneyed elite of Texas. Because that was what the campaign demanded.
Leaning back, she let the tension bleed from her shoulders. This was the calm before the social storm. Her staff deserved the new wave of optimism, and she wouldn’t rob them of it. She wouldn’t let her personal misgivings ruin the victory they had all fought so hard to achieve.
Unbidden, her mind drifted to how Aaliyah’s hair caught the light, or the way her carefully chosen words could charm an entire room in seconds. She shook her head. Focus, Manuelos, she told herself. This is politics. Nothing more.
But deep down, she felt that subtle shift in her own heart, a crack forming in the armor she’d worn for so long. The marriage might have started as an act, but the lines between performance and reality had begun to blur. She didn’t hate the woman—no, not anymore—and that knowledge unsettled her far more than any of McNamara’s attack ads.
Pushing those thoughts aside, she rested her elbows on the desk, returning to the charts and updates Bobby had handed her. They were winning, and that came with a price. One day, maybe she’d look back and wonder if it had all been worth it. For now, she’d keep her head in the game. The gala beckoned, the donors beckoned, and Aaliyah’s presence lingered in the back of her mind, as persistent as a heartbeat.
Outside, the campaign staff continued to revel in their newfound momentum, and Cruz steeled herself for the next battle—a battle fought, ironically, in a ballroom filled with champagne flutes and designer gowns. She told herself once again that she’d do anything—be anything—if it meant she could win for the people who counted on her. Even if it required wearing the mask of a perfect politician standing beside her perfect wife.
She gathered the necessary documents for the gala, scanning the guest list and memorizing key names. She’d ask about their businesses, their families, even their golf handicaps if that was what it took. She’d stand at Aaliyah’s side, letting the cameras capture their every scripted glance, every small touch.
Because in the end, it wasn’t about the gala or the fancy donors; it was about the voters who believed in Cruz’s promise of change. And for them, she’d play any part she had to. That, at least, felt like enough to get her through the night.
Cruz stood in front of the ornate mirror, fidgeting with the crisp cuff of her navy blue tuxedo. The suite around her gleamed with evidence of wealth: polished marble floors that reflected the chandelier’s warm glow, plush armchairs upholstered in gold-threaded fabric, and sweeping floor-to-ceiling windows draped in expensive silks. Everything about the space radiated grandeur and—if she was being honest—made her feel like an outsider trespassing in someone else’s world.
She lifted her chin, surveying her reflection with a skeptical eye. The tux was impeccably tailored. Expensive. The black lapels were a stark contrast against the deep navy body, giving off a refined, understated elegance. By all accounts, she should have felt confident, even proud. Instead, a small furrow creased her brow. The shoes pinched her toes just enough to make her grit her teeth, a subtle reminder that this wasn’t her usual territory.
“This is just a bunch of rich people drinking overpriced champagne and pretending they care about policy,” Cruz muttered, giving the lapel a final, irritated tug. Her reflection in the mirror stared back with an expression torn between resolve and dread. She rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the knot of tension that had gathered there.
On the far side of the suite, Aaliyah stood at a vanity, slipping on a pair of diamond-drop earrings. She caught Cruz’s remark clearly. With a graceful turn of her head, she pinned Cruz with a faintly amused look through the mirror’s reflection. One sculpted brow arched upward.
“That’s precisely what it is,” Aaliyah replied, voice as smooth as the silk skirt swirling around her legs. She was radiant in a gold dress that accentuated the rich warmth of her complexion. Diamond bracelets glinted at her wrists, and the matching ring on her finger caught the lamplight with every slight motion of her hand. “And you need them.”
Cruz let out a quiet huff. “I hate that.” It came out more subdued than she’d intended, an admission of defeat rather than a challenge. She’d have preferred to sound defiant or sarcastic, but the truth was the truth.
Aaliyah’s lips curved in a faint smirk, and her gaze swept over Cruz. “You hate a lot of things, habibti.”
Cruz noted the switch from an Arabic endearment to another—though she’d learned bits and pieces of the language by now, she wasn’t always sure which words meant what. All she knew was that Aaliyah used them to simultaneously charm and disarm. She fought the urge to respond with a quip, instead focusing on how the gown molded to Aaliyah’s figure, and how every accessory seemed to be chosen to highlight the dress’s jeweled tones. It was… beautiful. A part of her, one that she tried to shove aside, found Aaliyah’s elegance mesmerizing.
Her gaze flicked back to the mirror, and she tried to push away the creeping thought. This was all an act. Don’t get attached, she reminded herself. You might look good in a tux, but this is a mission—like so many others. Only, instead of enemy bullets, there were donors, cameras, and suspicious political rivals waiting to see if she’d slip up.
Aaliyah caught the brief silence, turning to face her fully. “You’re tense,” she observed, stepping closer. The quiet click of her heels over the polished marble seemed to echo in the hush of the suite. “Breathe.”
Cruz lifted an eyebrow. “I’m tense because I’m about to walk into a room full of billionaires who—”
She never finished. Aaliyah closed the distance, raising her hands to adjust the collar of Cruz’s tuxedo with precise, unhurried fingers. Instantly, Cruz felt her breath snag in her throat. The soft rustle of Aaliyah’s dress whispered through the space between them. She smelled faintly of something heady and expensive—jasmine, maybe, with a sharp undertone of spice.
Warm fingers lingered at the base of Cruz’s collar, smoothing out the fabric. The measured closeness made Cruz acutely aware of how intimately they stood, face to face. Outside a mission or a TV interview, they rarely allowed themselves to breach this sort of personal boundary. But here they were, quietly locked in each other’s personal space.
Aaliyah glanced up, her green eyes meeting Cruz’s. “Try not to scowl all night.” There was the barest tease in her voice, tempered by something softer. Cruz wasn’t entirely sure if it was genuine concern or a well-practiced act. She decided to believe it was both.
With a dry swallow, Cruz forced her eyes away, focusing on the ornate pattern of the carpet. “Fine,” she said, struggling to sound composed. She stepped back, the stiff tux pressing against her shoulders as if reminding her of everything she’d sworn to tolerate for the sake of the campaign.
She fidgeted with her cuff links again, exhaling slowly, trying to quell the odd flutter in her stomach. “But you owe me,” she grumbled in a last attempt to reclaim some sense of control.
Aaliyah’s mouth curved into a knowing smile, and she turned back to the vanity, smoothing her hair one final time. “I’m already repaying you.” She retrieved a small gold tube of lipstick and applied a subtle tint, blotting it with practiced ease. “In collecting six-figure donations. That should soothe your wounded pride, habibti.”
Cruz let out a theatrical groan, though her lips quirked with the faintest trace of humor. “Sure,” she muttered. “As if that makes wearing these shoes worth it.”
For a moment, they fell quiet, the only sound the hum of the overhead light and the distant murmur of traffic from many floors below. Aaliyah shifted to look at Cruz again, scanning her from head to toe like an appraiser evaluating a priceless piece of art. “You clean up well, you know,” she said softly. “If you just relaxed your shoulders, you might enjoy it a bit.”
“I doubt it,” Cruz fired back, but without real heat. She risked meeting Aaliyah’s gaze, seeing the faint glimmer of amusement there. Something about that shimmer made her pulse skitter, made her wonder if maybe beneath the polished veneer, Aaliyah had her own brand of heart—someone Cruz could have… liked, if circumstances were different.
“Are we done playing dress-up?” Cruz asked finally, swinging her arms in an attempt to loosen them. “I’m half-dreading the moment we walk in, and half-wanting to get it over with.”
Aaliyah nodded, checking her reflection once more. Satisfied, she turned on her heel, emerald skirt flaring gently around her ankles. “We are. Let’s go. The donors are waiting.”
“Lead the way, oh gracious hostess,” Cruz muttered, following her to the door. As they stepped into the hallway, the plush carpets softened their footsteps, carrying them toward the gilded elevator that would whisk them down to the ballroom.
They didn’t speak for a few moments. Standing side by side in the private elevator, they stared at the descending numbers, each lost in thought. Cruz discreetly studied Aaliyah’s profile in the mirrored doors: the refined sweep of her cheekbones, the delicate line of her nose, the way her eyelashes curled. She thought, fleetingly, that Aaliyah really was beautiful—objectively so. And not just physically. She’d seen flashes of genuine care, quick wit, a willingness to do what needed to be done. Cruz wasn’t sure if that counted as moral fortitude or pure pragmatism, but either way, it impressed her more than she liked to admit.
Aaliyah, for her part, glanced at Cruz’s reflection: the stern set of her jaw, the unwavering dark eyes that revealed more honesty than Cruz probably realized. In her Marine blues, Cruz radiated a certain composed power, but this tux offered a different silhouette—sleeker, maybe even elegant. It almost made Aaliyah’s breath catch to think how effortlessly striking Cruz looked, if only she’d own it.
Stepping out of the elevator, they emerged into a lavishly decorated corridor leading to the gala’s main hall. The grand doors were propped open, revealing glittering chandeliers, a sea of black-tie attire, and waiters circulating with trays of champagne flutes. The hum of polite laughter and conversation washed over them.
Cruz paused, scanning the room with a soldier’s instinct—assessing exits, gauging angles, and feeling wholly out of place. Aaliyah placed a cool hand on her arm, guiding her forward. “Relax,” she whispered, leaning close enough that her breath brushed Cruz’s ear. “This is the battlefield tonight. Think of it as any other mission. Except the weapons are wallets.”
Cruz let out a small, shaky laugh that turned into a cough. She was grateful Aaliyah had the sense to keep her voice low. The woman was right. This was a mission. She could do this.
They entered the ballroom, the wave of chatter pausing briefly as heads swiveled in their direction. Photographers near the stage raised their cameras for a shot. Cruz felt a spike of discomfort tighten her stomach, but she set her jaw and forced her features into a neutral half-smile.
Aaliyah slid her hand from Cruz’s arm to loop it gracefully through the crook of her elbow. “Shall we make the rounds, Senator?” she asked, voice lilting with practiced charm. “I believe some of these donors want to meet the future governor.”
Cruz drew in a deep breath and nodded, letting Aaliyah steer them toward a small group of people in tailored suits and glittering jewelry. She was careful to keep her head high, shoulders squared, ignoring the pinch in her shoes and the flutter in her chest from Aaliyah’s easy warmth at her side. One step at a time, she reminded herself.
This was the moment she had dreaded. This was the show they had signed up for. And for a second, as she caught sight of Aaliyah’s poised expression and the smooth way she introduced them to the nearest donors, Cruz couldn’t help but marvel at how effective they were as a team—this mismatched duo forced into an arrangement neither asked for, yet playing the role so well. Through the glitz and chaos of the event, she found she couldn’t entirely hate it, not when her partner in this charade was someone who, beneath that polished exterior, might be more genuine than she ever realized.
And as the cameras flashed again, capturing the two of them in perfect unison, Cruz reminded herself to breathe, shoulders relaxing just a fraction. Maybe she didn’t belong in this world. But for tonight, she’d fake it. And maybe—just maybe—she’d discover a piece of herself that was okay with that.
The ballroom hummed with subdued energy, the sort of carefully orchestrated buzz that comes when wealth, power, and political ambition collide behind closed doors. Chandeliers dangled like crystalline constellations, throwing dappled light over clusters of Texas high society and influential donors. Ornate floral arrangements decked every corner, perfuming the air with a rich, heady sweetness. Beneath it all, voices mingled in low, polite conversation—discussing policy one moment, personal gossip the next—all with an undercurrent of sharp strategy.
Cruz stood near a table of artfully arranged hors d’oeuvres, feeling like prey dropped into a den of snakes. Her Marine instincts told her to stay alert, watch for hidden threats, keep an exit plan in mind. Except this battlefield had no rifles or camouflage—only deals made over champagne flutes and silent glances exchanged among power brokers.
She adjusted the collar of her suit jacket, inwardly wishing she could bolt to the safety of a back door. But tonight, there was no easy retreat. This was the campaign fundraiser that could shape her run for governor—maybe seal her victory if she made the right impression. Or bury her hopes entirely if she messed up.
Across the room, Aaliyah looked positively in her element. Draped in a sleek silk gown that shimmered with every step, she drifted from one high-profile table to another, greeting men and women who’d spent decades entrenched in the state’s political machine. She wore diamonds at her ears, a matching bracelet at her wrist, and a demure but knowing smile that charmed each new face she encountered.
Cruz couldn’t help noticing the way Aaliyah’s hair swayed across her bare shoulders when she turned, or how the gown’s low-cut back accentuated her every movement. It stirred something in Cruz that she forced herself to ignore. This was all pretend, she reminded herself. They needed these connections, needed to look like the polished, unstoppable couple. And Aaliyah provided that shine with an uncanny ease.
Aaliyah caught her eye from across the crowd and beckoned with a graceful tilt of her chin. No words exchanged, yet Cruz felt compelled to follow. It was a performance they were mastering: Aaliyah weaving political alliances, Cruz lending her presence and “authenticity,” each relying on the other in ways that chafed at Cruz’s independence. She braced herself, stepping away from the table to close the distance.
The swirl of voices intensified as Cruz approached. Harlan Whitmore, a silver-haired oil tycoon with the bearing of old money, turned from a trio of donors to face Aaliyah. A hint of wariness flickered across his features the moment Cruz stepped into view, as though the presence of a blunt war hero threatened the polished veneer of polite society.
Aaliyah wore an effortlessly pleasant smile. “Harlan,” she said, her voice a velvety alto, “I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Senator Cruz Manuelos.” She placed the slightest emphasis on the word wife, ensuring ears would perk up.
Cruz’s jaw tightened at the introduction—but she extended her hand for a firm shake. She could almost taste Harlan’s skepticism as he sized her up.
“You’re a firebrand, Senator,” Harlan observed, his tone mild but guarded. “People like you don’t usually play well with folks like us.”
Cruz straightened her shoulders. “I’m not here to play well,” she said, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “I’m here to win.”
Aaliyah’s lips curved, just short of a laugh. “And to do that, we rely on friends like you, Harlan,” she added smoothly, bridging the tension with her polished charm.
Harlan chuckled, turning his sharp-eyed focus on Aaliyah. “Your wife does keep things…interesting. But I imagine you smooth her edges?”
Aaliyah slipped her arm through Cruz’s with an air of playful confidence. “She’s learning,” she replied, leaning subtly against Cruz’s side in a display of closeness that felt unsettlingly real.
Cruz fought the urge to shift away. The warmth of Aaliyah’s hand through her thin jacket reminded her that this was all for show. That didn’t stop a strange flutter from rising in her chest. She swallowed, ignoring it.
Harlan offered a tight smile, half-amused, half-wary. “I look forward to seeing if that boldness translates into effective policy.” And with that, he moved on, leaving them in a swirl of designer perfume and hushed conversation.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Cruz exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders. “I’d rather face down five insurgents than that man’s curiosity,” she muttered.
Aaliyah’s smirk turned wry. “He’s not so bad, once you learn to speak his language. Old money, old influence, old expectations,” she said, echoing her earlier translation. Her gaze flicked over Cruz’s attire—an expertly tailored suit that still couldn’t hide the broad, athletic lines of the Marine. “You do make quite an impression, Senator.”
Cruz snorted. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“Both, perhaps,” Aaliyah teased, eyes bright. “Now come along. There’s a group near the dais I want you to meet.”
It went on like that for the next half hour: Aaliyah guiding Cruz from circle to circle, introducing her to men and women with last names that graced library wings and hospital wings. Cruz felt her frustration mounting, but she also marveled at how deftly Aaliyah navigated each exchange. Something about the woman’s polished grace struck Cruz as both admirable and infuriating. She found herself glancing more than necessary at the slope of Aaliyah’s neck or the curve of her cheek, then promptly scolding herself for letting her mind wander.
They ended up near the stage where a small band played gentle jazz, and a handful of couples had begun to dance. The overhead lighting shimmered off the polished floor, reflecting the swaying figures in overlapping silhouettes. The band switched to a waltz that coaxed more pairs onto the dance floor.
Aaliyah’s attention drifted to the center of the ballroom. “Oh dear,” she murmured. “It seems the host is encouraging us to join. It would look suspicious if we didn’t.”
Cruz’s stomach knotted. “Dancing? Seriously?”
Aaliyah’s lashes lowered in a playful half-lidded gaze. “It’s for the cameras, darling.” Her voice dipped, conspiratorial. “Besides, we’ve survived worse.”
The next moment, Aaliyah slipped her hand into Cruz’s, guiding her toward the dance floor. There was no time to argue. The hush that accompanied their movement told Cruz that people were watching, waiting for the moment the War Hero Senator took the Heiress’s hand in a graceful waltz. If Cruz balked, it would become tomorrow’s gossip.
Cruz swallowed hard, aware of the spotlight intensifying. She placed one hand at Aaliyah’s waist, the other clasping Aaliyah’s slender fingers. The music blossomed around them, a slow, regal waltz that Cruz had never quite mastered. Her pulse hammered in her ears. She forced her face into a neutral expression, though inside, adrenaline flared with every step.
The first few beats felt awkward—Cruz too stiff, Aaliyah too poised. But Aaliyah led gently, easing them into the rhythm. The silk of her gown glided against Cruz’s suit pant leg, and the faint scent of her perfume drifted upward, disorienting Cruz more than she cared to admit.
“Relax,” Aaliyah murmured, voice low enough for only Cruz to hear. “You look like you’re bracing for sniper fire.”
Cruz’s lips twitched into a reluctant smirk. “I’d prefer it,” she muttered back. Still, she loosened her hold, allowing herself to move more fluidly. The hush around them deepened, watchers enthralled by this unlikely pairing. Some cameras discreetly rose, capturing the moment for social media or tomorrow’s headlines.
Aaliyah pressed a little closer. “See, not so bad,” she teased, lips curving in a faint smile.
Cruz’s breath caught. She could feel the warmth of Aaliyah’s body through the thin layers of fabric. It sent a flicker of awareness that made her heart flutter in an entirely unplanned way. She’d known Aaliyah was beautiful—impossible not to notice—but in this moment, with her eyes shining under the ballroom’s chandeliers, Aaliyah looked devastatingly radiant. If Cruz had met her under different circumstances—some bar off base, or a late-night diner in a quiet Texas town—she might have been the one to approach first.
But this was just an arrangement, she reminded herself, forcing down the swirl of attraction. A step, a turn, her face came dangerously close to Aaliyah’s. The tension crackled, almost visible in the space between them. She spotted the slight flush on Aaliyah’s cheeks, the parted lips as though Aaliyah herself was breathing a bit too quickly.
They whirled around the floor, silent now but hyper-aware of each other’s presence. Cruz let her hand settle a fraction lower on Aaliyah’s waist than was proper, and Aaliyah’s grip on Cruz’s shoulder felt more intimate than necessary. A hush had enveloped them, as if the rest of the gala dimmed to background noise.
From a table along the edge, Bobby watched with thinly disguised relief—and maybe a hint of amusement. She recognized that the dance looked far too convincing, and that was good for the campaign. Her phone was already buzzing with notifications from staffers exclaiming how perfect the scene looked.
Aaliyah turned her head slightly, letting her breath fan across Cruz’s ear. “We’re being watched,” she whispered, her words a soft vibration that traveled down Cruz’s spine.
Cruz nodded, her voice a notch lower. “Of course we are.”
Another turn, another swirl of fabric. The edges of Aaliyah’s gown brushed Cruz’s leg, sending tiny shocks of awareness up her nerves. As they pivoted, Cruz caught the reflection of the two of them in the wide gilded mirror near the stage. She hardly recognized herself—face drawn in an expression that was half concentration, half something else entirely. A jolt of confusion flared: did she actually want to be near Aaliyah, or was this just the forced closeness fueling her mind?
Aaliyah’s gaze flicked to meet Cruz’s in the mirror, as if reading her thoughts. For a heartbeat, they held the stare, no words exchanged, a silent question passing between them: are we really just pretending here?
Someone among the spectators applauded softly as the waltz neared its end, the swirling hush of music receding like a tide. Cruz realized her heart was pounding, and she forced an exhale to steady herself. She braced for the break in closeness that would inevitably come with the final notes.
The dance ended. Aaliyah eased back, but her fingers lingered against Cruz’s for a breath too long. Applause from a few watchers rippled around them, a polite encouragement.
Cruz cleared her throat. “Well,” she said awkwardly, stepping aside. “That was—different.”
Aaliyah’s lips curved into a small smile, something unspoken in her eyes. “Yes,” she agreed softly, “different.”
Before Cruz could dwell on it, a new wave of donors beckoned from the edges, presumably wanting a moment of the power couple’s time. Aaliyah recovered first, slipping her arm through Cruz’s as they left the dance floor, her head tilted with practiced confidence. The crowd parted for them, little murmurs of admiration following in their wake.
They spent the next hour meeting another round of VIPs. Cruz tried to maintain her stoic composure while her mind replayed the sensation of Aaliyah’s body pressed against her, the warmth of a hand on her shoulder, the subtle flush on her partner’s cheeks. She felt strangely protective, wanting to guide Aaliyah through the throng—then reminded herself that Aaliyah didn’t need protection. She was the one orchestrating every encounter, after all.
At some point, they ended up in a corner near the bar, taking a breather from the swarm of conversation. Aaliyah sipped champagne, gaze scanning the crowd for potential moves. Cruz opted for water, desperate to cool the heat still prickling her skin. She caught a glimpse of Aaliyah’s reflection in the bar’s polished wood, noticing again how the overhead lights caressed the lines of her face. If she had to pick one word, it was mesmerizing.
Aaliyah turned to her, lips quirking in mild amusement at whatever expression Cruz wore. “You look… unsettled,” she commented quietly. “Another bar fight you’d prefer to start?”
Cruz huffed a soft laugh. “No. This is just new territory, that’s all.”
Aaliyah took a slow sip, eyes never leaving Cruz’s face. “Mm, I imagine dancing with someone you despise must be quite a chore.”
Cruz opened her mouth to answer automatically, to confirm the usual story that yes, they couldn’t stand each other. But the retort died in her throat. Because in that moment, despise wasn’t the right word. Annoyed by her? Sure. Needing to keep her at arm’s length for sanity’s sake? Absolutely. But despise?
She shook her head, half to herself. “Not quite the nightmare I expected,” she admitted in a softer voice.
Aaliyah’s brows lifted in something akin to surprise. For a second, her polished mask slipped, revealing a flicker of genuine curiosity or—was that relief? She schooled her features quickly, letting out a small, rueful smile. “Don’t get used to it,” she teased, returning to her usual poise.
They lapsed into a companionable silence, rehydrating and resetting themselves for the next wave of schmoozing. Bobby appeared, phone in hand, face glowing with the kind of triumph that signaled good news.
“Polling bump, by the look of it,” Aaliyah guessed.
Bobby grinned broadly. “Just got the numbers. People loved the dance, the pictures are going viral. They think you two are the epitome of a ‘power couple.’” She wiggled her phone, the screen lighting up with notifications and messages from staffers. “It’s exactly what we wanted.”
Cruz nodded, swallowing an odd twinge in her chest. A victory for the campaign—great. This was the outcome they’d planned. Then why did part of her mind fixate on the fleeting touches, the tension in Aaliyah’s eyes, the small swirl of unexpected feelings?
Aaliyah straightened, recovering her practiced air of confidence. “Glad to be of service,” she said breezily, draining the last of her champagne.
Bobby beckoned them both. “Come on, there’s a final round of speeches. You’ll want to show your face at the front table.”
As they followed Bobby back into the fray of shifting lights and political maneuvering, Cruz let herself walk just a bit closer to Aaliyah than before. Not too obvious, just enough that their arms occasionally brushed. Aaliyah glanced over, something warm and questioning flickering in her expression, but neither spoke. The hush of the crowd and the swirl of the evening consumed them once more.
Eventually, the night would wind down, and they’d step out of the ballroom to face the cameras, the swirling speculation, the ongoing ruse. But for this moment, in the midst of deals and donations, amidst watchers who only saw them as a strategic union, they carried an undercurrent of tension that felt far too real. Perhaps that was how they’d continue—playing up the romance for a campaign while gradually discovering that something genuine lurked beneath the polished illusions.
Cruz pressed a hand lightly against the small of Aaliyah’s back, guiding her toward the stage. She felt Aaliyah’s posture stiffen at the contact, yet it wasn’t rejection—more like surprise. They caught each other’s eyes for a brief second, neither acknowledging the lingering warmth that seemed to spark whenever they touched.
It was enough to remind Cruz that maybe they weren’t simply two people pretending. She shoved the thought away, reminding herself of the arrangement. The mission. The campaign. But the memory of that dance, that ephemeral closeness, lingered in her mind, refusing to be silenced—just as the waltz’s final notes still echoed in her chest.
The ballroom still hummed with residual energy. Ornate chandeliers dangled overhead, scattering light in gilded patterns across marble floors that had seen hours of dancing, mingling, and strategic politicking. Despite the thinning crowd—donors and power brokers drifting out in ones and twos—there lingered an aura of expensive perfume and fine liquor. Half-empty wine glasses were scattered across tall, linen-draped tables. A string quartet in the corner played its final piece, low and lilting, as if reluctant to leave behind the applause and hushed admiration of the audience.
Cruz stood near a side exit, close enough to a heavy velvet curtain to hide if she felt the urge. She had slipped away from the main throng of attendees the moment she could do so without appearing rude. The night had tested her patience at every turn—handshakes she didn’t care to make, discussions about legislation twisted by corporate interest, endless pleasantries shared with people who only knew her as the “war-hero-turned-candidate.” The experience made her skin itch.
She exhaled, slowly tugging at the tight knot of her bowtie. Even out of uniform, she usually found suits comfortable enough, but tonight the fabric felt suffocating, as though the entire evening had pressed in on her. “That was exhausting,” she muttered under her breath, rolling her tense shoulders to ease the stiffness.
Aaliyah, ever the picture of grace, was at her side—unavoidable, a fixture in Cruz’s peripheral vision all night. The dress Aaliyah wore clung in ways that underscored her deliberate elegance. Perfect hair, perfect posture, perfect composure. Where Cruz looked rumpled and worn, Aaliyah looked fresh, hardly a strand of hair out of place. A delicate flute of champagne, half-finished, glimmered in her hand.
“That,” Aaliyah corrected, tilting her head regally, “was successful.” She sipped her champagne with the same poise she’d maintained for hours, hardly noticing Cruz’s exasperated glance.
A hush of annoyance flared in Cruz’s chest. Of course Aaliyah saw it that way. She thrived in these circles of high society, moving through the crowd as though she’d been born with a silver invitation to every gala in the state. “Yeah,” Cruz allowed, letting her tie hang around her collar, “you looked like you were in your element. Meanwhile, I wanted to set half these people straight about policy.” Her lips tightened. “Didn’t have the chance with all the cordial talk.”
Aaliyah’s gaze flicked toward her, one eyebrow raised. “If you’d spent less time glaring at the corporate donors, maybe you would’ve charmed them into writing checks. But that’s not your style, is it?”
Cruz forced herself not to bristle. Aaliyah’s words carried a hint of humor, or so Cruz wanted to believe. “Not my style at all,” she agreed bluntly. The tension simmered between them, but it lacked the teeth it usually had. Something about the evening, about the forced closeness of the gala, and perhaps the clarity that they had to present as a united front, dulled their arguments. They still talked with bite, yet it felt more like banter than vitriol.
Not far away, the last group of photographers milled about, adjusting camera settings, whispering about angles and final shots. They’d been circling for a while, waiting for that “perfect couple moment.” Cruz had no illusions about how these final images would make it onto front-page stories. One more performance for the cameras.
Aaliyah turned toward her, the movement stirring the soft scent of her perfume—something subtle yet potent enough to remind Cruz that this woman came from a world of high-end everything. “You realize the press is expecting one last show, right?” Aaliyah’s tone carried a quiet challenge. “Can you manage that, or do you need me to hold your hand again?”
Cruz considered a retort—something about how she didn’t need hand-holding from anyone—but found herself stalling. It was always like this with Aaliyah: a subtle dance of needle-sharp words, a moment of tension, and then a forced closeness in front of an audience. Cruz swallowed. “One for the cameras, sure. Let’s get it over with,” she said, straightening her posture.
Aaliyah’s emerald gaze flickered. “Yes,” she murmured, stepping closer. “Let’s.”
In that moment, Cruz noticed details she’d overlooked. The faint flush on Aaliyah’s cheeks—maybe from champagne or the warmth of the ballroom—and a single loose strand of hair curling against her temple. The slightest crease at the corners of her eyes as she offered Cruz a small, tired smile. For a moment, Cruz’s heart stuttered, an unbidden awareness blooming in her mind that Aaliyah was, in fact, breathtaking. She forced down the thought. This is just an act.
The cameras drifted nearer, lenses poised. A hush fell within the immediate circle around them. Cruz could sense the hush, the collective intake of breath. She stepped toward Aaliyah, sliding a hand around her waist with the carefulness of someone handling live explosives. Aaliyah’s arm rose to settle at Cruz’s shoulder, fingertips brushing the nape of Cruz’s neck. Their eyes met, and something flickered: a cautious intimacy that both recognized as a charade yet felt disorientingly real.
They kissed. It was supposed to be simple, mechanical—a brief press of lips so the headlines could read about the “captivating duo” or the “progressive power couple.” But the second it happened, Cruz’s spine tingled. She let her eyes close as she tilted her head, tasting champagne on Aaliyah’s mouth. She felt the softness of Aaliyah’s hair brush her cheek, the warmth of that poised body so close. The moment stretched, and for an instant, the gala, the politics, the watchful stares, all vanished into a haze of sensation.
Her heart thundered in her chest, loud enough to drown out the subdued applause that erupted from the photographers and the last pockets of onlookers. Aaliyah’s hand pressed lightly to Cruz’s front, her palm splayed against the tailored suit. Not for show—at least it didn’t feel that way. Cruz’s breath stilled as she realized Aaliyah was leaning into it, letting the contact linger. The faint tremor coursed through Cruz’s arms, an unmistakable signal that beneath the polished veneer, something was boiling to the surface.
Then the applause grew louder, snapping them out of it. With a practiced move, Aaliyah pulled back, turning just enough to flash her perfect smile at the cameras. Cruz retreated an inch, rubbing her thumb surreptitiously over the place where Aaliyah’s hand had been. She could still feel the warmth, the press of her palm.
It took an extra moment for Cruz to manage a lopsided grin for the nearest photographer. She suspected her cheeks were tinged red—damn these bright lights. The camera flashes roared in short bursts before the guests began to disperse, leaving the two of them momentarily alone in that corner of the ballroom.
“That… went well,” Aaliyah whispered, voice scarcely above a breath. Her face was still tilted up toward Cruz, strands of hair catching the light. There was a tenderness in her eyes Cruz had rarely glimpsed—almost unguarded. Then, as though remembering where they were, she drew in a quick breath and straightened, resuming her aristocratic posture.
Cruz let out a startled laugh, refusing to let the moment fluster her any more than it already had. “I feel like I just ran a marathon,” she joked, though part of her meant it: her pulse was racing.
Aaliyah’s lips curved, a hint of real amusement glinting in her gaze. “I imagine a marathon with me is still more pleasant than a bar fight for you, Senator,” she teased. Yet, beneath the polished tone, she seemed equally unsteady.
Before Cruz could muster a retort, Bobby arrived, phone in hand, eyes sparkling with triumph. “That was perfect,” she announced, her grin wide enough to make her cheeks dimple. She was already scrolling through live reactions on social media. “Exactly what we needed. You two sold this better than I could have ever scripted. People are eating it up.”
Cruz snorted, the tension in her body easing slightly. “Great,” she grumbled, casting a sideways glance at Aaliyah. “Now I need real coffee, because the stuff they served here was—”
Aaliyah tilted her head, arching a brow. “Don’t even start,” she warned lightly. “I’ll find you a decent espresso if you ask nicely.”
Cruz huffed. “Burnt water’s good enough for me.” She was aware of the playful spark in her own tone—almost flirtatious, if she were honest. She squashed the thought.
Bobby shook her head, half-amused, half-sympathetic. “Save it for home, newlyweds. We’ve still got poll numbers to check tomorrow morning, and I need to verify how the donors responded to that show. Some of them looked enthralled. Some looked suspicious—but that’s politics.” With a final wave, she backed away, leaving them to handle their own exit.
The final waves of guests had begun to filter out, the string quartet playing its last tune. Cruz exchanged a short nod with Aaliyah, silently acknowledging they needed to leave as well. The press lingered by the exit, no doubt hoping for more shots of the couple walking out together. Cruz offered her arm, a gesture that felt old-fashioned but that Aaliyah accepted without hesitation.
As they strolled out of the ballroom, cameras snapped behind them, capturing the sight of Cruz in her tailored suit—tie undone, hair slightly mussed from hours of forced politeness—and Aaliyah resplendent in gold. They looked, to any observer, like a couple concluding a successful night. In truth, their hearts pounded for different reasons. For Cruz, it was that disconcerting memory of Aaliyah’s lips against hers, the press of a hand that felt far too genuine. For Aaliyah, it was the recollection of how Cruz had leaned in, the surprising softness beneath that gruff exterior.
The ride back to their shared residence—a polished black sedan, tinted windows—stretched out in silence that crackled with something unnameable. Cruz stared out the window at the city lights flickering by, neon signs blending into a blur. She felt Aaliyah’s presence like a flame in the enclosed space, each subtle movement or shift of fabric catching her attention. The memory of that kiss lingered in her mind like an echo, urging her to replay it, dissect it.
She risked a sideways glance. Aaliyah sat with her dress smoothed across her lap, posture still impeccable despite the late hour, gazing at the passing skyline. But her usually serene expression was slightly shadowed, as if a million thoughts warred beneath the surface. Her elegant hands remained folded, but Cruz noticed the slight tap of one finger against the back of her wrist—a tell of agitation or excitement.
It would have been easy to pretend nothing had changed. To chalk up that moment to another necessary performance. But the air felt different now, tense in a way that had little to do with hostility. Unspoken questions simmered: Did you feel that? Am I imagining this? Are we crossing lines we said we wouldn’t?
Cruz swallowed, clearing her throat. “Long night,” she murmured at last, her voice subdued. It felt safer to talk about small things. “I never realized galas could drain me more than a rally.”
Aaliyah’s gaze flicked from the window to Cruz. “You get used to it,” she responded, equally subdued, though a hint of a smile graced her lips. “Though not many people dance on landmines of political intrigue all evening, then have to pose as half of a newlywed couple.”
The corners of Cruz’s mouth tugged up. “No. I guess not.” For half a second, she considered letting slip a compliment about how Aaliyah had handled the donors, or how that dress had looked like it was made just for her. Instead, she let the words fade. Too personal. Too revealing.
Aaliyah cast her a sidelong glance, catching Cruz’s hesitation. “Something on your mind?”
Cruz shrugged, unsure how to articulate the knots in her chest. She defaulted to a slight shake of the head. “Just… tired.” She forced a slight grin. “I’ll sleep like a rock tonight.”
Aaliyah’s expression remained inscrutable, but her tone softened. “Yes. Me too.”
And so, the hush returned, thick as the night pressing against the tinted windows. Shadows of passing streetlights played across their faces, weaving momentary patterns on their clothes. The city felt distant, an undercurrent of life they were speeding through without truly touching.
At length, the car slowed, pulling into the driveway of their shared home, a testament to their alleged happily ever after. Cruz exhaled; she never felt quite at home here, but the place had grown familiar, if only because it was the stage for their daily battles and nightly truces.
The driver opened the door. Aaliyah slid out gracefully, gown draping around her. Cruz followed, the faint clang of the car door echoing in her ears. Together, they ascended the short path to the front door, the automated lights flicking on as they passed. One final nod at each other, and they stepped inside, letting the hush of the upscale interior envelop them.
Standing in the foyer, they hovered, uncertain. Usually, they would part ways without a word—Cruz to the guest room she’d staked out, Aaliyah to the master bedroom. But that kiss glowed in both their thoughts, persistent as the memory of camera flashes.
“Well,” Aaliyah said at last, voice hushed. “Good night, Senator.” The formal address hung there, but with a faint curl of humor at the edges.
Cruz rubbed the back of her neck. “Night,” she managed, trying not to let her gaze linger on how the fabric still hugged Aaliyah’s figure. Instead, she forced her attention toward the floor, the door, anything else.
Neither moved for three heartbeats, four. Then, almost simultaneously, they turned and walked in opposite directions, footsteps clicking softly on the polished floor. Cruz felt an inexplicable pang, a sense that she wanted to say more, do more, but she told herself that was ridiculous. This was all for the cameras. This was political necessity. Right?
In her room, alone, Cruz let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. She could still feel the phantom weight of Aaliyah’s hand against her tux, the sweetness of that lingering champagne taste. A confusing swirl of warmth pulsed behind her ribs. She shrugged out of her jacket, closed her eyes, and silently commanded her heart to stop doing somersaults.
On the other side of the house, Aaliyah slowly lowered the zipper of her gown, her mind far from the day’s donors, alliances, and deals. Instead, she replayed a kiss that was supposed to be nothing more than a fleeting show for the cameras. Even with the tension of her father’s expectations and the looming election, she allowed herself one moment of softened reflection. Cruz had surprised her tonight. The rough edges of the senator’s nature hid something surprisingly gentle. She swallowed, reminding herself that it was all just strategy. But the memory of Cruz’s gaze, of her hesitant, heartfelt closeness—she couldn’t quite banish it.
They both drifted off to restless sleep—two souls forced together by ambition, pretense, and the bright glare of public scrutiny. The memory of that slow, stolen kiss lay between them like a charged secret, a reminder that maybe, just maybe, their “act” was growing complicated in ways neither had planned.