September 25th
The air inside campaign headquarters felt thick enough to choke on, an oppressive brew of panic and adrenaline. Phones rang off the hook, overlapping voices shouted across cubicles, and staffers jogged from one end of the open floor to the other, clutching folders or tablets. Everywhere, screens flashed with relentless headlines:
LEAKED DOCUMENTS: CRUZ MANUELOS & AALIYAH AMROHI’S MARRIAGE WAS A POLITICAL ARRANGEMENT ALL ALONG!
THE MARRIAGE CONTRACT THAT COULD DESTROY A CAMPAIGN.
MCNAMARA STRIKES BACK: BOMBSHELL LEAK EXPOSES MANUELOS’ BIGGEST LIE.
In her small office perched at the corner of the main floor, Cruz stared at the TV mounted opposite her desk. Every grim syllable of the breaking news felt like a hammer blow. The station had played the leaked contract on loop, zooming in on the signatures: Cruz’s scrawled name and Aaliyah’s elegant flourish. Even from this distance, it looked damning—a black-and-white record of a political deal. A lie laid bare.
Staffers peered through the glass at their candidate, their eyes full of sympathy or dread, but Cruz ignored them. Her fingers dug into the edge of the desk, knuckles white. She could barely breathe. She had expected McNamara’s campaign to pull something dirty—smear ads, personal attacks—but this was beyond anything she’d prepared for. This was nuclear.
The door banged open. Bobby stormed in, hair sticking up at odd angles, laptop tucked under one arm, a sheaf of papers in her free hand. She kicked the door shut with her heel, eyes blazing.
“We’ve got a problem,” she announced, voice clipped, breath coming in short bursts.
Cruz couldn’t tear her eyes from the TV. “…No shit.”
Bobby dropped the papers onto the desk with a slap. They were printouts of the leaked contract, the same pages cycling in every news broadcast. Cruz’s heart twisted at the sight. She’d signed them. She knew every clause by heart—how many times they’d read over the terms. But seeing it reproduced in stark headlines made it all feel colder, more damning.
“Who gave it to them?” Cruz demanded, though she already knew the answer.
Bobby’s jaw tightened. “McNamara’s team. Obviously. But the leak had to come from someone on our side. There’s no other way they’d get the original.” She raked a hand through her frazzled hair. “I don’t know who yet, but I’m on it.”
Cruz swallowed, forcing a slow breath. Her chest felt crushed, as if the air in the office had turned to cement. The headlines scrolled by again on the muted TV, words like “FAKE MARRIAGE” and “POLITICAL SCAM” burning into her peripheral vision.
The door opened again, this time more quietly. Aaliyah stepped inside. For someone whose entire private life had just been bulldozed by a scandal, she looked unsettlingly calm. Her baby-blue blazer was perfectly pressed, dark hair swept into a sleek twist, and her makeup remained flawless—no sign of the meltdown happening outside these walls.
“How bad is it?” she asked, voice measured. Her heels clicked against the floor as she approached the desk.
Bobby gestured at the nearest screen, which had just flipped to a different station running the same story. “We’re fucked. Royally and truly fucked,” she said. “Every network, every blog, every influencer with a ring light is talking about this. If we don’t handle it now—” She made a cutthroat gesture. “We’re sunk.”
Cruz finally dragged her gaze away from the TV. She dared a glance at Aaliyah—caught the composed tilt of her chin, the faint tension at the corners of her mouth. She recognized that expression. Aaliyah might appear poised, but she was furious beneath the veneer. Furious and, if Cruz read her right, a little afraid.
Guilt gnawed at Cruz. The arrangement had begun as a mutual pact, a means to an end, but somewhere along the way, it had started feeling—if not real, then at least heavier. More personal. The idea of Aaliyah being dragged through the dirt, hammered by the media, losing everything she’d built, sent a cold spike through Cruz’s spine.
And worse: what if Aaliyah decided to cut and run? The contract was out in the open. Her father was probably going to crucify her for this fiasco. She might leave. Abandon Cruz, leave the campaign a smoldering ruin. A wave of panic swelled in Cruz’s chest at the thought, an irrational fear that overshadowed her anger at the leak. She clenched her jaw, swallowing down the tightness in her throat.
“Let’s get to work,” Aaliyah said, snapping Cruz out of her downward spiral.
Bobby nodded. “We have about twelve hours before every single outlet runs this as their top story. We need an official statement, a damage control strategy, something to keep us afloat.” She rattled off a list of tasks: press releases, donor calls, a possible TV interview. But Cruz barely heard her. Her mind buzzed with the single question: Who could have leaked it?
Aaliyah must have sensed Cruz’s distraction because she touched her shoulder lightly, forcing Cruz to look up. “It’s going to be fine,” she said softly, voice pitched so only Cruz could hear. “We can fix this.”
Cruz stared at her for a second, the words almost lodging in her throat. “Can we?” she managed. “Because this is huge, Aaliyah. Everything—” She paused, lowering her voice as Bobby stepped away to confer with a junior staffer. “We could lose everything. I… might lose you.” The admission came out raw, unguarded. “The campaign needs you,” she hastily added.
Aaliyah’s eyes flickered, something like uncertainty crossing her features. Cruz had never been so direct about the possibility that their arrangement might come crashing down. For a heartbeat, Aaliyah looked less polished, as if the truth of that possibility rattled her. But then her expression steeled.
“You won’t, the campaign won’t,” Aaliyah said, subdued but firm. “I’m not walking away.”
Relief fluttered in Cruz’s chest. She didn’t allow herself to exhale fully, not yet. There was no telling how Aaliyah might feel once the real heat rained down from the media and her father’s empire. But for now, she had a lifeline.
Bobby returned, the phone at her ear. She spoke in rapid-fire bursts to some poor staffer on the other end. “No. No denials. It’s real. We can’t pretend it’s fake. Just—tell them we’ll release a statement soon.” She hung up, looking harried. “Alright. The official approach? We spin it.”
Aaliyah nodded, crossing her arms. “We frame the contract as an unfortunate formality that started as a convenience but became real along the way,” she said. “We highlight how we grew together, how… how politics sometimes requires legalese.”
Cruz grimaced. “That’s… a stretch.”
Bobby pointed a pen at Cruz. “You have a better idea?”
Cruz fell silent. She didn’t. And time was ticking.
Bobby clapped her hands, summoning a group of staffers from outside. They flocked in, forming a tight semi-circle around the desk, every face drawn with anxiety. “Listen up,” Bobby said, raising her voice to be heard over the phones still ringing in the hallway. “We’re doing a multi-pronged approach. One: we release a statement acknowledging the contract but emphasizing Senator Manuelos and Mrs. Manuelos’ genuine bond. Two: we schedule a heartfelt interview—preferably tomorrow morning, before McNamara can set the entire narrative. Three: we push a social media campaign to highlight all the positive things Cruz and Aaliyah have done together.”
A mousy staffer in the back raised a trembling hand. “A-all the supportive tweets about them—should we highlight those too?”
Bobby nodded. “Yes. People love a redemption story. And for those who don’t believe it, we offer them just enough doubt. Now, get moving.”
The staffers dispersed, a flurry of murmured acknowledgment. Cruz watched them leave, stomach clenched. This was all so mechanical, so contrived. She hated it. But if it kept her campaign breathing—and kept Aaliyah from walking out the door—she’d do it.
A few minutes later, Bobby’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and swore under her breath. “They’re running an attack ad. Five minutes from now.”
As if on cue, every TV in the main office switched to a broadcast that teased the upcoming story. Footage of Cruz and Aaliyah’s wedding, slowed to emphasize the forced smiles, intercut with images of the contract. Dramatic music thundered beneath a narrator’s cutting voice: “Cruz Manuelos: She promised to be different. She lied.”
Staffers collectively groaned, a wave of frustration rippling through the headquarters. Cruz felt her throat tighten again. She flicked a look at Aaliyah. The heiress’s face was schooled into calm, but her jaw muscle twitched. Furious.
When the ad ended, the news anchor cut back in, discussing whether Cruz should drop out of the race, whether the scandal was too big to recover from. That was the question on everyone’s lips: Could Senator Manuelos survive?
Cruz’s phone buzzed—texts pouring in from friends, distant acquaintances, even old military buddies. She skimmed the previews:
“Saw the news. You good?”
“WTF, Cruz? Is that contract legit??”
“Always knew you were savage, but holy shit.”
“McNamara’s folks are ripping you a new one, get your side out ASAP.”
She wanted to scream, to rage, to throw the phone at the wall. Instead, she forced herself to stand, pushing her shoulders back. “We need to get ahead of this,” she said to Bobby and Aaliyah.
Bobby tapped her pen against her palm. “We already decided—some sort of interview. A joint statement. Photos that look real. The works.” Her gaze slid to Aaliyah, then Cruz. “You two are going to have to sell it like never before.”
Cruz’s stomach churned. She could deal with the press if that was all it took. But the idea of putting on an even bigger show with Aaliyah, ramping up the affection after everything they’d been through… it felt almost impossible. She glanced at Aaliyah, uncertain. She half expected to see exasperation or disgust, some sign Aaliyah was done playing this game. But Aaliyah’s green eyes burned with a quiet determination.
“Let’s do it,” Aaliyah said. “We do a presser with sympathetic reporters. We’re candid about how the contract began—without admitting to complete fakery. We highlight how we… grew into this relationship.”
Cruz swallowed, resisting the urge to snort. Because the notion that they “grew into a relationship” had once been ludicrous. Yet, ironically, part of her had started to believe there was more between them than just the contract. The fear of losing Aaliyah, not just politically but personally, gnawed at her. She wasn’t sure when it had become a personal stake, but it had.
Bobby typed furiously into her phone. “I’m texting a contact at Lone Star Morning News. They owe me a favor. We’ll set it up for tomorrow at dawn. That gives us… twelve hours to craft the narrative.”
A crackling sound came through the overhead speakers in the office—some staffer had left the local news feed running. “Sources say the contract outlines financial terms, public appearance obligations, and even the projected end date of the marriage arrangement…” the anchor droned on. Staffers scurried to turn the volume down, but the damage was done. Everyone heard the phrase: “projected end date.”
A sick feeling twisted in Cruz’s gut. She remembered the day she signed that damn paper, pen trembling in her hand, Bobby’s warnings about optics, Aaliyah’s polite smile that betrayed zero emotion. A purely political transaction. Now half the country saw her as a fraud. And if it ended Aaliyah’s future too, would Aaliyah stay?
Aaliyah’s voice cut through, addressing the elephant in the room. “We emphasize that it started as a practical agreement,” she said. “We were from different worlds, but we discovered a genuine connection along the way. We refute the so-called ‘end date’ as a misunderstanding. We point to the very real ways we’ve come to rely on each other.”
“Do you think they’ll buy that?” Cruz asked, a trace of desperation creeping into her tone.
Aaliyah glanced at her, gaze lingering an extra second. “We’ll make them,” she said, soft but resolute.
That silent vow settled in the space between them. For once, it felt like they were on the same side, not bickering over décor or forcing plastic smiles. The scandal had forced them to acknowledge that maybe they wanted to see this through together.
Bobby cleared her throat. “Focus. We’ll spin it. But we must show some authenticity. Real or not, you have to sell them on the idea that you care about each other beyond a damn contract.”
Cruz opened her mouth, closed it again, then nodded. She cared enough to fear losing Aaliyah. Enough to dread the thought that once this campaign burned out, Aaliyah might vanish. The swirl of conflicting emotions hammered at her chest. She needed to hold it together.
A staffer poked her head in. “The phone lines are jammed with reporters. They want a quote now.”
Bobby cursed under her breath. “Okay. Preliminary statement: We confirm the leaked contract is partial and taken out of context. We promise a more detailed statement soon. Stress that Senator and Mrs. Manuelos stand by their commitment.”
The staffer scribbled notes and darted away. The door shut, leaving the three of them alone again in the glass-walled fishbowl of an office. Outside, staffers hustled with phone calls, urgent conversations, color-coded binders. The entire campaign felt like it was on the brink of collapse.
Cruz rubbed her eyes, exhaustion dragging at her. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d eaten or slept properly. “This might kill everything,” she said quietly. “Every policy I’ve fought for, every bill I wanted to pass—gone. They’re going to label me as a liar and a fraud, and it’ll stick.”
Aaliyah placed a hand on the desk, leaning forward slightly. “No, it won’t,” she insisted. “We can overcome this.” Her features softened, an unusual empathy shining through. “Look, it started as a deal, yes. But we both know it’s become… complicated.”
Cruz’s chest tightened. She gave a faint nod. “I just—” She trailed off, scared to voice the fear roiling inside her: the fear that once the dust settled, Aaliyah would sever ties, blame Cruz for her tarnished reputation, walk away. And Cruz would be left not only without a campaign but with a hollow space she hadn’t realized Aaliyah filled.
Bobby, flipping open her notepad, pulled them both back to the crisis at hand. “We do the interview at dawn,” she repeated, scribbling the plan. “We dress for sincerity, not opulence. We tell the world you fell for each other despite the initial arrangement. We show glimpses of personal stories—maybe that time Aaliyah helped you at some veterans’ event, or that time Cruz taught you how to shoot a gun—whatever. Real anecdotes that show closeness.”
Aaliyah arched an amused brow at that last part, but said nothing. Cruz steeled herself. She hated being forced to spin illusions. But ironically, the illusions were inching closer to truth than she ever expected.
A phone beeped. Bobby glanced at the screen. “Poll updates. We’ve dropped six points in the last hour. If we don’t stop the bleeding by tomorrow, McNamara’s going to waltz into the governor’s seat.” Her voice gentled. “Cruz… if you want to keep fighting for your platform, for everything you believe in, you have to survive this. That means you and Aaliyah—together—publicly.”
Cruz nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Understood.” She flicked her gaze to Aaliyah. Their eyes met, a silent vow shared: we’re in this together.
And behind that vow, Cruz felt a whisper of longing, a quiet fear that had nothing to do with poll numbers: Please don’t leave. I need you more than I thought.
The next hours blurred into an unending chain of phone calls, crisis meetings, frantic drafting of statements. The overhead lights cast a sterile glow over exhausted staffers, many of whom were running on adrenaline and stale coffee. Bobby barked orders, occasionally glancing at Cruz and Aaliyah to confirm details. Outside, the world raged: new articles, hashtags, think pieces dissecting the contract line by line. Meanwhile, donations wavered—some longtime supporters demanded answers, while others withheld funds until they saw how Cruz would handle the scandal.
At one point, a staffer scurried in with a new bundle of printouts: social media polls, headlines, and a fresh wave of negative articles. Cruz skimmed them numbly until one headline caught her eye:
IS THIS THE END FOR THE FAKE POWER COUPLE?
The article’s cynicism gnawed at her. She closed her eyes, letting out a trembling breath. It felt personal. She’d never cared about tabloids or cynics before, but now their scorn hit raw nerves she hadn’t realized were exposed. Because she couldn’t deny the real panic roiling in her gut: If Aaliyah was forced to choose, would she walk away?
As if sensing her spiral, Aaliyah stepped closer, their arms nearly brushing. She didn’t say anything, just hovered with a subtle presence that somehow reassured Cruz more than any pep talk. Cruz dared a sideways look. Despite the chaos, Aaliyah’s eyes held a calm determination. It steadied Cruz’s breathing.
Finally, close to midnight, Bobby declared they’d done all they could for the night. Press statements were out, the interview was set for dawn with a friendly news host, and staffers were packing up, though many planned to sleep at the office.
Cruz and Aaliyah found themselves alone in the hall, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the frantic pace of the day winding down to a tense hush. The hush reminded Cruz of an aftermath—a battlefield after the fighting paused, but with the threat of more conflict in the morning.
Aaliyah smoothed a hand over her blazer, eyes flicking over Cruz’s exhausted form. “Are you alright?” she asked softly.
Cruz exhaled, a shaky laugh escaping her. “Not even close. But… I’ll survive.” She swallowed, her voice dropping. “I’m sorry.”
Aaliyah’s brow furrowed. “For what?”
Cruz shrugged, feeling a wave of guilt. “Dragging you into this. If… if you lose everything because of me—”
Aaliyah shook her head, stepping closer until Cruz could smell her subtle perfume. “I walked into this arrangement with my eyes open,” she said, tone firm. “I’m not running.”
Cruz’s heart clenched in a complicated tangle of relief and vulnerability. She almost reached out to grasp Aaliyah’s hand but stopped, uncertain if that was allowed, if it was real or just another performance. Yet the temptation lingered.
Aaliyah’s gaze softened—just a fraction. “Get some rest, Senator. Tomorrow, we fight.”
Cruz nodded, letting Aaliyah’s unwavering confidence anchor her. As Aaliyah turned to go, Cruz caught herself wanting to call after her, to say something comforting or maybe just to hear Aaliyah confirm again that she wouldn’t leave. But the words stuck in her throat, lodged in fear and the unspoken knowledge that their entire relationship might be tested by dawn’s light.
She watched Aaliyah walk away down the corridor, posture still regal despite the late hour. The overhead lamps silhouetted her figure until she stepped around a corner and disappeared.
In that lonely hallway, Cruz closed her eyes. The campaign teetered on the brink of collapse. The public believed she was a fraud. The polls were plummeting. And as much as she dreaded losing the governorship, the thought of losing Aaliyah—truly losing her—seemed worse in ways Cruz couldn’t fully articulate.
A minute later, Bobby poked her head out of the office. “Hey, you should head home. Or… wherever. Interview’s in six hours.” She paused, letting the tension settle. “We got this, Cruz.”
Cruz nodded, summoning a flicker of a weary smile. “Yeah.”
She headed out, pushing through the glass doors into the warm Texas night. The stars seemed hazy against the glow of city lights. She let out a ragged breath. Tomorrow, she’d have to tell the biggest half-truth of her life in front of cameras. She’d have to spin a contract into a love story. She’d have to lean on Aaliyah, trust her to sell the moment. And she’d have to pray that, once the dust settled, Aaliyah would still be there.
Because if she wasn’t, Cruz realized with a jolt of clarity, none of it would matter.
She climbed into her truck, hands shaking only a little. Her reflection in the rearview mirror looked hollow-eyed and haunted—like a soldier who’d stumbled off a battlefield uncertain if victory was even possible. But in the midst of that uncertainty, one truth anchored her: she would fight for what she believed in. And right now, that included a woman who might be the only ally left standing beside her when the rest of the world turned away.
Cruz started the engine. The road ahead felt dark, but she’d drive on. She had no other choice.
The press conference room thrummed with restless energy, its walls painted in harsh, artificial light that magnified every flicker of movement. Row upon row of reporters jostled for position, microphones extended like spears, camera flashes piercing the tense atmosphere. News crews from across the nation had crammed into the space, each determined to secure the perfect angle on the two women at the podium.
Cruz inhaled slowly, her gaze sweeping the sea of curious, unrelenting faces. She stood rigidly, hands braced against the wooden surface in front of her. Even with Bobby’s coaching ringing in her ears, nothing could fully prepare her for the weight that settled on her shoulders now. This was the moment—the pivot point that could resurrect her campaign or bury it once and for all.
Off to her right, Aaliyah glided into position, flawlessly dressed in a tailored sapphire suit that glimmered under the brutal overhead lights. Not a single strand of her dark hair fell out of place, not a single line of her posture betrayed nerves. At first glance, she looked the epitome of calm, a picture of refined composure. But Cruz knew better. She’d seen how Aaliyah could mask her tension behind elegant manners and practiced poise. This, she realized, was the same skill that let Aaliyah navigate the cutthroat world of power and influence she’d inhabited all her life.
Bobby, stationed to the side of the podium, caught Cruz’s eye and gave a curt nod. Own the story before it owns you. The reminder echoed in Cruz’s mind.
A hush fell, as though every reporter held a collective breath. Cruz could practically taste the anticipation. She let her fingers tighten around the edge of the podium, forcing herself to appear composed when her insides felt like a churning tempest.
She stepped forward, voice resolute even as her heart thundered. “Yes,” she said, letting that single word slice through the silence, “my marriage to Aaliyah started as an agreement.”
A sudden roar erupted—journalists talking over one another, frantic pens scratching across notepads, questions lobbed in a barrage. The admission was explosive, and Cruz could sense the wave of shock surging through the room. She clenched her jaw, holding her ground until the uproar died down. Flashes lit the room like lightning. If she so much as flinched, it would be caught on camera and dissected by the public within seconds.
She cleared her throat, waiting for the furor to subside. The hush returned, sharp and expectant. “But what they won’t tell you,” she continued, her tone unwavering, “is that it became something more.”
Stunned silence followed—a collective intake of breath. Heads leaned forward, every microphone angled to capture her next syllable. Cruz’s pulse throbbed in her ears. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aaliyah shift, her own posture tensing just a fraction. It was enough to make Cruz’s stomach twist with a strange mixture of nerves and—something else she refused to label.
Aaliyah then stepped closer to the mic, her heels clicking against the floor with careful grace. She rested her manicured fingertips on the podium’s edge, her expression turning fierce beneath the overhead lights. “You think a contract is what defines us?” Her voice was controlled, each word precisely measured to carry its full impact. “You think a piece of paper is what makes a marriage real?”
The press remained frozen, as though the entire room collectively forgot to blink. Aaliyah let the question linger before answering it herself. “No. What makes a marriage real is standing by each other. Through the worst of it.”
From where Cruz stood, she could hear the shutters clicking on a dozen cameras. She could see the awe shifting across certain reporters’ faces, the flicker of sensationalism in others. And, more disconcertingly, she could feel the words. Truly feel them. A subtle jolt ran through her as if the floor had shifted beneath her feet. She’d expected to deliver a well-rehearsed performance, but this was raw, borderline genuine.
In the crowd, someone yelled, “Senator Manuelos, does this mean you’ve actually fallen in love?” Another voice chimed in, “Mrs. Manuelos, when did this shift from arrangement to affection?” They threw question after question like they were lobbing grenades, each one threatening to blow apart the fragile narrative she and Aaliyah had crafted.
Cruz swallowed, her throat dry. She reminded herself that they had planned for this. She inhaled, but the script in her mind seemed to blur. She looked over at Aaliyah, finding strength in the unwavering set of her jaw. God help her, but Aaliyah looked radiant—eyes shining with something akin to conviction, lips set in a determined line. Everything about her screamed confidence, competence, control.
Yet there was more beneath that polished exterior, Cruz realized—something intangible glimmering in the depths of Aaliyah’s gaze. She’d seen flickers of it late at night in their living room, in the quiet tension after a camera crew left their home, in the subtle curve of Aaliyah’s smile whenever they exchanged banter not entirely laced with hostility. The realization hit Cruz in the chest: she was starting to want Aaliyah to be more than just a political partner. And that scared the hell out of her.
Steeling herself, Cruz leaned closer to the mic. “We…didn’t plan for this to happen,” she said, her voice subdued, yet strong enough to echo across the room. “But somewhere along the line, we stopped pretending. That’s—” She faltered, her throat burning with nerves. She forced the words out. “That’s what we’re trying to make you understand.”
A rush of new questions pelted them:
“So you admit it began as a calculated move? Are you saying you manipulated voters—?”
“Aaliyah, did you knowingly enter a contract to boost poll numbers—?”
“How much of your public appearances were staged? Did it ever cross a legal boundary—?”
Aaliyah’s hand came to rest lightly on Cruz’s forearm, a gesture so natural it startled Cruz. For a second, she forgot about the cameras, about the crowd, about Bobby’s anxious eyes. Aaliyah’s touch felt reassuring—warm, anchored. It’s going to be okay, that hand on her arm seemed to say.
Aaliyah spoke again, her voice pitched to carry. “Yes, we agreed to something practical at first. But things changed.” She flashed a brief, almost tender glance at Cruz before continuing, “Love is many things, ladies and gentlemen: complicated, unpredictable, and sometimes found in the unlikeliest places.”
It was a line tailor-made for headlines, but in that moment, it struck Cruz as painfully authentic. There was no practiced edge in Aaliyah’s final words, no artificial flourish.
The press devoured it, cameras clattering, notes scribbling. Bobby hovered to the side, arms crossed over her chest, a sheen of relief fighting with the tension on her face. They had done it. They’d owned the story. Whether it would save or damn them, no one could say just yet, but at least they were no longer ducking from the truth.
Cruz’s heart still thudded with a conflicting rhythm. She risked a sideways glance at Aaliyah. Beneath the brilliant lights, she saw the faintest tremor in the woman’s elegant composure—a single breath that caught too long, a flicker in her eyes. A silent acknowledgment that they’d crossed a line neither of them could uncross. If this was the biggest political lie in modern memory, it had also become something bigger than either of them.
One of the lead reporters cleared her throat, breaking the hush. “So, Senator,” she said, voice slicing through the thick air, “what’s next for you and Mrs. Manuelos?” She paused, letting the room bristle with anticipation. “Are we going to see a vow renewal to prove it’s legitimate? How do you plan to convince voters this isn’t a last-ditch campaign tactic?”
Cruz’s lips parted, but a thousand thoughts crashed in her mind. She felt Aaliyah’s hand tighten fractionally on her arm. The entire conference room felt suspended in time, waiting for her next move.
“Well…” She exhaled. “We plan to show—not just tell—where we stand. Because when you stand by someone, you don’t just say it. You live it.”
The hush that followed felt electric, a moment poised on the razor’s edge of acceptance and skepticism. Then the questions swelled again, but Bobby stepped forward, raising both hands. “We’ll take more questions later. That’s enough for today.”
A deluge of protest rose: “Wait, Senator Manuelos—!” “Mrs. Manuelos, just one—!” The camera lights still blinked, glimmering like tiny suns in Cruz’s peripheral vision.
But security staff began ushering reporters out. The tide of bodies moved reluctantly, leaving behind a swirl of leftover tension and adrenaline in the room. Cruz finally let out the breath she’d been holding, feeling her chest loosen.
Aaliyah slowly withdrew her hand from Cruz’s arm, her cool composure returning. For a second, they locked eyes, an entire conversation flickering in that look: the shared secret of how real this moment had begun to feel, the raw thrill of the admission that had just shaken the political stage.
Cruz’s heart pounded so loudly she was sure Aaliyah could hear it. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Instead, she broke eye contact and turned to Bobby, who was staring at them like she’d just witnessed an improbable miracle. “We good?” Cruz asked, her tone blunt.
Bobby’s lips twitched into a hard, triumphant grin. “Better than good,” she murmured, clutching her phone in white-knuckled relief. “Now let’s see if the polls agree.”
A wry snort escaped Cruz, and she caught Aaliyah smirking in the corner of her vision. Even in that fleeting moment, with the tension still crackling around them, she couldn’t deny the strange swell of warmth flooding her veins. Maybe this alliance wasn’t so purely transactional after all, no matter how much they both tried to pretend otherwise.
Fighting the dizzy wave of conflicting emotions, Cruz squared her shoulders and marched offstage, Aaliyah moving step for step beside her. Flashbulbs still followed them, an inescapable glare that reminded them of the performance they had to maintain. But in the silent corridor beyond the press conference hall, where no camera waited, the pair walked close—like two people not entirely sure where they ended and the lie began.
There in that space, invisible to the nation’s scrutiny, a spark passed between them. Unnamed, unspoken, but undeniably present. And as they headed out into the night, the echoes of the press conference still ringing in their ears, neither of them could completely ignore the possibility that they might be standing on the edge of something unexpectedly real.
The house felt too large, too empty, as if all the noise and chaos that usually dogged their every step had evaporated in a single night, leaving behind a hollow quiet. The relentless ring of campaign phones, the flashing of cameras, the looming deadlines—none of it intruded here, not in this moment. Yet the silence wasn’t peaceful. It carried weight, like a held breath that refused to release.
Cruz trudged in first, shrugging off her jacket the moment she crossed the threshold. She didn’t bother flicking on the overhead lights; the faint illumination from a distant hallway lamp cast enough of a glow to see by. Without ceremony, she slumped onto the nearest couch, leaning back so far that her head rested against the cushion. A long exhale escaped her parted lips, and she lifted a hand to rub her forehead, as though trying to banish the day’s tension by force.
“This is a goddamn mess,” she muttered, her voice raw with exhaustion. The words seemed to echo in the silent living room.
Behind her, Aaliyah stepped in with measured grace, the click of her heels oddly subdued against the polished floor. Even now—especially now—Aaliyah was the picture of composed elegance. Her dress showed no sign of wrinkles, her hair still in place, her posture impeccable. She didn’t collapse the way Cruz did; rather, she lowered herself onto the opposite couch, ankles crossed, back perfectly straight. The subtle lighting caught the angles of her face, emphasizing the deep concern she was trying so hard to mask.
They were far from strangers. They’d been locked in a forced partnership—this performance of a marriage—for months now. But tonight felt heavier than usual, the air brimming with the unspoken aftermath of a single event: the marriage contract leak. Every headline, every tweet, every blaring news piece had dissected the question: Was their union real? Was everything a lie? And if so, what else might Cruz be lying about?
For a moment, neither spoke. The hush that enveloped them was thick and loaded with tension. Even the hum of the air conditioner seemed muffled, as if the house itself couldn’t bear to intrude. Eventually, Aaliyah broke the silence with a question that felt both inevitable and devastating.
“Did you really think this wouldn’t come out?” she asked softly, her voice not quite reproachful, not quite sympathetic. Just tired.
Cruz’s jaw twitched, her gaze pinned to a spot on the ceiling. She didn’t glance over, didn’t meet Aaliyah’s eyes right away. “No,” she said at last, voice low. “I knew deep down that it would come out sooner or later. Doesn’t make it any easier.”
She let out a hollow laugh that broke midway, becoming more a sigh than genuine amusement. The headlines had been merciless, dissecting every inch of her integrity, her authenticity, her stance on corporate money and establishment politics. They’d gone after Aaliyah, too—calling her manipulative, a puppet of her father’s empire, a polished pawn in a game of power. Neither of them had escaped unscathed.
In the quiet that followed, Cruz replayed a thousand images from the week: The newscaster reporting the bombshell leak, the stunned faces of campaign volunteers, Bobby’s frantic phone calls trying to contain the PR nightmare. She swallowed, her throat oddly tight. She couldn’t shake the sense that her entire political career—everything she’d fought for—was now teetering on an edge she couldn’t see.
Aaliyah studied Cruz carefully, her fingernails tapping a soft rhythm on the couch arm. Light from the hall lamp slid over her cheekbones, highlighting the faintest shadows under her eyes. Even impeccably put together, she looked weary to the bone. “Is this worth it?” she finally asked, her tone gentler than Cruz had ever heard it.
The question struck harder than it should have. Cruz had asked herself that many times—on sleepless nights, on the tail end of brutal campaign stops, in the heat of arguments that left her more exhausted than any battlefield. Yet hearing Aaliyah pose it so plainly, in that moment of vulnerability, made it resonate in a way she couldn’t ignore.
Cruz lifted her head, turning just enough to meet Aaliyah’s gaze. For all their differences, their private wars and silent resentments, Aaliyah’s expression was sincere, almost tender. “Is it worth it?” Aaliyah repeated, quieter.
An answering pang twisted in Cruz’s chest. She didn’t know how to separate the life-or-death urgency of her campaign from the strange, complicated closeness she’d begun feeling for Aaliyah. Once, she’d been certain the marriage was just a transaction. Now, the lines had blurred.
She swallowed, her pulse thudding in her ears. “I—I don’t know,” she admitted at first, raw honesty creeping into her voice. Then she forced herself to continue. “But I’m not walking away.”
Aaliyah’s eyes flickered with something—surprise, maybe relief, definitely emotion. She let out a breath, a soft sound that broke the tension like a tiny crack in the wall they’d built around themselves. “If you want out,” she said, “say it now.”
A hush. Cruz had the chance. She could bail. She could concede defeat, let McNamara claim victory, retreat from this façade of a marriage that had been forced upon them by political necessity. She could preserve her pride—maybe. Or maybe let the entire campaign burn. But in her gut, she knew she couldn’t. She thought of the people depending on her, the soldiers who believed she was their voice, the working-class families who saw her as their champion. And she also thought of Aaliyah, who, despite her cutting remarks and icy exterior, was still here, offering a chance to break free if that’s what Cruz truly wanted.
“No,” Cruz answered, the word slipping free like a vow. “I’m not running.”
Aaliyah didn’t smile, but her shoulders eased. For a fleeting second, Cruz saw raw gratitude flicker in Aaliyah’s dark eyes. Their gazes locked, neither woman blinking, neither letting the moment slip. Then Aaliyah gave a single, resolute nod. “Then we continue to fight this,” she said, voice steadier.
They didn’t need to clarify who they were fighting: the press, McNamara’s camp, the torrent of public scrutiny. Maybe even their own doubts. But for better or worse, they’d do it side by side.
Later, the house sank into deeper darkness. Streetlights glimmered through drawn curtains, casting an orange glow across the floors. Cruz found herself unable to sleep. She wandered to the wide windows in the living room, arms wrapped around her middle. Austin’s skyline was out there, quiet and glittering, while social media raged with endless takes on her alleged hypocrisy and the integrity of their marriage.
In the hallway, she caught the faint sound of Aaliyah’s footsteps. She turned to see her partner in this strange charade standing near the staircase, wearing a loose, luxurious robe that still spoke of elegance. For a moment, they merely observed each other in the dim light. Cruz, barefoot and bleary-eyed, and Aaliyah, collected even in her exhaustion.
Cruz took a tentative step forward. “Hey,” she said, uncertain what else to offer.
Aaliyah’s lips curved into a weary half-smile. “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, her voice so low it was almost lost in the hush.
Cruz shook her head. “No. Kept thinking about everything… and nothing.”
Aaliyah nodded, her gaze sliding to the large window. “Me too.”
They stood together, not quite next to each other but close enough that Cruz could sense Aaliyah’s presence—feel the subtle warmth that radiated from her. Outside, the world churned with rumors and speculation, but in here, they were just two people at the edge of a precipice, deciding how far they were willing to go.
“You didn’t have to stay,” Cruz murmured after a while, her words surprising even herself.
Aaliyah offered a soft exhale, not quite a laugh. “Of course I did.” She hesitated, then added, “I’m in this too.”
Cruz’s stomach fluttered in a confusing mix of gratitude and guilt. She realized that for all the times they’d clashed, they were more allies than enemies now. The lines might still be blurry, but the direction felt clearer.
The hush stretched. Eventually, they retreated from the window, each heading to their separate rooms. Cruz, behind her closed door, stared at the ceiling for a long time, thoughts racing. Her heart felt too large in her chest, like it needed more space than her rib cage allowed. She kept picturing Aaliyah at the bottom of the stairs, that tired smile, that unwavering decision to stick around.
She replayed the moment she’d said “No” to giving up—marveled at how simple it was to say, yet how monumental it felt. Then we fight. But it wasn’t only about the campaign anymore. It was about something intangible growing between them. A connection she was too afraid to name.
Sleep claimed her eventually, though fitfully. She dreamt of standing side by side with Aaliyah at a podium, cameras flashing, while a crowd roared its approval. In the dream, Aaliyah turned to her, and for once, there was no guarded mask, no pretense. Just a genuine, radiant warmth. The dream was fleeting, dissolving when the alarm on her phone chimed.
Morning arrived in a wash of pale light. Cruz found the house stirring with tentative energy—Bobby texting them both about the day’s strategy, the staff preparing statements to push back against the contract leak. Another battle awaited. Another storm of PR to weather.
Yet as Cruz stepped into the kitchen to grab coffee, she spotted Aaliyah standing by the counter, the same robe cinched neatly at the waist, hair neatly pinned up. Their eyes met. Aaliyah offered a small nod, the sort that said: We’re still here. We’re in this together.
Cruz’s chest tightened. She felt unexpectedly steady. Despite the chaos ahead, despite the fear that some part of this might be real—and that she might get hurt—she wasn’t alone. In that hush of morning, the memory of last night’s admission pulsed like a quiet reassurance: they weren’t giving up. Not on the campaign, not on the arrangement, and not on each other.
For a moment, there were no words, just the silent understanding that the fight would continue. But this time, there was a fragile unity beneath it all—a shared determination that neither of them would back down. They had each other’s backs, whether they liked it or not. And perhaps, beneath the layers of strategy and pretenses, they were beginning to like it more than either cared to admit.