October 10th
The energy in downtown Austin was electric, a charged atmosphere that wrapped itself around every streetlight and storefront, vibrating with possibility. Summer heat lingered in the air—even well after sunset—and the humidity made the neon signs shimmer along Congress Avenue. On a normal night, the city thrummed with its usual blend of music and nightlife, but tonight was different. Tonight was about one event: the biggest fundraiser-rally of the campaign season.
Massive banners bearing the slogan Manuelos for Texas! draped the entrance to a historic art-deco theater, where well-dressed donors and enthusiastic grassroots supporters formed a line at the doors. Security details managed the crowds, politely steering folks toward the open-air courtyard behind the theater, which had been transformed into a makeshift staging area for the evening’s main attraction. Local vendors served Tex-Mex small plates and sweet tea, volunteers set up policy booths, and the hum of a live band warmed the space with an upbeat, hopeful rhythm.
High above the crowd, strung lights and festival pennants crisscrossed the sky, blending with the faint glow of downtown’s skyline. The marquee out front declared in bold letters:
FUNDRAISER & RALLY: SENATOR CRUZ MANUELOS & AALIYAH MANUELOS
It was an event that promised both spectacle and substance—part gala, part campaign rally—designed to showcase Senator Cruz Manuelos’ vision for Texas, highlight her personal story, and, of course, solidify the grand narrative of her marriage. Journalists hovered on the edges, cameras on tripods, waiting for that perfect shot. Supporters wore campaign T-shirts and waved signs as they clustered near the small stage set up under the courtyard’s canopy.
Beneath the arches inside the theater, there was a maze of dressing rooms collectively referred to as the “green room,” though the walls were painted a soothing beige. Past the sign that said STAFF & VIP ONLY, the hum of the crowd outside became a muffled roar. This corridor led to an area set aside for the night’s key speakers and VIP guests.
Cruz stood in front of a mirror, taking slow, measured breaths as she fussed with the cuff of her navy-blue suit jacket. She’d spent the entire day rehearsing policy points, practicing the key phrases that pollsters insisted would resonate with both working-class families and wealthier donors. She’d studied talking notes, hammered out the last details of her platform, and prepared herself for any number of tough questions. Yet none of that, she thought wryly, prepared me for this moment.
In the mirror’s reflection, behind Cruz, was Aaliyah. It was impossible not to notice her. She wore a deep green gown that managed to be both sleek and modest, with a subtle shimmer in the fabric that gave the impression of liquid emerald in motion. Her dark hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, styled but not stiff, and diamond accents at her ears and wrists caught the overhead lighting with flashes of subdued brilliance.
It wasn’t just her dress. Aaliyah possessed that unteachable air of polished self-assurance—straight spine, lifted chin, and a calm half-smile that suggested this was her natural habitat. She was made for politics, Cruz couldn’t help but reflect. Me? I’m just a Marine who stumbled onto a podium. Yet here they were, side by side, the war hero and the heiress, joined in a marriage that everyone believed was a grand love story.
Silently, Aaliyah stepped closer until her reflection merged with Cruz’s in the mirror. She lifted a hand to adjust Cruz’s tie, her fingertips brushing her collar with the faintest pressure. The reflection showed the corners of Aaliyah’s lips quirking in a small, knowing smile, as though aware of the subtle effect her touch had on Cruz.
“Try not to look like you’re suffering, ya hayati,” she teased softly, her voice carrying a gentleness that contradicted the sharpness of her usual remarks.
Cruz inhaled. The faint rose-and-citrus scent of Aaliyah’s perfume washed over her—another intangible sign of the woman’s sophistication. She swallowed, forcing a small nod. It’s just an act for her, she reminded herself, ignoring the unexpected warmth that pooled in her chest. With a crispness that felt mechanical, she smoothed her suit jacket and exhaled.
Aaliyah stepped back, giving a final tug on Cruz’s tie. Her gaze lingered on Cruz’s face, just for a split second longer than necessary—like she might be assessing whether Cruz was up to the task. Or maybe something else.
They both turned at the sound of a firm knock. Bobby poked her head in, her expression already lined with stress.
“You two ready?” Bobby asked, keeping her voice low. She held a clipboard in one hand and her phone in the other, eyes flicking between them. “The press is everywhere out there. Donors, too. A real who’s who.”
“Showtime,” Aaliyah murmured, stepping aside for Cruz to take the lead.
And just like that, they moved, heading into the swirling chaos of the event.
The courtyard behind the theater glowed with string lights and the easy warmth of a summer evening. A hush fell over the throng of attendees as Cruz and Aaliyah made their entrance, arms linked. It was seamless—Aaliyah’s hand resting lightly at Cruz’s elbow, her posture angled for the cameras. Every part the perfect political wife, Cruz thought wryly.
A wave of applause erupted, soon swallowed by the rhythms of the live band’s music picking up tempo. People angled for a better view, cell phones rose in unison for snapshots and quick videos, and the press corps jockeyed to capture the moment. They love this, Cruz realized, scanning the crowd. They love the romance, the image—maybe even more than they love the policies.
Her chest tightened at that realization. She’d fought her entire life to be valued for her grit, her service, her determination to fix what was broken in the system. And here she was, overshadowed by a sparkling romance narrative that might be as false as it was compelling.
Still, she found herself relaxing—just a little—whenever Aaliyah glanced her way with that fraction of a smile. Maybe we’re both overshadowed by this story, Cruz mused. And maybe we both decided it was worth it, for our own reasons.
For the first hour, the event resembled a high-society cocktail party, with donors in sleek suits and shimmering dresses clinking glasses and engaging in low murmurs about election forecasts. Crisp white tablecloths decorated rows of round tables, each adorned with floral centerpieces in Texas-themed arrangements—bluebonnets, castilleja, and small golden stars. Waiters glided through the crowd with hors d’oeuvres: mini brisket sliders, gourmet queso cups, and deviled eggs garnished with chives.
Bobby hustled around, introducing Cruz to potential donors while union leaders and local activists vied for her attention. Aaliyah slipped into her element, easily navigating from group to group, a practiced smile on her lips as she introduced herself.
“Oh, Mr. Sandoval,” Aaliyah said at one point, voice light and pleasant. “I’d like you to meet my wife, Senator Manuelos—she’s very interested in your community outreach program.”
Cruz forced a polite grin, shaking the man’s hand. She delivered a short but focused promise to support local business initiatives. In the background, cameras flashed. She stole a glance at Aaliyah, who was quietly stepping back to let Cruz have the spotlight. So that’s how she plays it—effortless, unwavering support. Cruz felt a stir of gratitude in her chest.
As the sun dipped below the skyline, ceding the sky to the glow of city lights, the focus turned to the small stage near the courtyard’s center. A hush fell over the crowd as Aaliyah ascended the steps first. She adjusted the microphone with a graceful tilt of her chin, scanning the audience until the rustling quieted.
She began in a low, confident voice. “Good evening, everyone, and thank you for being here to support a campaign I truly believe in with all my heart.” Her gaze traveled the crowd, and cameras zoomed in. “I married a fighter,” she said, letting the words settle. “Someone who refuses to back down, refuses to accept the world as it is. That’s why I stand beside her. Cruz fights for Texas—so, Texas, let’s fight for her.”
Polite applause rippled out, soon intensifying into a wave of cheers. Cruz stood off to the side, hands clasped in front of her, carefully maintaining a neutral half-smile. She knew Aaliyah was delivering the lines they’d rehearsed. But how does she make it sound so genuine? Cruz wondered, a flicker of admiration surfacing despite her skepticism.
At Aaliyah’s beckon, Cruz stepped up to the mic. The applause grew louder, and her chest tightened. Cameras swiveled, capturing her from every angle.
“Hey, everyone.” She paused, the hush magnifying her voice. “I, uh—thank you for coming out tonight. We’re on the cusp of an election that means a lot for Texans. And I’d like to share why I’m in this fight.”
Her gaze drifted over the crowd—a mosaic of wealthy donors, local activists, volunteers in campaign T-shirts. She gripped the podium.
“I know what it’s like to serve. I spent years in the Marine Corps, leading my team in conditions that tested every limit, including my own. I learned that you never leave anyone behind. You fight for each other. And you fight for something bigger than yourself.”
The audience quieted. She glanced at Aaliyah, who remained near the edge of the stage, elegantly poised, eyes shining under the stage lights.
“After I came back,” Cruz continued, “I saw how veterans were being failed—by bureaucracy, by politicians who love to rattle off ‘support our troops’ during campaign season but do nothing when it’s time to pass real policy. So I ran for office, not because I wanted to, but because I was angry. Because I believed Texas deserved better. That you deserved better.”
A smattering of cheers and applause. Bobby watched from the side, lips pursed, nodding in approval at the lines they’d painstakingly crafted.
Cruz exhaled, pressing on, “I remember meeting a single mom in Houston—she worked two jobs and still couldn’t pay rent. I remember talking to an older couple in El Paso who couldn’t afford their medication, rationing pills every month. I remember speaking to a soldier’s widow in San Antonio who had to battle red tape for her benefits. And every one of them asked the same thing: ‘Who’s fighting for us?’”
She let the rhetorical question hang, then forced a breath, surprising herself by looking at Aaliyah again.
“I didn’t get here alone,” she admitted, voice dipping quieter. “I’ve never fought alone. My fellow Marines, supporters, my team, and now…” She paused, hearing the hush deepen. “Now, I have someone standing beside me who’s made me believe that we can do more than just patch a broken system. We can transform it.”
At that, Aaliyah inclined her head, her eyes bright.
“I wouldn’t be here without Aaliyah,” Cruz said, stepping away from the script they’d rehearsed. She felt her own heartbeat quicken. “She’s my rock. And I hope—” her gaze swept back to the audience “—you’ll trust me to fight for you, the way I fight for the people I love. That’s what this campaign is about.”
A hush, followed by thunderous applause. Relief washed through her, mingling with an undercurrent of raw vulnerability. Did I really say all that?
The moment the speech ended, the crowd erupted in cheers. Supporters rushed the stage; journalists clamored for policy answers, donors jostled in the wings for private conversations. Bobby stepped forward, forging a path for Cruz to exit gracefully.
Aaliyah’s hand found Cruz’s elbow as they descended from the podium’s stairs. “You do realize you went off-script,” she murmured, half a smile in her voice. “But it worked.”
Cruz, oddly breathless, nodded. “I guess I did.” Her gaze locked with Aaliyah’s, catching the light flush on her cheeks—maybe it was the stage lights, maybe something else.
They wove through the crowd, pausing for quick handshakes and congratulations. A few admirers asked for photos; one elderly woman cooed, “You two are so in love.” Under each flash of the camera, Cruz felt a certain tension coil between them, as though every shared glance was magnified for the world to see.
At some point, Aaliyah leaned closer, guiding Cruz away from a persistent reporter. Her breath grazed Cruz’s ear. “You speak well when it comes from the heart,” she whispered, the faintest note of genuine warmth.
For a beat, everything seemed to slow—Cruz registered the warmth in Aaliyah’s voice, the lingering adrenaline in her own veins, the sense that eyes were still on them. Then, without quite thinking it through, she turned toward Aaliyah. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she let that moment carry her forward—she bridged the short distance and pressed her lips to Aaliyah’s in a gentle, breath-stealing kiss.
It lasted only a heartbeat, but it felt at once electric and sweet, a surge of unguarded feeling that caught them both off guard. The applause ringing around them faded to a distant roar. When Cruz drew back, her eyes met Aaliyah’s, and a shocked brightness lit Aaliyah’s gaze—surprise tempered by something undeniably real.
A hush seemed to settle, then exploded back into cheers from those close enough to have witnessed it. Cameras snapped, a few phones shot up to record the moment. Cruz’s cheeks heated, but she didn’t look away.
Aaliyah’s hand slipped down from Cruz’s elbow to squeeze her hand instead. For a second, neither spoke—caught in that tight, breathless space where neither had planned this, yet neither seemed to regret it.
Bobby cleared her throat from behind them, snapping them back to the present. Cruz blinked, turning toward the next round of admirers, her mind whirling with the impact of what she’d just done.
The campaign staff had arranged a short intermission, giving Cruz time to recharge before an hour of Q&A and donor mingling. They guided her to a cordoned-off backstage hallway, where a few staffers busied themselves organizing pamphlets, donation forms, and event schedules. The makeshift lounge area had a cooler of bottled water and a small table with fresh fruit, all overshadowed by the swirl of adrenaline that still pumped through Cruz’s veins.
Cruz collapsed into a folding chair, exhaling like she’d just run a marathon. Bobby offered a quick thumbs-up. “The speech was great. A little off-script, but we got the soundbites we needed. The crowd ate it up.”
Nearby, Aaliyah elegantly perched on the corner of a crate, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle in her blouse. She offered a water bottle to Cruz, who accepted it with a mumbled “thanks.” For a moment, they sat in companionable silence as Bobby vanished to check on some detail or other.
“You surprise me sometimes,” Aaliyah said after a beat, eyes flicking over Cruz.
Cruz took a gulp of water, fiddling with the cap. “Good surprise or bad surprise?”
Aaliyah’s lips curved thoughtfully. “I haven’t decided yet.”
A quiver of unexpected amusement lit Cruz’s gaze. She tapped her foot against the floor, restless energy buzzing. She was hyperaware of how good Aaliyah looked in that gown, how it skimmed her figure, how the subtle sparkle caught the overhead track lights. She’d always known Aaliyah was beautiful; any fool could see that. But lately, Cruz had started noticing small things—like the gentle slope of Aaliyah’s shoulders, the way her eyes crinkled slightly when she was genuinely amused, the softness of her voice when she forgot to be biting.
This is just an arrangement, Cruz reminded herself sternly, forcing her gaze away. Don’t start reading into it. But the echo of her own words at the podium—calling Aaliyah her rock—rang in her ears. She couldn’t help feeling a tug in her chest that she didn’t entirely dislike.
Sensing Cruz’s internal struggle, Aaliyah cleared her throat. “We’re on in five,” she said, glancing at her phone. “Donors. Q&A. Photos. The usual.”
Cruz stood, tugging her jacket straight. “Right. Let’s get it over with.”
Back in the main courtyard, the event staff had rearranged chairs into a semicircle for a more intimate Q&A session. A small platform with two comfortable seats took center stage, flanked by potted palms and a discreet row of campaign signs. As Cruz and Aaliyah re-entered the spotlight, a polite hush fell.
One of the major donors—an oil magnate with an interest in the campaign—held the microphone. “Senator, how do you plan to balance environmental concerns with Texas’s energy sector?”
Cruz straightened her posture, launching into her well-practiced policy stance. She emphasized clean energy incentives, transitional jobs for oil workers, and sustainable water policies. The crowd listened, nodding in pockets of agreement. Aaliyah watched from the seat beside her, occasionally interjecting a clarifying statistic or an anecdote about Texas’s future competitiveness in renewables.
The teamwork was evident: Cruz provided the raw conviction, Aaliyah refined the edges.
Yet, in small gestures, the personal narrative bled through. Whenever Cruz stumbled on a financial figure, Aaliyah smoothly supplied the correct number. When Aaliyah turned too technical, Cruz broke it down in plain language. They locked eyes often enough that cameras captured a sense of harmony. Or maybe more than harmony.
Toward the end, a local journalist asked a pointed question: “Senator, you’ve run on authenticity and integrity, but many wonder if your new marriage is overshadowing your policies. How do you respond?”
Cruz hesitated, glancing at Aaliyah, who gave a slight nod.
“I’ve never been a polished politician,” Cruz began, letting out a soft breath. “And I don’t plan to become one. I’m here to do the work: for veterans, for working families, for the future of Texas. My marriage to Aaliyah—” She paused, turning to face her “—is just another part of who I am. A source of strength, actually. But policy always comes first, and I believe Texans see that.”
As the Q&A wound down, the night’s festivities moved into a final stretch: donors writing checks, supporters taking photos, journalists wrapping up interviews. The band resumed a softer tune, and a few couples drifted onto a small dance floor near the stage, swaying under twinkling fairy lights.
Amid the bustle, Cruz and Aaliyah found themselves near the dessert table, momentarily unoccupied. The scent of pecan pie and caramel wafted around them, mixing with the lingering perfume of polished wealth.
Cruz snagged a tiny pie tart, handing one to Aaliyah without thinking. She meant it as an olive branch, a simple gesture. Aaliyah, arching a brow, accepted it gracefully.
They stood there, side by side, sampling the treat. Over the crowd’s shoulder, cameras still flashed sporadically. They were never fully offstage, never completely alone. But in that moment, the noise and bright lights seemed far away.
Aaliyah exhaled, a subtle tension leaving her shoulders. “You did well tonight,” she said, turning to Cruz. “The donors are impressed, the supporters are fired up. Bobby’s going to sleep without an ulcer for once.”
Cruz managed a soft chuckle. “Yeah, well, you made it easy. That introduction… you practically crowned me queen of Texas.”
The corners of Aaliyah’s mouth twitched. “Hardly. You earned your place.” Her gaze flicked to Cruz’s tie again. “Next time, though, let me pick your tie color. Something that complements your eyes, not just your suit.”
Cruz smirked. “Look at you, volunteering to be my stylist.”
“Don’t push it,” Aaliyah teased, nibbling on her pie tart.
A comfortable silence settled. Across the way, Bobby gestured frantically for them to join a group of potential donors. They’d have to go, eventually. But for a fleeting beat, they allowed themselves to stand there, forging an unspoken bond that had nothing to do with cameras or orchestrated illusions.
Cruz’s gaze traveled over Aaliyah’s face—she truly was breathtaking, from the gloss on her lips to the subtle shimmer around her eyes. If we’d met under different circumstances… The thought startled her. She cleared her throat, pivoting her attention back to the swirl of the party.
They started walking, heading over to greet the donors. Aaliyah slipped her arm through Cruz’s again, casual but intimate. Cruz felt her breath hitch for a second, and she cursed her heart for skipping. Keep it together, Senator.
Yet, beneath the polished exterior, beneath the wave of professional smiles, both women felt a flicker of warmth that refused to be dismissed. In the hush of that fleeting closeness, they recognized that something had changed. Maybe it was the shared speech, maybe it was the thousand small gestures through the night, or maybe it was the simple fact that each had seen the other at their rawest—Cruz’s unrefined passion, Aaliyah’s quiet vulnerability.
And neither one entirely disliked it.
The energy inside the campaign headquarters crackled with the buzz of new poll numbers, late-night tweets, and the lingering glow of a highly successful interview. Staffers rushed around with phones pressed to their ears, juggling schedules, donors, and media inquiries. Posters and flyers were scattered across tables, and whiteboards—filled with scribbled notes—lined the walls. It was past ten o’clock, but nobody in the campaign office showed signs of winding down. The night was simply too good to waste on sleep.
Bobby barged through the main doors, juggling an open laptop in one hand and her phone in the other. The moment she spotted Cruz and Aaliyah across the room, she unleashed a triumphant grin.
“That speech,” Bobby announced, her voice cutting through the general clamor, “was perfect. I swear you two should win an award—maybe an Oscar.” She dropped her laptop onto a nearby desk, ignoring how her phone continued buzzing with notifications.
Cruz, sprawled in a rolling chair with her ankles crossed, gave Bobby a skeptical look. Her tie was undone, the collar of her button-down loosened enough to reveal the edges of a faint collarbone bruise from a hectic schedule that involved everything from morning workouts to evening fundraisers. Dark circles under her eyes hinted at how little she’d slept in the last week.
“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Cruz said. A muscle flickered in her jaw, betraying the adrenaline still flooding her system. Truthfully, she felt a strange restlessness she couldn’t shake, and it had almost nothing to do with the night’s success.
“Am I?” Bobby flipped her laptop open and stabbed a few keys. “Because if Twitter is anything to go by, the world’s in love with you two. ‘Power Couple’ is trending, along with a handful of cutesy shipping tags.” She angled her screen so Cruz and Aaliyah could read the real-time feed.
Cruz huffed out a laugh that was half disbelief, half resignation. “Everybody loves a romance, I guess.”
Aaliyah, perched on the edge of a nearby desk with her legs elegantly crossed, arched an eyebrow. She sipped a small cup of coffee, looking maddeningly composed for someone who’d been on the go since dawn. A subtle smirk tugged at her mouth—like she’d won a private bet.
“Well, darling,” she murmured, swirling the coffee in her cup, “at least now you know, your suffering is entertaining to the masses.” Her voice carried that soft, cultured edge that never failed to irritate and, lately, intrigue Cruz.
Cruz fought the impulse to roll her eyes. “This is all a big joke to you, isn’t it?”
Aaliyah shrugged. “I wouldn’t say a joke. More of a spectacle. One that’s paying dividends, apparently.”
Bobby nudged them aside, pulling up a graph of fresh poll numbers. The lines had strongly shifted in Cruz’s favor for the first time since the campaign began. “Look,” she said, tapping the screen. “Leading by two points. Donations are pouring in. The forecast just swung your way, Cruz. You can actually win.”
Across the room, Randy skimmed a separate printout. He shook his head in disbelief. “We’re in the lead, Manuelos,” he muttered. A grin broke across his face. “Never thought I’d see it this soon.”
Cruz exhaled, her adrenaline spiking. “Leading,” she echoed, half under her breath. She knew how improbable this outcome had seemed a few months ago. She also knew the reason behind this surge: the elaborate charade she and Aaliyah were pulling off, the “perfect” couple routine that had swayed moderate voters and softened her image. Yet, despite her annoyance, part of her felt a flicker of… gratitude?
She glanced at Aaliyah, who was busy scanning more social media reactions. Even in the unflattering fluorescent lighting of the war room, Aaliyah looked radiant. Her hair framed her face in gentle waves, and she’d changed into a sleek pantsuit after the fundraiser, giving her an air of professional grace that made staffers part like the Red Sea whenever she walked by. Cruz found her gaze lingering a beat too long on the curve of Aaliyah’s jawline, the elegant slope of her neck. She shook herself mentally: This is just an act, remember?
Bobby clapped her hands, commanding everyone’s attention. “Alright, poll updates aside, let’s talk about the real-time meltdown happening on Twitter.” She turned to Randy. “You see these comments?”
Randy gave a low whistle. “Seems the public’s shipping it pretty hard.”
Aaliyah’s expression didn’t shift, but a faint satisfaction glimmered in her eyes. “The entire country, it seems, has latched onto our… arrangement.”
Cruz flexed her fingers against her thighs, recalling how, at the tail end of the night, she’d reached for Aaliyah’s hand and felt an inexplicable warmth surge through her. The cameras had caught it—caught the way her lips had curled into something resembling an honest smile. She’d told herself it was only for show. Only for the campaign.
And yet her palm still remembered the soft pressure of Aaliyah’s fingers. A slight flush rose to her cheeks at the memory. She forced a casual shrug, leaning back in her chair. “It’s all a bunch of hype,” she said, hoping to sound dismissive.
Aaliyah tilted her head, studying Cruz for a moment. “Hype is what wins elections, Senator,” she said, her voice just a touch gentler than usual.
Cruz swallowed. This was the problem. There was a line between them—one that clearly separated the real from the staged. Lately, though, that line felt blurred. When she’d delivered her speech, gazing out at the crowd, she’d said, “I wouldn’t be here without her,” and a traitorous part of her heart had meant every word. She hated how vulnerable that made her feel.
Bobby, oblivious to Cruz’s inner turmoil, took a seat and spread out additional poll breakdowns. “We’re seeing a huge swing from undecided voters, mostly crediting the ‘stability’ your marriage suggests. McNamara’s attacks on your authenticity aren’t landing anymore.”
Randy let out a low chuckle. “So that speech, that event, the little lovebird act—it’s paying off in spades.”
Cruz forced a tight laugh, trying to mask the swirl of emotions inside her. “Just because it’s working doesn’t mean I enjoy it.” She shot a glance at Aaliyah, who responded with a slight lift of her brow—like she found Cruz’s frustration amusing.
“You’re an excellent actor, Senator,” Aaliyah teased softly. “I never suspected you had such a romantic side.”
Cruz’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t push it.”
Aaliyah set her coffee down, crossing the short distance to stand next to Cruz. For a heartbeat, the entire war room buzzed on the periphery while the two women regarded each other. Aaliyah exuded confidence, from her immaculate makeup to the graceful line of her collarbones beneath her blouse. Cruz felt a strange pull, her heart thudding. She told herself she was just drained from the day, that it was normal to misread the signals. And yet the tension between them felt almost tangible, like a wire pulled taut.
Bobby cleared her throat, snapping them both back to reality. “Alright, lovebirds,” she said, her voice dripping with wry humor. “We’ve got a press event in two days, a fundraiser in four, and the debate next week. Let’s keep this momentum going.”
Cruz tore her gaze from Aaliyah and nodded, raking a hand through her short hair. “Yeah,” she said, a little more breathlessly than she intended. “We can handle it.”
Aaliyah’s smirk returned. “I’m sure we can,” she said, lifting her chin in that poised way she had perfected. “Just don’t bruise my hand with another death grip when we’re in front of the cameras.”
Cruz flushed. “I don’t recall bruising you,” she retorted.
“Sure you don’t,” Aaliyah replied, a spark of playfulness in her eyes. “But I have proof.” She rolled the sleeve of her blazer just enough to show a faint red mark on the underside of her wrist—likely from the tight clasp Cruz had given her during the fundraiser. A mild flush stained Cruz’s cheeks again. She half-wanted to apologize, half-wanted to turn away in embarrassment. Instead, she sputtered something unintelligible.
Randy, from across the desk, stifled a laugh. Bobby only sighed, though a glint of amusement softened her exasperation. “Play nice, you two,” she said, but she couldn’t hide her grin. “Our social media manager is about to drop another highlight clip from your interview. The squealing fangirls are gonna lose their minds.”
Cruz let out a heavy sigh. “Fantastic,” she muttered. But her tone lacked its usual edge.
Aaliyah arched an elegant brow, leaning in slightly. She lowered her voice just enough for Cruz to hear. “Cheer up, Senator. The cameras love you. And… maybe I don’t mind sharing the spotlight quite so much.” There was an almost playful note in her whisper, a fleeting warmth that made Cruz’s stomach flutter.
Cruz, for once, had no snappy comeback. The war room’s fluorescent lights buzzed above them; staffers chattered and phones rang. But in that moment, they stood close, the earlier tension simmering into something far more complicated—something that sent a subtle thrill skittering down Cruz’s spine.
Bobby slammed her laptop shut, grinning at the data on the screen. “Alright, let’s call it a night, folks. We’ve still got an early start tomorrow—someone’s gotta plan the next wave of your ‘happy couple’ routine.” She winked, earning an eyeroll from Cruz and a faint, amused smile from Aaliyah.
Cruz took a breath, letting the chaos swirl around her. In the corner of her vision, she saw Aaliyah tuck a stray hair behind her ear, the lamplight reflecting in her dark eyes. Something in Cruz’s chest gave a small, traitorous tug. In another life, maybe she’d have asked this poised, frustratingly gorgeous woman on a proper date. Maybe she’d have teased her in some cozy bar, bought her a glass of wine, and learned what lay beneath the polished exterior.
But this wasn’t another life. This was their reality—a high-stakes race for governor, a fabricated romance for the cameras, and a world that seemed delighted by their every public exchange.
Still, as she gathered her jacket, Cruz couldn’t help but wonder: was it all an act if she could feel her heart pounding a little too hard whenever Aaliyah drew near? She swallowed, pushing the thought aside. Work. The campaign. Focus on that.
Aaliyah brushed past her, lifting her phone to check a new message, but not before murmuring, “Good job tonight, Senator.” Her tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of sincerity there. Cruz’s pulse fluttered again, and she hated how easily it happened.
“Yeah,” she managed, voice lower than she intended. “You too.”
They filed out into the hallway, staffers parting to let them pass. The cameras weren’t on now; no one was forcing them to smile or hold hands. Even so, Cruz felt a pang of something dangerously close to regret when Aaliyah drifted a few steps ahead, out of easy earshot. Maybe the lines between act and reality were blurring for them both.
And for the first time, Cruz didn’t mind the confusion as much as she should have.
The quiet drive across Austin’s nighttime sprawl was claustrophobic, tension buzzing in the air like electricity. Their home waited for them, a place they both occupied but never really called home.
Tonight, though, felt different.
Cruz sensed it in the way Aaliyah fiddled with her phone but never typed a single message, the way she stared out the window with an unsettled expression. And Aaliyah sensed it in the stiffness of Cruz’s shoulders, the jitter in her knee, the muscle that twitched at her jaw whenever she was thinking too hard.
They arrived to find the driveway empty, security lights illuminating the sleek lines of glass and steel. The front door opened with a mechanical chirp. She stepped inside first, flicking on just one low lamp in the foyer, letting the rest of the house remain in shadow. Cruz followed, shrugging off her jacket and slinging it over the back of a nearby chair. The overhead lights remained off. They didn’t need them, or maybe they just wanted the cover of darkness to hide the night’s lingering effect.
The hush was overwhelming, as though the house itself recognized something had changed. A handful of half-eaten pastries sat under a plastic dome in the kitchen. A nearly empty wine bottle sprawled on the counter from the previous night. The echoes of their routine lived here—two people cohabiting out of necessity, sharing an address but rarely a moment of true intimacy.
Cruz took a breath, rolling her shoulders. She felt an ache in every muscle, the aftermath of tension carried throughout the day’s performance. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever get used to smiling for cameras while telling the world she adored a woman she’d spent months trying not to fight with. And yet, in the quiet glow of the foyer, she glanced sideways at Aaliyah—and felt an odd pull. Some part of her recognized that beneath all those curated angles and perfectly chosen words, Aaliyah was just as tired, just as cornered, just as uncertain.
They exchanged a look, something unspoken and raw, before Aaliyah stepped out of her heels with a soft click against the marble floor.
“I feel like I just went through basic training again,” Cruz murmured.
Aaliyah let out a low sound—almost a chuckle. “I believe it came across that way on camera, too,” she teased gently, folding her arms over her chest. “I half expected you to break the microphone in half, the way you were clutching it.”
A flicker of a smirk tugged at Cruz’s mouth. “You noticed?”
“Darling, I notice everything,” Aaliyah replied, a hint of warmth creeping into her voice.
There it was again—that shift, a tiny crack in the wall of forced politeness. Cruz didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly they were both in the kitchen, rummaging for coffee cups or maybe just an excuse to stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Aaliyah found a leftover bottle of wine, swirling the last few drops in the bottom. She poured it into a glass, frowned at how little it was, and set the empty bottle aside.
“You want some?” she asked quietly, holding the glass out.
Cruz hesitated, then shook her head. “Nah, I’m good.” She paused, glancing at the archway leading to the living room. They hadn’t turned on any more lights, the entire house draped in a dusky hush. “You…uh, you were great tonight,” she added, awkwardly. “During the fundraiser. I know I said it earlier, but I… I really mean it.”
Aaliyah lifted the glass, taking a small sip. “So were you, Senator Manuelos.” Her smirk returned, but it was gentler than usual, and she used Cruz’s title with a touch of playful respect. “You do clean up nicely. The audience seems to think you’re utterly smitten.”
Cruz snorted. “They think you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” She folded her arms, looking anywhere but Aaliyah’s face. “Maybe they’re right,” she mumbled under her breath—half-joke, half-truth.
Aaliyah’s brow arched, but she didn’t call attention to the comment. Instead, she gestured with her near-empty glass. “Let’s get out of this kitchen. I can’t stare at these stainless steel appliances any longer tonight.”
Their footsteps echoed softly, leading them through the expansive living room, where the city lights filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Usually, they parted ways at this point in the night—Aaliyah retreating to the master bedroom, Cruz to her guest room. It kept them from further arguments or confused thoughts. But tonight, they both drifted toward a side hallway that led to a smaller lounge—a more intimate space they rarely used.
The lounge was dim, a single floor lamp casting a muted glow over a plush sofa. The tension followed them inside. Cruz shoved her hands into her pockets, leaning against the wall as Aaliyah set her wine glass on a side table.
The memory of their earlier speech flickered through Cruz’s mind: how she’d reached for Aaliyah’s hand, the warmth of her palm, the faint tremor of nerves that betrayed something deeper than staged affection.
Aaliyah brushed her hair back with a small, restless motion. “We put on a convincing show,” she said, voice quiet. “Seems the entire state of Texas wants to see us riding off into the sunset.”
Cruz swallowed, forcing a chuckle that came out rough. “Yeah, well… the entire state of Texas also believes in good barbecue and Friday night lights. They’ll swallow any romance story if it’s got a happy ending.”
“Right,” Aaliyah murmured. She took a single step closer, crossing the small lounge in a few graceful strides. “A happy ending.”
Her tone was oddly wistful. And in that instant, Cruz felt a tug in her chest, something that whispered: She wants that. Or maybe they both did. She wasn’t sure.
Cruz gazed at the floor for a moment, then slowly lifted her eyes to Aaliyah’s face. Even in the half-light, she looked stunning—hair falling in elegant waves around her shoulders, the soft curve of her lips slightly parted. The frustration and cynicism that usually clung to her expression were replaced by uncertainty. Vulnerability. And desire.
An echo of the night at the honeymoon suite rushed back: the way their hands entwined for the camera, the warmth that lingered on Cruz’s skin afterwards. She had brushed it off as adrenaline, as performance, as anything but the truth. But now it was too close to ignore. She realized she’d been noticing how the lamplight caught Aaliyah’s cheekbones, how her perfume lingered in the quiet air, how her guarded smiles sometimes hinted at kindness.
Aaliyah cleared her throat. “They love us, you know. The hashtags are… unstoppable.” She tried to sound casual, but her voice trembled slightly. “I thought I’d hate seeing the world celebrate a lie, but… I don’t know. It felt good to be wanted, even if it’s for a story that isn’t real.”
Cruz took a slow step forward, heart pounding in her ears. “Maybe it’s not a lie,” she blurted. The words tumbled out unplanned, and she cursed under her breath for letting them escape. “Or maybe not entirely.”
Silence. Aaliyah searched her face. “Cruz…”
Cruz’s chest tightened. She had no script for this, no prepared lines to deflect. “Look, I know what we said. I know why we started this.” She exhaled shakily, letting herself be painfully honest. “But sometimes, it doesn’t feel fake anymore. Especially when—” She gestured vaguely, unable to articulate how a single shared glance or a gentle touch could twist her insides into knots.
Aaliyah’s eyes glimmered with something like relief, but also fear. She set the wine glass aside, letting it rest next to a sleek lamp. “Tonight… you kissed me first.” She said it like an accusation, but her tone was hushed. “No cameras told you to do that.”
Cruz nodded, throat tight. “I know.”
Aaliyah closed the distance between them, each step measured, until she stood so close that Cruz could see the faint lines of tension around her eyes. “Tell me it’s just an act,” she whispered, voice trembling. “Tell me so I can pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”
Cruz swallowed hard, gazing into those dark, guarded eyes. Everything in her rebelled at the idea of lying. “I can’t,” she said softly, the confession feeling like a free fall.
Something in Aaliyah’s posture broke—her shoulders lost that rigid elegance, her face crumpling into a mixture of relief and raw intensity. She let out a shallow breath. Then, as if seized by a momentary daring, she leaned in and pressed her lips to Cruz’s. The contact was warm, almost tentative at first, a question: Are we really doing this?
Cruz answered by sliding a hand around Aaliyah’s waist, pulling her in. Their mouths parted, and the kiss deepened into a burn that resonated with the tension they’d been ignoring for months. She felt Aaliyah sigh against her mouth, fingers knotting in the collar of Cruz’s shirt. It was sweet, but it was also sizzling, the kind of kiss that demanded more.
In a wave of impulsive urgency, they stumbled backward until Cruz’s back bumped the sofa’s arm. Aaliyah’s hands roamed up under Cruz’s shirt, caressing taut muscles along her abdomen and ribs. Cruz inhaled sharply, intoxicated by the sensation, the smell of Aaliyah’s perfume, the taste of wine lingering on her lips. Their hearts thudded in tandem, as if any second they might leap out of their chests.
“Are we…?” Aaliyah tried to ask between kisses, eyes half-lidded.
“Yeah,” Cruz murmured, breath ragged. “We are.” Because she couldn’t not. Because this moment felt overdue.
Aaliyah reached behind her to flick off the small lamp, plunging the lounge into a warm dusk lit only by the faint glow from the hallway. Then she pushed Cruz onto the sofa, straddling her lap with surprising confidence. Their mouths locked once more, tongues meeting in a dance that was both gentle and demanding.
Slowly, carefully, they navigated each layer of clothing. Cruz’s shirt slid off her shoulders, revealing the toned lines of her arms. Aaliyah’s blouse slipped free, exposing lace and the smooth dip of her waist. They breathed heavily in the hush, parted only for an instant to catch glimpses of each other’s expressions—Cruz marveling at how Aaliyah could look so composed and so undone at once, Aaliyah swallowing back a moan at the sight of Cruz’s athletic figure, honed by years of service and a strict workout regimen.
An electric current thrummed between them, words unspoken but felt in every brush of skin. Cruz’s calloused palms explored Aaliyah’s back, reveling in the contrast of silk and warm flesh. Aaliyah arched her body closer, letting out a soft gasp as Cruz’s mouth traveled along the side of her neck. The boundary between reality and performance blurred, replaced by a closeness that felt sharper, more real, than anything they’d shown a camera.
“Cruz,” Aaliyah breathed, her voice low and needy. She skimmed her fingers along Cruz’s ribs, eliciting a quiet hiss of pleasure.
Cruz’s heart pounded. She trailed kisses along Aaliyah’s jaw, her hands sliding over Aaliyah’s hips. Each movement stoked the fire that had smoldered beneath their animosity from day one. It occurred to Cruz that maybe half their fights were about not knowing what to do with this underlying desire, this attraction that refused to die no matter how often they clashed.
They exchanged a heated glance—nothing coy about it now—before Aaliyah led them from the sofa to the bedroom, a silent agreement that they needed more space, more privacy. In the hall, they paused, pressed against the wall as another wave of kisses consumed them, rougher this time. Their breaths mingled, hot and frantic. A few more steps, and they pushed into the bedroom, the bed’s rumpled sheets an open invitation.
Their clothes came off in a rush, a scattered trail across the floor. Aaliyah’s pants landed with a soft rustle. Cruz’s slacks and belt clinked to the side. The overhead lights remained off, the only illumination spilling in from distant streetlamps. Their silhouettes moved across the bed, two shapes merging into one.
Aaliyah pressed her palms flat against Cruz’s chest, momentarily halting the rush. “Are you sure?” she asked, voice husky.
Cruz cupped Aaliyah’s face in her hands, searching her gaze in the soft gloom. “Yes,” she whispered. “I want this.” She wanted to discover every inch of the woman she’d pretended to despise. She wanted to feel that vulnerability mirrored back, the knowledge that neither of them was truly alone in the madness of their arrangement.
Aaliyah’s eyes burned with agreement. She guided Cruz down, lips meeting once more in a deep kiss. Skin slid against skin, building a friction that was as much emotional as physical. Each caress, each gentle nip, each ragged exhale spoke the same word: finally.
Time became elastic, a slow blur of hungry touches and half-voiced moans. Cruz found herself enthralled by the soft curves of Aaliyah’s body, the luxurious press of her breasts against Cruz’s chest, the dip of her waist. Aaliyah responded to every exploratory kiss with a quiet, breathy sound that fanned Cruz’s desire to dizzying heights.
They moved in tandem, a dance of pushing and yielding, both striving to give pleasure, both craving more. Aaliyah’s nails grazed over Cruz’s back, not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor them in the moment. Cruz let out a low groan, burying her face in the crook of Aaliyah’s neck as she trailed kisses downward. The heat of her breath and the slip of her tongue coaxed Aaliyah to gasp, arching into the contact.
Words slipped out between them—little confessions, compliments, curses. Aaliyah’s polished exterior broke open in hushed whimpers. Cruz’s gruff demeanor melted into tender exclamations. In that charged space, they found a balance of sweet and sultry, raw and earnest, each stroke of skin telling them this wasn’t a performance, wasn’t a fleeting fling. It was the silent admission of days, weeks, maybe a month’s worth of suppressed curiosity.
Aaliyah tipped her head back, letting out a throaty moan as Cruz’s mouth explored lower. She buried her hands in Cruz’s hair, breath catching. The bed creaked softly under their shifting weight. Darkness cradled them, cloaking the flush on their cheeks and the glimmer in their eyes, but it didn’t hide the mutual hunger.
Cruz’s heart thudded wildly, her usually methodical mind drowning in a rush of sensation. She slid a hand up Aaliyah’s thigh, eliciting another gasp, and whispered Aaliyah’s name against her ear, half-wondering if this was some dream. Aaliyah answered by pulling Cruz closer, tangling their legs together in a heated knot.
They lost track of time, carried away by a swirl of mounting intensity. Each moment deepened the connection, and each small climax of sensation only fed the flame. It was more than just bodies meeting; it was the layering of trust, the surrender of pretense. When Aaliyah reached her peak with a soft, trembling cry, Cruz found her own release not far behind, driven by the sight of Aaliyah undone and unguarded.
Their world dissolved into ragged breathing and trembling limbs, sweat-slick skin pressed together in the hush. The only light was that faint nighttime glow from outside, enough to see the gentle curves of each other’s silhouettes. Panting softly, they collapsed side by side, hearts still racing. Aaliyah draped an arm over Cruz’s chest, and Cruz curled a hand around Aaliyah’s forearm, anchoring them in this moment that had felt impossible an hour before.
Silence washed over them like a warm tide, broken only by the sound of their slowing breaths. Cruz stared at the ceiling, thoughts a jumbled haze of satisfaction and astonishment. She could feel Aaliyah’s heartbeat against her ribcage, a pulsing reminder that this was real. Not a script, not a campaign stunt, not a camera angle.
Finally, Aaliyah stirred, shifting onto her side so she could look at Cruz. The faintest smile curved her lips, half-sated, half-reverent. She raised a hand, brushing sweaty hair off Cruz’s forehead. “You okay?” she asked softly, voice still thick with emotion.
Cruz turned her head, meeting Aaliyah’s gaze in the dimness. “Yeah,” she answered, a small laugh escaping her. She laced their fingers together, letting the warmth of Aaliyah’s palm ground her. “Actually… yeah. More than okay.”
Aaliyah hummed in agreement. She rested her head against Cruz’s shoulder, letting out a weary but content sigh. “Never thought we’d end up here,” she murmured, voice tinged with wonder. “All those arguments… I was sure we’d kill each other first.”
Cruz’s laugh rumbled low. She trailed her free hand along Aaliyah’s arm, a lazy caress. “Same. Guess we found a better way to fight.”
They shared a quiet laugh, the tension that once kept them at odds replaced by something intimate. Cruz could still taste Aaliyah on her lips, and she reveled in how Aaliyah’s body felt warm and pliant beneath her touch. She sensed a lightness in the air, as if they’d shattered the final barrier of pretense. The outside world no longer intruded.
Shifting closer, Aaliyah planted a soft kiss on Cruz’s collarbone. “In a twisted way, I’m almost grateful for this sham marriage,” she admitted. “Because it led us here.”
Cruz’s chest tightened. She cupped Aaliyah’s chin, urging her to look up. “So… what happens now?” she asked, half-fearing the answer. The morning would bring staffers, phone calls, cameras. Their entire arrangement had been built on a precarious lie, but what if they wanted something real now?
Aaliyah’s eyes shone in the muted light, contemplative. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I know I don’t want to go back to fighting over candles and dishwasher arrangements every night. I want…” She hesitated, words tangling. “I want more nights like this, with no cameras to worry about and no scripts to memorize.”
Relief and warmth flooded Cruz. She bent down, pressing a tender kiss to Aaliyah’s lips—an unhurried gesture that said everything they couldn’t articulate. “We’ll figure it out,” she whispered.
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, hands drifting over each other in lazy exploration. No urgent fireworks now, just a lingering closeness. Their breathing synchronized, hearts still pounding but calm in the aftermath. Eventually, Cruz shifted onto her back, letting Aaliyah curl against her side. The sheets tangled at their waists. The house, so often cold and impersonal, felt different with their combined heat, their shared breathing echoing off the walls.
Time slipped away again. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. Neither had the energy nor the desire to check a clock. Aaliyah dozed off briefly, head pillowed on Cruz’s shoulder, her hand splayed across Cruz’s chest. Cruz dozed too, lulled by the contented weight of the woman who’d once been her fiercest adversary.
Eventually, Aaliyah stirred, trailing the backs of her fingers across Cruz’s stomach. Their eyes met in the semi-darkness, a silent question passing between them. One swirl of recollection was all it took to rekindle the embers of earlier passion. A gentle hush of kisses escalated again, mouths clinging in deepening urgency. Their second time was slower, more languid, but no less intense—a testament to the bond that now crackled in the space they once filled with tension.
When it ended, they lay entangled in each other’s arms, damp with perspiration and sated with a kind of emotional exhaustion that felt oddly exhilarating. Neither spoke, because words would have paled in comparison to the rawness of sharing themselves so completely. In the hush, Cruz listened to Aaliyah’s unsteady breathing, felt her own heart hammering a tattoo inside her ribs.
A while later—when the edges of the night began to soften with a suggestion of dawn outside—the reality of their situation seeped back in. Campaign staffers would soon be awake, scheduling calls and finalizing the day’s events. The press wouldn’t stay quiet forever. Yet they didn’t move. Aaliyah buried her face in Cruz’s neck, and Cruz kissed the top of her head, savoring these last remnants of darkness.
Eventually, Cruz mustered the courage to murmur, “We’re still in this… arrangement.” She hated the word. “But maybe we can approach it differently now. We don’t have to lie to each other, at least.”
Aaliyah gave a small nod, her voice muffled against Cruz’s skin. “We can be honest, at least in private. And if the world wants to see us as a fairy tale, we… we let them.” She pressed closer. “But maybe we let ourselves see it, too.”
Cruz’s throat tightened at that suggestion. Her arms tightened around Aaliyah’s waist, a nonverbal affirmation. She had dreaded this marriage from the beginning. Now, she found herself dreading the idea of losing it. They might still have challenges ahead—compromises, arguments, possibly heartbreak—but they weren’t the same adversaries who’d sneered at each other over dinner tables. They were something new.
At last, exhaustion pulled them under. They drifted into sleep, limbs intertwined, hearts beating in sync. The house settled around them, no longer quite so cold or impersonal. The future loomed uncertain, but in that hush, neither one cared. They had found a moment of genuine connection in the midst of a scripted life, and for now, that was enough.
When daylight finally arrived, it seeped through the edges of the drawn curtains, illuminating two forms curled against each other in the unmade bed. A pile of clothes on the floor—a jacket, a lace bra, a half-ripped shirt—spoke of the night’s passion. For once, the morning bustle of the campaign staff, the hush of poll updates, the chatter of a public that adored them—none of it could breach the intimacy they had forged in the dark.
Aaliyah stirred first, blinking in the gentle morning light. She tilted her head to watch Cruz’s sleeping profile, her lips curving into a fragile smile. She remembered the first time they argued over something trivial: a coffee mug left on the counter. Had it all led here? Some cosmic joke, maybe. Or a path they both needed to walk.
She brushed a finger over Cruz’s cheek, hesitant. Cruz stirred, eyes fluttering open, confusion briefly crossing her features—then warmth, recognition, and a hint of a grin. Aaliyah’s heart flipped. She pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Cruz’s mouth, savoring the sleepy hum of approval Cruz gave. No cameras. No audience. Just them.
“Good morning,” Cruz mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.
“Good morning, ya hayati,” Aaliyah echoed, glancing at the pale light that draped over the bed. She realized that in the brightening glow, she could see Cruz’s features clearly—her strong jaw, the faint scar near her temple from an old deployment, the softness in her eyes that was so rarely exposed.
Cruz stretched lazily, an awkward chuckle escaping her throat as she surveyed the chaos of clothing on the floor. “We made a mess,” she said, tone almost sheepish.
Aaliyah smiled, that polished confidence returning but with a gentle twist. “We’ll clean it up,” she teased. “Eventually.” And in that single line, she suggested more: that they could handle the aftermath of this night, that they might figure out how to make real room for each other in the day-to-day details that once sparked fights.
Cruz kissed her again, longer this time, murmuring against her lips, “I never thought I’d say it, but I’m glad we’re… I’m glad we didn’t walk away.”
Aaliyah’s eyes glimmered. She ran her thumb over Cruz’s lower lip, the familiarity of the gesture sending a pleasant shiver through them both. “We have a lot to figure out,” she acknowledged. “But… let’s do it together.”
Cruz nodded, her gaze steady, a small grin quirking her mouth. “Sounds like a plan.”
They stayed there, locked in that moment, letting a new day and a new reality settle over them. Outside, the campaign would roar on, the public enthralled by the “perfect” marriage they sold on TV. Only now, in the hush of morning, they knew the truth was no longer just an illusion. Something real beat between them, pulse for pulse, breath for breath, forging a bond that none of their arguments could undo.
And if the world insisted on calling it a fairytale romance, for the first time, they might not bother denying it.