October 15th
The glow of the spotlights was almost blinding, reflecting off polished floors and gleaming podiums. Every seat in the expansive auditorium was occupied—journalists poised with notepads or laptops, political strategists with hawk-like glares, undecided voters who had come for a final push of certainty, and wealthy donors whose next checks hinged on this very performance. The energy crackled, a live wire of anticipation that set hearts thudding in unison.
Cruz stood behind the left podium, hands clenched on its edges. She tried to steady her breathing, the overhead lighting causing a faint shimmer on the flag pinned to her tailored blazer. It felt like a thousand-pound weight pressed onto her shoulders: the entire campaign, the relentless attacks from the opposition, the questions about her marriage, and the constant scrutiny about who she was and what she believed. Through it all, one name lingered at the back of her mind: Aaliyah.
The moderators—a man and a woman in crisp professional attire—introduced the high-stakes gubernatorial debate, describing it as the “final showdown” before Election Night. Each syllable rang in Cruz’s ears, echoing the gravity of this event. Win or lose, the future of Texas was in her hands, or so it felt.
Across the stage, at the right podium, stood her opponent: Joe McNamara. Polished to a fault, McNamara wore a tailored suit in a subdued color scheme that screamed establishment. Her smile carried the smooth assurance of a seasoned politician, one who had played this game for decades. Even from this distance, Cruz could see the slight curl of McNamara’s lips, as if she already sensed victory. The hunger for power gleamed in her eyes.
When the debate officially began, the tension in the room surged. Policy questions flew back and forth: education reform, healthcare funding, the economy, infrastructure, immigration. Cruz answered each with a firm conviction, arms occasionally gesturing to underscore a key statistic or to paint a vision for the state. She felt a receptive energy from the crowd. She sensed that her authenticity and moral clarity—part of what got her this far—was landing.
McNamara countered with her usual refined composure, carefully curated data points, and a faintly patronizing tone. But Cruz held her own, pushing back with direct jabs about corporate donors and backroom deals. She could tell that McNamara’s façade was cracking by small degrees. For once, Cruz felt a tide in her favor.
Then, halfway through the debate, McNamara changed tactics. Shuffling her notes, she leaned into the microphone, voice smooth and calculated. “Senator Manuelos,” she said, locking eyes with Cruz. “Let’s address the elephant in the room.”
A hush fell. The audience tensed, as though collectively leaning forward in their seats. Cruz’s stomach coiled into a tight knot. She inhaled slowly, shoulders squared. She knew precisely what was about to come—she could almost sense the pounce of a predator in McNamara’s posture.
McNamara’s smile hardened, knife-sharp. “Your so-called marriage. The conveniently timed love story.” She paused, letting her words hang in the air like a noose. “You’ve claimed to be different. Honest. Not like the rest of us politicians. And yet…the truth came out, didn’t it?”
A ripple of uneasy murmurs danced through the audience. Camera shutters snapped in clipped bursts, reporters scribbling furiously, trying to capture the exact moment the debate turned personal. The moderators exchanged alarmed looks, not sure whether to intervene.
Cruz felt her grip on the podium tighten until her knuckles went white. She cast a quick glance at McNamara’s poised figure. The woman exuded arrogance, her eyebrows arched in faux sympathy. She was playing to the spectators, delivering a practiced performance.
“Tell me, Senator,” McNamara continued, tone dripping with condescension, “how can the people of Texas trust anything you say, if the most personal part of your life was a carefully staged arrangement?” She paused, tilting her head for the final, brutal strike. “Was there ever a moment when it was real?”
The air felt squeezed out of the room. Every ear was alert, every camera fixed on Cruz, waiting for her to defend herself or unravel. She sensed the tension backstage, too—knew that Bobby was probably gripping the edge of a desk, barking into a headset for Cruz not to engage.
Cruz’s heart hammered in her chest. She thought of all the instructions: deflect, pivot, keep it vague. But images flooded her mind unbidden: the contract, the fake engagement, the arguments with Aaliyah, the quiet nights spent dodging each other in that ridiculous house they shared for appearances, the lingering moments that had become strangely tender. Then she remembered that kiss. The one that changed everything. Their shared nights tangled in bed together. The realization that, despite all the lies, a spark of truth had ignited in her heart somewhere along the line.
Her lips parted. She couldn’t follow the script. If she dodged now, she’d confirm McNamara’s narrative. She refused to let that happen. Taking a steadying breath, she gazed out at the audience—at the working-class families, veterans, teachers, all the people who believed in her because she spoke plainly. They deserved the truth, or at least what truth she could offer.
“Yeah, my marriage started as a political move,” she began.
A stunned hush gripped the auditorium. Reporters froze; the moderators looked at one another, startled by her blunt admission. Even McNamara’s eyes widened. Backstage, Bobby was probably cursing her name in frantic whispers.
Cruz pressed on, stepping forward so the podium didn’t shield her. “Yeah,” she repeated, “we made a deal. It wasn’t romantic at first. It was a strategic choice. I won’t lie about that.”
Tension crackled like a static charge. Flashbulbs erupted. Every soul in the room was still, braced for Cruz’s downfall. But she wasn’t falling. She was choosing honesty, though it terrified her more than any combat zone ever had.
She locked eyes with McNamara, raising her voice so it rang through the debate hall. “But here’s what you won’t like,” she said, each word fierce. “Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with her.”
It was as if an electric current jolted the audience. Gasps scattered. Some stood in shock, others in solidarity. Cameras clicked wildly, capturing the raw intensity of Cruz’s expression. Journalists hovered on the brink of their seats, fingertips poised over keyboards. The sound of applause began as a ripple, then rose into a tsunami of cheers. Rows of people got to their feet, clapping, cheering, some even yelling support. The building thundered with emotion that threatened to blow the roof off.
Cruz felt a quiver in her chest. The applause carried an undercurrent of relief, excitement, validation. Her raw confession had shattered the stale veneer that coated typical political discourse. She had thrown away the pre-planned spin for a moment of stark vulnerability—and it was working.
McNamara looked shaken, her lips parted in disbelief. She had expected Cruz to crumble under accusations, to be cornered into damage control. Instead, Cruz had done something nobody in the room had anticipated: she chose transparency and turned the attack into a statement of genuine feeling.
“Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with her,” Cruz repeated, quieter now, leaning toward the microphone, her voice thick with sincerity. “And I don’t care if that costs me this election.” Her gaze swept over the crowd, who roared louder, echoing the hail of applause that refused to die down.
Backstage, Bobby stared at the live poll numbers on a large monitor. The line measuring favorability for Cruz spiked upward with each second. Social media feeds flooded with expletive-laden shock, tears, and gleeful declarations of “I’m voting for her,” “That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen,” and “Holy crap, McNamara just got owned.” Hashtags soared to the top of trending charts.
The moderators attempted to regain control, tapping their microphones. “Order, please. Let’s, let’s continue with the debate—please settle down,” the male moderator pleaded, but the applause refused to subside. Cruz steadied herself, inhaling slowly, focusing on letting the swirl of adrenaline subside just enough for her to function.
Across the stage, McNamara gripped her podium. She looked momentarily lost, her cunning composure gone. She cleared her throat, trying to form a rebuttal. But how do you fight that? How do you spin an attack ad when your opponent just admitted the kernel of truth you tried to exploit—and then flipped it into an emotional confession?
Finally, the moderator’s pleas took effect, and the thunderous cheering mellowed into loud, sporadic claps before dying down. Cruz’s chest felt tight, not from fear, but from the weight of what she’d just done. She had publicly admitted the marriage’s fraudulent origin—and also her deep, unexpected love. Her mind flashed to Aaliyah: how would she react?
The moderator, finally catching his breath, cleared his throat. “Let’s, uh… let’s move forward with a question on healthcare.” But half the audience was still buzzing, half listening, half too stunned to move on.
Cruz returned to her podium, her face warm and her pulse hammering. She could almost sense the cameras still fixated on her, waiting for her to break down or offer more clarity. She had nothing more to give. She’d said her piece; she’d given them honesty. Whether or not it sank her campaign was out of her hands.
McNamara attempted to pivot—talking about Cruz’s “erratic temperament” and how “romantic confessions won’t fix the budget crisis.” But the wind had been sucked from her sails. The crowd no longer seemed enthralled by McNamara’s measured lines. They were still caught up in the emotional high from Cruz’s confession.
As the debate clock ticked down, Cruz maintained her composure, carefully answering policy questions. She fielded an inquiry about taxes, delivered a succinct plan, all while adrenaline still coursed through her veins. The last question ended, and the moderator gave both candidates a final thirty seconds to summarize their vision. Cruz stuck to her policies about education, veterans, and the working class. She didn’t bring up the confession again. She didn’t need to.
Backstage, the debate hall’s low hum blankets everything—the muffled thunder of the crowd beyond the curtain, the distant crackle of speakers broadcasting Cruz’s voice, the shuffle of stagehands whispering into headsets. Overhead, fluorescent lights flicker, casting a pale glow on the concrete floor. Campaign posters lean against walls, half-forgotten, while a TV monitor sits on a metal folding table, broadcasting every second of the debate.
Aaliyah stood rooted in place, knuckles whitening around the back of the chair she was supposed to occupy. She isn’t sitting. She’s unable to. Her gaze locks on the screen, heart pounding in her chest. There, under the bright stage lights, Cruz stands at her podium, shoulders squared, jaw set, an unflinching presence in her dress uniform. Unshaken, unapologetic.
A hush seems to fall over everything the instant Cruz’s voice rings out clearly through the feed: “Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with her.”
The words struck Aaliyah like a physical blow. She could almost feel her pulse skip, could almost taste the electric jolt in the back of her throat. It wasn’t scripted. It wasn’t part of the carefully rehearsed statements they’d painstakingly prepared. It wasn’t a stunt for the cameras. It was real.
A tightness builds in Aaliyah’s chest, one that makes her breath catch. The world contracts to that single confession, echoing in her mind. She pressed a hand to her lips, as though that might steady the swirl of feelings surging up from deep within.
Beside her, Bobby stared at the same screen, eyes wide as the crowd on the broadcast erupted into cheers and whistles. The noise reverberated through the backstage speakers, an avalanche of sound. Bobby exhaled, half a laugh, half an exclamation. “Holy shit,” she whispered, sliding a glance toward Aaliyah as if waiting for a reaction.
Aaliyah swallowed around the knot in her throat. Her voice, when it finally emerges, is a fragile hush. “Yeah.” She felt a tremor in that single syllable.
On the monitor, the camera swept across the audience—rows of stunned faces, political commentators craning forward, phones raised to capture the moment. Then it cut back to Cruz, who met the lens with surprising steadiness. Aaliyah could see a faint tremor at the corner of Cruz’s mouth, the only betrayal of nerves. But Cruz doesn’t falter. She remains tall, shoulders back, eyes fierce. She made a choice, and she’s letting the entire state—no, the entire nation—see it.
Aaliyah’s fingertips hover near her collarbone, feeling the quickened patter of her pulse. She’s replaying the words in her head: fell in love with her. They weren’t for show. If it had been a political ploy, Cruz would’ve smoothed it out, delivered it with measured polish. Instead, the confession came raw, straight from wherever Cruz had tried to bury it. The sincerity of that realization stole Aaliyah’s breath again.
The debate hall was electric, the final applause still echoing off towering walls and polished floors as Senator Cruz Manuelos stepped from behind the podium. Under the glare of overhead spotlights, she’d just delivered the performance of a lifetime—a scorching confrontation with her rival, Joe McNamara, culminating in a reveal no one had seen coming. Not Bobby, not the spectators, and definitely not Aaliyah.
Now, beyond the glare of the cameras, Cruz felt the prickling heat of adrenaline winding down. Her head pounded with the aftermath of tension, and her skin glistened faintly beneath the stage makeup. From a distance, staffers hustled, some collecting papers, others coiling wires and disassembling equipment. A persistent chatter hovered in the air—pundits, journalists, and debate spectators still buzzing about everything that had transpired on stage. After all, this wasn’t just a standard exchange of policy barbs; it had ended with Cruz delivering the single most vulnerable confession of her entire political career.
She took one step into the backstage area, only to be abruptly pulled aside by a pair of firm hands. Caught off balance, she stumbled. When she looked up, she found Bobby staring at her with wide, incredulous eyes.
“What the hell was that?” Bobby demanded, voice pitched low but vibrating with alarm. Overhead, fluorescent bulbs cast sharp shadows across Bobby’s drawn features. There was a beat of silence as Cruz pulled herself free from Bobby’s grip, rolling her shoulders to ease the coiled energy.
“It worked,” Cruz said simply. Yet her pulse still thundered in her ears, her mind caught in a whirl of memory: the moment she’d locked eyes with the camera, the hush that fell over the debate audience, and the rush of raw truth that had spilled from her lips.
“That’s all you have to say?” Bobby snapped, eyes flicking from Cruz’s face to the stage door, as if to ensure no one else was eavesdropping. “You just confessed your undying love for your wife on live television, and your response is ‘it worked’?”
Cruz let out a slow breath. There was a slight tremor in her fingers, so she curled them into loose fists at her sides, hoping Bobby wouldn’t notice. “I told the truth,” she said with forced calm. “Isn’t that what we’ve always said we should do—be honest, be real?”
Bobby pinched the bridge of her nose. “Jesus Christ, Cruz—” She looked ready to unleash a ferocious tirade. Maybe she intended to scold Cruz for not looping her in, or for springing a bombshell that could either catapult them to success or bury them under a landslide of public scrutiny. Bobby had braced for Cruz to be tough and unflinching during the debate, but no one had anticipated that final, breathtaking declaration of love.
Before Bobby could get a single syllable further, though, Aaliyah appeared from the far side of the hallway, moving with deliberate strides that screamed determination. Her usually impeccable hair was still neatly pinned, and her face carried only the faintest layer of sweat from the stage lights. Dressed in a slim-cut ensemble that accentuated her poised figure, she looked every inch the polished political heiress—except for the flicker in her eyes that Cruz recognized as real emotion, half-buried beneath practiced composure.
Aaliyah’s gaze shifted between Cruz and Bobby, then honed in on Cruz. No words were exchanged, yet the meaning was clear. Bobby arched a brow, then smirked knowingly as she slid aside, already stepping back like a ringmaster ceding the stage. “I’ll let you two figure this one out,” she announced, her footsteps receding into the chaos of staffers, aides, and leftover TV crews.
The hallway they stood in was relatively deserted now—just a few wooden crates, some cables, and the muffled din of post-debate chatter behind closed doors. Low lights illuminated their silhouettes, giving the moment an air of intimacy. Cruz, still buzzing from what she’d done, felt her heart lurch into a heavier beat as Aaliyah approached. She didn’t resist when Aaliyah grabbed her wrist in a firm, unyielding hold.
“We need to talk,” Aaliyah said under her breath. That was all the warning Cruz got before the woman pulled her further away from the crowd, deeper into the backstage maze. They navigated narrow corridors and passed by a startled event coordinator who quickly averted his eyes, until Aaliyah found a small, shadowy hallway tucked behind the venue’s main wing. Here, the walls were concrete, the lights dim, and the sound of any onlookers was distant at best.
When Aaliyah finally let go of Cruz’s wrist, Cruz inhaled sharply to steady herself. The press of Aaliyah’s fingertips still lingered on her skin, marking a distinct boundary between “on stage” and “off stage.” At that moment, Cruz realized she was about to face the repercussions of her impulsive, heartfelt admission.
Aaliyah turned to face Cruz fully. Her eyes, usually cool and unreadable, were bright with an intensity that stole Cruz’s breath. Before, in public, their dynamic had always been a careful dance: biting remarks, half-smiles for the cameras, frustration kept on a tight leash. Right now, something else simmered in the space between them. Something raw, something dangerously real.
“Did you mean it?” Aaliyah asked. Her voice cut through the hush, sounding both hopeful and accusatory. One corner of her mouth tightened, and Cruz recognized that expression—a combination of caution and curiosity. “What you said. On that stage. Did you mean it?”
Cruz swallowed, her throat suddenly parched. She opened her mouth and closed it again, forming no words. The weight of her confession began to settle on her shoulders like a lead blanket, and she was acutely aware of how close Aaliyah stood. The faint scent of Aaliyah’s perfume—sandalwood with a trace of something floral—wrapped around Cruz, merging with the lingering tang of sweat from the debate.
She could spin it, lie, or pass it off as some brilliant political maneuver, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that. Not after the look on Aaliyah’s face right now, which was earnest in a way Cruz rarely saw. “Yeah,” she managed finally, the single syllable cracking in her chest. “I meant it.”
Aaliyah’s breath caught, and Cruz saw the her chest rise and fall in a rush of air. For a split second, neither moved. It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, a sense of vertigo swirling through Cruz’s stomach. She’d always known she and Aaliyah walked a fine line between hostility and desire.
“Say it again,” Aaliyah whispered, stepping closer. Her posture was still upright, but Cruz could sense the vulnerability thrumming through her words.
Cruz’s mind flashed back to the debate stage: bright lights, McNamara’s smug face, the surge of righteous indignation that had led her to open her mouth. “I fell in love with her,” she’d declared in front of a roaring crowd, the cameras capturing every second.
Now, alone with Aaliyah, Cruz’s heart hammered so loudly she was sure Aaliyah could hear it. She forced herself to speak, her voice barely above a murmur. “I fell in love with you.”
It was the first time she’d said it directly to Aaliyah’s face, rather than to a moderator or an audience of strangers. The words left her lips feeling raw, like she’d peeled back a layer of her armor. Her entire body tensed, waiting for Aaliyah’s reaction—a scoff, a sneer, a harsh retort. But Aaliyah just stared, eyes flickering with that same dangerous intensity, and Cruz realized she was trembling, too.
Then came the moment Cruz hadn’t dared to imagine. Aaliyah bridged the distance between them in a heartbeat, pressing her lips to Cruz’s in a sudden, heated kiss. It wasn’t staged or careful—it was the culmination of unspoken tension, the kind that had hovered beneath every bicker and forced photograph. The contact jolted Cruz like a live wire. She gasped, hands instinctively moving to Aaliyah’s waist, pulling her closer.
For a few precious seconds, the hallway dissolved. The bright overhead lights, the hum of the building’s ventilation, the faint echoes of the debate crowd beyond—everything melted away. There was just the warmth of Aaliyah’s mouth, the press of her body, and the wildfire of relief and desire flooding Cruz’s veins.
When they finally separated, both were breathing hard, eyes locked in astonishment at what they’d just done. Aaliyah’s gaze flickered down to Cruz’s suit, lingering on the tie around her collar. In that moment, Cruz noticed how Aaliyah looked at her with something close to reverence, as though the simple suit she wore made her both formidable and captivating.
A soft laugh escaped Aaliyah, breathy and tinged with nerves. Her usual polished exterior seemed cracked, allowing a genuine spark to show through. Cruz didn’t know whether to feel triumphant or terrified. Her cheeks felt warm, and her lips tingled from the contact.
They stood there in a breathless hush until a decidedly familiar cough interrupted from behind them.
“Not to kill the mood, but—” Bobby’s voice cut through the quiet, exasperated yet tinged with amusement. She had reappeared at the corner of the hallway, phone in hand.
Cruz stepped back, dropping her hands to her sides, cheeks flaming. Aaliyah smoothed her hair, attempting to regain her usual composure, though her pupils remained dilated with adrenaline.
“This better be good, Bobby,” Aaliyah said, trying for a clipped tone but sounding breathless.
Bobby didn’t answer. She simply raised her phone, turning the screen toward them, index finger tapping the display. Cruz squinted, stepping closer to read whatever was so urgent that it might overshadow what had just transpired.
A news livestream scrolled across the top banner: “BREAKING: Manuelos leads the polls by five points after stunning debate confession.” Below that was a flurry of online chatter, retweets, and trending hashtags. #CruzAndAaliyah sat at the top of the list, accompanied by #PowerCouple, #CampaignWife, and a half-dozen others referencing the dramatic moment on stage. The poll numbers flickered again: Cruz Manuelos at 51%, Joe McNamara at 46%.
Cruz’s eyes widened. “Holy shit.”
Bobby exhaled, her shoulders loosening with something like relief. “Yeah. Holy shit indeed.” She scrolled further, revealing tweets from random users:
“Cruz’s debate performance was iconic, but THAT CONFESSION?? I’m actually screaming.”
“I don’t care what happens in this election, we all just witnessed the greatest slow-burn romance of our time.”
“The way Cruz SAID IT. The way Aaliyah LOOKED AT HER. Somebody sedate me.”
“I’d go to war for this couple, idc if it’s real or not.”
“Okay, I fully believe in them now. This is it. This is the win.”
Cruz glanced at Aaliyah, meeting her gaze head-on. She couldn’t quite read the swirl of emotions there—relief, nerves, maybe a flicker of happiness. The tension of the debate had been replaced by a surreal euphoria. They had turned the entire election narrative on its head, forging a moment so candid that the public was rallying behind them in droves.
Aaliyah let out a shaky exhale, then her lips curved into a soft, knowing smile. “Looks like we’re winning,” she said, her voice hushed, half-dazed.
Cruz’s heart lurched again, remembering the kiss just minutes before. She swallowed, her voice unsteady. “Yeah. Winning.” In truth, her mind was still replaying the press of Aaliyah’s lips. She had never expected the confession to prompt an actual kiss. She’d said it because she meant it, and the rest had happened like a spark meeting dry tinder.
Aaliyah exhaled a trembling breath, her fingers flexing at her sides, as if she were resisting the urge to reach for Cruz again. A moment of charged silence passed. Then, in a quiet move, she closed the distance between them once more, leaning in to press a second kiss to Cruz’s mouth—slower, gentler, but no less intense. This time, Cruz closed her eyes, sinking into the warmth that overcame the tension in her entire body. It felt like an acknowledgment of everything they’d both fought so hard to deny.
Bobby cleared her throat noisily, looking flustered but also somewhat amused. She shoved her phone into her pocket, casting a pointed glance at the two of them. “So, good job, you two. You basically set the internet on fire. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got about a thousand interviews to schedule and a wave of reporters outside dying for a statement.” Then she paused, turning a curious eye on them. “Are you going to be okay walking out there together?”
Cruz straightened, smoothing the front of her suit, forcing herself to breathe. “Yeah,” she said, mustering as much confidence as possible. “We’ll be fine.”
Aaliyah nodded, gathering her wits. A slight tilt to her chin betrayed the composure she relied on whenever she had to face cameras. “Give us a minute, Bobby,” she said, her tone firm but laced with a new gentleness.
Bobby arched a brow. “Fine. One minute,” she huffed. “Then I’m shoving the press right in your faces.” She spun on her heel, footsteps echoing down the corridor as she left them alone again.
When Bobby’s presence faded, Cruz and Aaliyah just looked at each other. The hum of distant conversation and shuffling footsteps seeped through the walls, but it felt as though they occupied a bubble of charged stillness. Cruz noticed for the first time just how disheveled Aaliyah’s normally flawless hair was, a few wisps escaping the tight updo. And, unbidden, she thought how breathtaking the woman looked under that flush of adrenaline.
“This suit,” Aaliyah remarked softly, as though only now registering the crisp lines and subtle details in the fabric on Cruz’s chest. She let her gaze roam over the sleek lines of Cruz’s frame, the pressed folds of her suit. “I never really told you, but you look…good in it.” It sounded like an understatement. Then her eyes flicked back up to Cruz’s face. “I mean, devastatingly good.”
Heat crawled up Cruz’s neck, and she offered a crooked, self-conscious grin. “You’re one to talk. I thought you looked gorgeous tonight.” The words emerged hesitantly, as if Cruz couldn’t fully believe they were being said aloud. “I couldn’t stop looking at you. Couldn’t stop thinking how lucky we are the cameras can’t read my mind.”
Aaliyah laughed quietly, her eyelashes fluttering in mild disbelief. “We’re unbelievably lucky. And unbelievably screwed, if we can’t keep up appearances now that we’ve stepped into this.” She paused, the corners of her mouth curving downward slightly, like she was letting the magnitude of everything sink in. “That confession was real, wasn’t it?”
Cruz exhaled, nodding. “More real than I’ve ever been in front of a crowd. Or in front of you.” The admission hung between them, vulnerable. She could hardly recall the last time she’d been so candid with anyone. The thought both exhilarated and terrified her. In another life, maybe she wouldn’t be so guarded. Maybe she’d ask Aaliyah out for dinner in a normal, genuine way. Maybe they’d share quiet nights without the specter of a political arrangement looming over their heads.
Footsteps and voices neared, perhaps Bobby or a group of campaign staffers. The corridor felt less private. Aaliyah’s expression shifted back into something more controlled, though her cheeks stayed flushed. “We need to go,” she murmured, stepping a fraction away from Cruz, creating a careful space that, minutes earlier, she had bridged so decisively with a kiss.
“Yeah,” Cruz agreed, rubbing a hand along the back of her neck. She couldn’t recall a time she felt so conflicted—equal parts triumph and raw vulnerability.
Aaliyah nodded, smoothing an invisible wrinkle on her blouse. Then she let a final, searching look pass between them. “We’ll get through the reporters,” she said in a steadier voice. “We’ll spin it however we need to. But for what it’s worth…thanks. For trusting me enough to say it.”
Cruz gave a small smile. “I meant every word.”
Some distant part of her worried they were stumbling headlong into a complicated mess, but the gentle flutter in her chest didn’t feel like regret. It felt like relief, like something inside her had finally stopped fighting an inevitable pull. She realized that from the corner of her eye, she could see the door that led back into the main backstage area, where staff, supporters, and cameras waited. The world was about to greet them with demands for quotes, photo ops, clarifications, and a million other intrusions.
For now, in the fleeting hush of this out-of-the-way hall, the only thing that mattered was the unspoken current flowing between them. Cruz cast one last glance at Aaliyah, letting her eyes linger on the subtle flush across her cheeks and the way her hair half-tumbled from its updo. She memorized the moment: the aftermath of a truth spoken before thousands, the taste of Aaliyah’s lips on her own, the knowledge that everything had changed in a heartbeat.
Then she shook herself free from the haze. “Let’s do it,” Cruz said, stepping forward. She expected Aaliyah to remain behind, but instead, Aaliyah kept pace, their shoulders close enough to brush. They walked side by side out of the corridor, each breath weighted with anticipation, forging ahead into the bigger, brighter space where a crowd no doubt waited with cameras poised.
In the distance, Bobby spotted them and let out a visible sigh of relief. She beckoned them over, phone in one hand, a half-exhausted, half-elated grin on her face. The next phase of the campaign had begun—one fueled by an unplanned confession turned into the biggest viral moment of the election.
As they approached, staffers parted like a wave, giving them a clear path. Cruz raised her chin, squaring her shoulders in that martial way that telegraphed confidence. Aaliyah matched her step, slipping gracefully into the persona of a polished, supportive spouse. But deep within both of them lay the imprint of a conversation—and a kiss—that was anything but an act.
Yes, they were heading straight into a storm of flashing bulbs, frantic reporters, and trending hashtags. But for the first time since they started this whole arrangement, Cruz felt like she wasn’t lying to herself. She’d spoken her truth on stage, and Aaliyah had answered with a truth of her own.