Chapter 6
The fake news spread like wildfire. All of Brazil watched a new political storm brewing over Fernando, and this time, it wasn't just corruption. It was personal.
“The governor hides a dark past: was his wife's death an accident or murder?”
“Widower or killer? Fernando Montenegro accused of eliminating his wife to protect dark secrets.”
“Gay kit in schools: the controversial proposal Fernando wants to pass to indoctrinate children.”
The headlines screamed, the news programs fed the narrative, WhatsApp groups boiled over. People who barely understood politics parroted talking points as if they were gospel truth. That was the game. It always had been. But this time, Fernando didn't just seem irritated. He seemed tired.
The emergency meeting had dragged on for hours, advisors talking over each other, each with a different solution to the crisis.
“We need to hit back with a massive fact-check campaign!” the communications chief said, gesturing. “Short videos, interview clips, expert testimonials…”
“That's not enough,” another retorted. “They're playing to emotion, so we need a powerful speech. Something that moves people, that makes them feel the injustice of what's being done to him.”
Fernando stayed silent. He didn't interrupt anyone, didn't argue, didn't slam the table. He just stared at nothing, fingers interlaced, jaw clenched.
I knew him well enough to know that wasn't good.
“Let's take a break,” I said, and all eyes turned to me.
“A break?” The press secretary raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. Ten minutes. Step out, get some water, breathe. Then we'll come back with clearer heads.”
Fernando shot me a brief look but said nothing. One by one, the advisors stood and left the conference room. The moment the door closed, a heavy silence fell.
Just the two of us.
The storm wasn't outside anymore. It was here, between us.
He rubbed his face with his hands, a gesture of exhaustion he rarely let show.
“Do you think they'll swallow this lie?” His voice came out hoarse and low.
“People believe what they want to believe. And the opposition knows that.” I crossed my arms, watching him. “They took the greatest pain of your life and turned it into a political weapon.”
Fernando laughed, humorlessly.
“Dona Rita was the most incredible woman I ever knew. And they're painting me as a monster. As someone who would kill his own wife and son.”
“I know how much you loved little Lucca.” My voice dropped.
He closed his eyes for a second, as if the words were a physical blow.
“I would give anything to trade places with him,” he said, his voice choked. “Not a day goes by that I don't think about it.”
Something inside me broke in that moment. Politics had always been dirty, but this was too cruel.
“They want to destroy you.”
“Yes.” He let out a sigh. “And they're succeeding.”
For an instant, we were no longer governor and secretary. We weren't allies in a political war. We were just two people, trapped in a whirlpool of emotions we didn't know how to handle.
I approached slowly, feeling the weight of that confession between us.
“Fernando…”
He lifted his gaze to mine, and there it all was—everything he tried to hide. The anger. The pain. The desire.
I should have stepped back. But I didn't.
Instead, I was the one who leaned in first. It was just a touch—my hand over his. But it was enough for him to give in.
Fernando pulled me close—not rough, but urgent. His mouth found mine without haste, without the explosion of last time. This time, it wasn't about fury or rush. It was about something deeper, denser.
His lips claimed mine slowly, as if each kiss were a silent plea for something he couldn't name. His hands rose to my face, fingers threading through my hair before sliding to my nape.
“I shouldn't…” he murmured against my mouth.
“I know,” I replied, breathless. “But this isn't going to stop, is it?”
He stared at me, and the tension was as palpable as the air we breathed.
Then he gave in.
The kisses grew more intense, but there was still a slowness to them, as if we wanted to stretch out every second. His hands explored my skin with reverence, as if memorizing every inch.
When he lifted me onto the conference table, the irony wasn't lost on me. How many plans, strategies, and speeches had been mapped out here? But in that moment, none of it mattered.
The only politics that mattered was that of skin, of desire held back too long.
And when we finally gave ourselves to each other, it was different from all the other times.
It was more than sex.
It was the only truth amid so many lies.