Chapter 19
It had been days since Fernando had looked me in the eyes.
He was there, on the other side of the table, attending the meeting as always—formal, controlled, impeccable. But he wasn't the same man who had taken my breath away that night at the Palace.
The distance between us was palpable, so sharp it could cut.
“The event is confirmed for Saturday,” one of the advisors said. “The chosen activist has already accepted the invitation and will be introduced as one of the new faces of the campaign.”
My throat went dry.
The chosen activist.
The woman I'd recommended myself, who symbolized exactly what the party wanted. Young, charismatic, combative. The type of woman any campaign strategist would place beside Fernando to make him stronger.
I should have been satisfied.
It was the right move for the campaign, a political play that could boost his popularity and solidify his image.
But all I felt was a suffocating emptiness.
I'd put on bolder lipstick that morning, tried to hide the exhaustion with concealer, but nothing erased the dark circles under my eyes. I hadn't slept well in days. Not since he'd pulled away.
Not since I'd realized the magnitude of my mistake.
But now it was too late.
He was distant. Formal.
And the activist I'd suggested myself was about to become a constant presence at his side.
“Will the event be televised?” I asked, trying to sound neutral.
Fernando kept his gaze fixed on the documents in front of him.
“Yes. The party wants to give her visibility right away.”
My fingers tightened around the pen.
“Makes sense,” I replied coldly.
He didn't look at me.
And God, how it hurt.
The meeting continued—strategic discussions, speech adjustments, poll numbers. I participated mechanically, maintaining my composure, as I always did.
But inside... everything was crumbling.
The event took place on a sweltering Saturday.
The hall was packed with politicians, activists, journalists. Fernando, as always, was the center of attention. His presence dominated the room—imposing, unattainable.
And she was by his side.
Smiling, intelligent, articulate.
Everything I knew she needed to be.
Everything I'd chosen myself.
I stayed on the sidelines, watching, not letting any emotion show on my face.
But every laugh she shared with him was like a knife to my chest.
“This is necessary,” I repeated to myself.
I believed it. I always had.
Fernando wasn't just a governor seeking reelection. He was the strongest candidate for the presidency. And if I wanted a strategic position, a seat at the table of power, I needed to be rational.
I needed to sacrifice him.
Sacrifice the man I loved.
The thought hit me like a blow.
I'd never admitted that to myself. Never.
But there, in the middle of that crowd, watching him interact with another woman, feeling my stomach twist with jealousy and anguish, I knew.
I loved him.
And I needed to lose him to keep living by the principles I'd always held.
I swallowed hard, keeping my posture, refusing to falter.
At the end of the night, when the camera flashes died down and the guests began to disperse, he walked past me.
He said nothing.
He didn't look at me.
He just kept walking.
And I stayed behind. Alone.
The silence of my apartment was a relief.
After weeks of exhaustion, pressure, and sleepless nights, I was finally alone.
Alone to face the truth I'd been avoiding all evening.
I kicked my shoes into a corner and let myself collapse onto the couch. My work dress still clung to my body, strands of hair escaping from the tight bun I'd worn all day.
I closed my eyes.
I didn't want to think about him.
I didn't want to think about how Fernando had looked at that woman on stage.
I didn't want to remember how he'd avoided my eyes all night.
I ran my hand over my face, feeling how drawn my skin had become. My makeup was probably smudged by now, just like everything else about me. I was thinner, more tired, more... empty.
And then the doorbell rang.
The sound echoed through the apartment, cutting through the silence of the early morning.
My heart raced.
For a second, I knew.
I dragged myself to the door, hesitated before opening it. And there he was.
Fernando.
His tie loose, his shirt slightly wrinkled, his eyes heavy with something I couldn't quite read—anger, exhaustion, or desire.
“You did an excellent job today,” he said, his voice dripping with irony.
I crossed my arms, trying not to show what his presence did to me.
“What do you want, Fernando?”
He stepped inside without being invited, hands in his pockets, jaw rigid.
“Just wanted to know if I put on a good enough show. Or should I bow lower to the woman you chose for me?”
My stomach sank.
“Don’t start…”
“Or do you think another one would suit me better? I can swap women like I swap ties. The way you used to swap mine.”
My chest burned.
“Go fuck yourself, Fernando.”
“You’re the one who fucked me, Glória,” he growled, then laughed without humor. “Actually, maybe that’s all it is, right? Screw what I want. You’ve already decided which woman will be by my side.”
Rage ignited inside me like wildfire.
I grabbed a pillow from the couch and threw it at him. Fernando dodged without even stepping back.
“You have no idea what you’re saying!”
“Don’t I?” He advanced, and I backed up, my heart pounding. “Then explain it to me. Tell me how, after everything, you could set me up with another woman and think I’d just accept it.”
I grabbed a vase from the coffee table and hurled it. He caught it before it shattered on the floor, tossed it onto the couch, and came at me.
This time, I didn’t back down.
“You think this is about us?” I screamed. “You think I did this because I wanted to? Are you naive or just playing dumb?!”
“I think you’re scared to death, Glória,” he growled, his mouth too close to mine. “And I’m tired of it.”
My eyes burned. Hatred and desire collided inside me like violent waves, crashing, drowning me.
And then he kissed me.
It was rough, desperate, his lips crushing mine with a force that was almost pain, as if he hated me as much as he wanted me.
My mouth responded with the same fury, my tongue battling his, teeth biting his lower lip until I tasted the metallic tang of blood, as if I could rip from him the same torment eating me alive.
My body caught fire instantly. I grabbed his hair, pulling hard, nails digging into his nape while he shoved me against the wall, the impact drawing a grunt from me.
His hands ran down my back, those big fingers gripping my waist with possessive force, as if he wanted to pin me there forever, mark me as his.
I hated him.
Hated him for making me feel so much, for tearing me apart inside with that dark, wild gaze.
Hated him for breaking me, shattering me, and still being the only one I wanted to devour.
“You’re an asshole,” I whispered against his mouth, my voice trembling with rage, nails digging deep into his shoulders, tearing the skin beneath his shirt.
“And you’re a coward,” he shot back, his voice low, hot, cutting like a blade, eyes flashing as he stared at me, hatred dancing with lust.
I yanked his shirt hard, buttons flying across the floor, the fabric tearing in my hands as I exposed his broad chest, the tense muscles I wanted to scratch until they bled.
He didn’t hold back—he grabbed my dress, desperate fingers ripping the side seam in one brutal pull, the sound of tearing fabric mixing with our furious moans.
I wanted him like I’d never wanted anything in my life.
And at the same time, I hated how much it made me weak, how much it made me his.
He lifted me up with a primal grunt, hands grabbing my ass hard while I wrapped my legs around his waist, teeth sunk into his shoulder, marking him as he carried me to the couch.
He threw me down like I was nothing, but his eyes—fuck, those eyes—burned with a love as fierce as the hatred, and I knew I was lost.
He fell on top of me, tearing away what was left of the dress, his mouth returning to mine with a savage kiss, teeth colliding, tongues fighting while I opened his belt in a rush, hands trembling with need.
He yanked my panties to the side, not bothering to remove them, and thrust into me with one brutal stroke, his thick cock filling me to the hilt, ripping a hoarse scream from me that echoed through the room.
“That’s it, hate me,” he growled against my mouth, fucking me hard, the rhythm almost animal, his hips slamming into mine with loud smacks, the couch creaking beneath us.
I clawed at his back, nails tearing skin, hot blood under my fingers while I ground against him, meeting each thrust with the same fury, pleasure mixed with rage consuming me.
“I love you, you son of a bitch,” I moaned, the words coming through clenched teeth, and he answered with a guttural grunt, speeding up, his cock pulsing inside me as he fucked me like he wanted to destroy me.
I felt everything—his heat, the thickness stretching me, the way he dominated me and surrendered to me at the same time.
The orgasm came fast, violent, making me arch against him, muscles clenching around him as I came, trembling all over, his name caught in my throat in a silent scream.
He came right after, his cock pulsing hard, filling me with his cum while he buried his face in my neck, teeth sunk into my skin, marking me as I’d marked him. We stayed there, panting, bodies sweaty and intertwined, love and hatred still burning between us, inseparable, primal.
I knew this made no sense in real life.
But for one night, I let it be just love.