Chapter 20
The sun was already high when I woke, but the room remained dim, as though the day itself had stretched on longer than it should. I got out of bed slowly, feeling the ache in my bones, the emotional exhaustion pressing down on me. He was gone. Once again, he was gone.
I looked at his side of the bed, his scent still lingering on the rumpled sheets.
He had left without a word, without even looking back, and the emptiness he left behind was deafening.
In the middle of the night, when we’d completely lost control, I had given myself to him in a way I never imagined possible.
And in the heat of it, when he pulled me against him with uncontainable intensity, I said:
“I love you, Fernando.”
I hadn’t meant to say it. Not then. Not when I was so exposed.
But I did. And the moment the words left my mouth, I felt weakness wash over me, the sense that I’d crossed a line I could never uncross.
Fear, pain, longing—it all tangled with the pleasure of that moment, even as I felt everything crumbling around me.
Now, the emptiness inside me felt as vast as the distance between us. Fernando was gone, and somehow, a part of me had gone with him.
It was strange how he had become such a constant presence in my life. He wasn’t just the governor, the politician everyone saw on TV with his polished image, his refined gestures, his promises of a bright future for the state. No. He was more than that. And I’d seen it from the moment I met him.
The party came to me during a time of transition, of growth.
I wasn’t a novice, but I also wasn’t someone with the confidence to take on a more prominent role.
Yet when they called, I knew that politics—with all its rules and manipulations—wanted me for a very specific reason. I had something others didn’t: control.
That’s how the party saw me. A woman who didn’t let emotions carry her away, who knew how to play the game and manage appearances. And it was on that foundation that I began to shape myself, to build my image as a strong, unbeatable woman.
Fernando Serra, on the other hand, had already served as mayor of S?o Paulo.
He had the charisma, the presence, the strength—but losing his reelection bid had hit him hard.
It was after that defeat that he rose again.
Not as Fernando Serra the mayor, but as Fernando Serra the governor.
A different man, more prepared, more calculating.
Yet beside Dona Rita, his longtime wife, he seemed like someone else entirely.
Dona Rita was the ideal woman, the foundation he needed to keep his public image intact.
Together, they’d built a narrative of the perfect family—a solid, united couple with a five-year-old son, Lucca.
The family no one could destroy. Theirs was the story people believed: unbreakable family love that represented the country’s stability.
It was on the strength of that image that the party backed him for the gubernatorial race. He needed someone at his side who was equally strong, who wouldn’t undermine what they’d built. And that’s where I came in.
At that moment, I knew my political life, my future, rested on a carefully constructed image. And of course, Fernando Serra was part of that equation.
I remember the day he first came to me, wearing the lost expression of someone who didn’t know how to move forward.
He’d just lost the reelection and was more vulnerable than I’d ever imagined.
The man everyone saw as a leader stood before me in a moment of weakness, and I—always calculating—knew I had the chance to reshape him, to help him rebuild.
It was the first time I saw the man behind the public figure. He sat devastated in that chair, hands clasped together. The defeat had hit him harder than he’d ever thought possible. And it was in that moment that our story began to take a different turn.
“I don’t know what to do, Glória,” he said, his voice low and weary. “I don’t know how to handle this.”
I watched him, not knowing what to say. The politician everyone admired sat before me now, vulnerable and lost. Without thinking, I placed my hand over his. He didn’t pull away.
“You’re going to turn this around, Fernando. We’re going to turn this around.” The words came out like a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep, but in that moment, it seemed like the only thing to say.
From that day on, he clung to me—silently, but intensely.
I helped him rebuild his image, craft a narrative of resilience, of strength and stability.
At the same time, I became his closest ally.
But over time, something changed. I was no longer just the woman who helped shape his image.
I was more. I knew what he needed, what made him feel he could still be the leader the country expected. And in doing so, I lost myself.
When news came of Dona Rita’s death, and their son Lucca’s, I was at his side, as I’d always been. But in that moment, everything changed. Fernando became even more vulnerable, more broken, and I was there, holding his hand while he wept. That was when he began to see me differently.
“I don’t know what to do, Glória...” The pain in his eyes was raw, and for the first time, I saw that he wasn’t just the unbeatable governor—he was a man devastated by loss.
I held his hand firmly and said:
“You’re not alone. I’m here, and I always will be.”
In that moment, something shifted between us. Politics, image, games—they stopped being everything. Now he needed me in a different way, and I knew my own life, my own image, would only grow more complicated because of it.
And it was there, in that moment of fragility, that I began to fall in love with him. That's what destroyed me. Only a fool would fall for a man when he was that vulnerable, and I—who knew everything about manipulating other people's emotions—had no control over my own.
The day after my day off was packed with one obligation after another, each heavier than the last. But nothing compared to the weight of the emergency meeting I knew was coming.
Fernando was tense—you could see it before we'd even exchanged a word.
The president wanted to see him, and when the head of state calls, things get serious.
He came into my office before we left for the airport, as always, wearing that serious expression, trying to hide what was obvious.
All of Brazil knew he was the biggest threat to the current presidency in the upcoming elections.
The right was banking on Fernando Serra, and he was poised to become a formidable adversary with his charisma and growing base of support.
What he perhaps didn't know—or didn't want to see—was the risk of not having the party's strategic protection.
“We're going to Brasília,” he said, his voice low, trying to appear impassive, but something in the way he gripped the document folder told me he was worried.
I followed him without question, wearing the same hardened expression.
He knew what was at stake. And so did I.
The president, that powerhouse of the right who dominated discussions and political maneuvering with an aggressive, direct style, wanted something from Fernando.
We knew this meeting wouldn't be some casual coffee chat.
It was about power, the future, and who would come out on top in this political war.
The flight to Brasília was silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
When we arrived at the hotel, the tension in the air was palpable.
The president was waiting for us, and his presence commanded attention.
He had that look of someone who's always in control, someone who makes the rules and holds all the cards.
The meeting was long, longer than expected.
We talked about political strategy, alliances, and the need for a firm stance on social media and with the public.
The president was in his element, pursuing control.
The conversation revolved around Fernando and his future, but there was something more—something unspoken hanging in the air.
I could feel the pressure bearing down on Fernando, his desire to be more than just a pawn in other people's hands.
When the meeting ended, Fernando seemed more tense than ever.
We left the Planalto Palace without saying a word.
The city of Brasília, with its wide streets and characteristic formality, mirrored his state of mind.
He was absorbed in everything they had discussed.
I knew he carried an enormous responsibility, and perhaps that was the real source of his tension.
During the flight back, silence reigned between us once again. The words were still there, unspoken but heavy.
When we finally landed in S?o Paulo, Fernando looked at me with an expression more serious than usual. The tension hadn't eased.
“I'm telling you this because you're the one who'll deliver this news to the party president.
He needs to know that the best path forward is to reinforce my image as a widowed president.
The ideal husband who lost his wife and son but stays committed to his work for the sake of the country.
I won't marry unless I can choose my own wife,” he said, his voice grave.
The words carried the weight of an irrevocable decision.
I knew he was right, knew this would be a risky political maneuver, but a strategy that would somehow keep him even more firmly at the center of attention.
The solitude of a man who suffered, but who was also strong.
I stayed silent, watching him. He had made it clear he didn't want to get involved with anyone else, that he wouldn't submit to the party's idea of pairing him with another woman, as if it were some simple trick to keep up appearances.
What he was saying, reading between the lines, was that he didn't want me to be just another piece in his game.
He didn't want another woman; he didn't want to be a “perfect husband” forced to do whatever the party suggested.
I didn't know what to say. I was happy he didn't want to get involved with anyone else, that there would be no handpicked woman to play a strategic role in politics.
But at the same time, I knew this decision was shooting himself in the foot.
He couldn't stay alone forever. His grieving widower image was powerful, yes, but people wanted to see action, wanted to see movement, and this could leave him vulnerable, exposed, without the image of stability he needed.
Deep down, part of me was happy he was making this decision.
He wasn't discarding me. But I also knew that, in the end, what he was doing was selfish.
He was putting his political image above everything.
And despite understanding this rationally, my heart—that heart I'd tried so hard to protect—still broke over the decision he was making.
I wasn't just some woman the party would choose; I was the one.
But he didn't really want anyone. He didn't want to give himself to anything.
“I know what you're thinking, Glória,” he said, interrupting my thoughts. “I know this seems like a mistake, but it's what I have to do. For both of us.”
I just looked at him, feeling a tightness in my chest. I didn't know if the words he was saying were for me or for himself.
“Whatever you do, Fernando, I'll be by your side,” I said, my voice low.
And in that moment, all I wanted was for him to look at me, but he was so closed off, so lost in his own dilemmas, that he didn't seem to notice I was there.
That I had always been there, ready to support him, even knowing he could never be mine.
Fernando didn't respond. He just stared at the horizon, as if seeing an uncertain future ahead. And I, standing there by his side, wondered if the future he wanted so badly included any place for me.