Chapter 21
The news that Fernando refused to get involved with another woman, as the party had suggested, struck at the very heart of politics.
As if his recent loss wasn't burden enough, he was now refusing to follow the campaign playbook.
The internal crisis unfolded rapidly. The party, already frustrated with his behavior, pushed even harder.
Reelection was at stake, and having a wife by his side was seen as a symbol of stability—a way to win even more votes.
But Fernando had made his decision. He wouldn't bow to that.
He wouldn't bow to what the party wanted.
And so the chasm between him and the party widened. He knew he was putting his image at risk. But there was something more important than his image. Something that couldn't be ignored. Something he felt, something building between us, that could never be just a political move.
In that moment, I felt like a rope stretched tight, about to snap.
The pressure on me was mounting too. I knew what Fernando's distance meant.
For him, I was the political asset that would make him stronger, that would connect him even more deeply with voters.
But for me, I was sinking into something more than professional. It was personal. It was visceral.
The crisis in the party grew while Fernando and I remained silent, both trapped in our own convictions, our own fears.
He had become something more than the governor I had known.
He had become a force, a storm I feared and yet desperately desired.
And I, the woman who controlled his political image, couldn't control anything inside myself.
It was a night like any other. Or maybe it wasn't. When the clock struck three in the morning, I found myself at the governor's bedroom door.
The decision wasn't rational. I couldn't explain it.
The impulse to go to him felt like the only path forward.
The heavy silence between us, the unspoken words, the electric proximity of our bodies.
I knocked lightly on the door. It was more a sign of courage than a real need to break the silence.
Fernando opened almost instantly, as if he already knew I was there, waiting for that moment.
He was disheveled, his dress shirt open and his tie hanging loose around his neck.
His gaze cut through mine, as if he were waiting for something even he couldn't name.
“What do you want, Glória?” he asked, his voice deep, full of a tension I knew well. But something in his gaze revealed he wasn't just asking out of curiosity. He wanted to know what I had to offer, what was behind my decision to show up at his door.
I took a step forward without thinking, as if the gesture were as inevitable as the attraction growing between us.
“I… don't know,” I confessed, the words quick, almost a whisper. “But we need to talk, Fernando. This is getting too hard.”
He closed the door behind me but said nothing more. We were in a minefield of unspoken words, unconfessed desires, feelings tangled between politics and the heart. He approached me slowly, as if afraid to break the invisible barrier between us. The space we still tried to maintain.
“What's happening, Glória?” he finally asked, his eyes never leaving mine. And in that instant, his frustration mingled with doubt, with the same longing I felt. The pain of seeing what politics did to him, to both of us, was there, plain and undisguised.
That's when he touched my face, his trembling fingers grazing my skin with a tenderness I never imagined he possessed. His breathing came faster, ragged, as if he were waiting for the world to explode, for the moment when everything between us would finally shatter.
I felt the weight of every second, the weight of his choices, of the crisis the party had heaped on his shoulders, of everything at stake. But there, in that room, none of it mattered. It was just him and me, suspended in time.
Suddenly, he pulled me close, his lips meeting mine with a force that caught me off guard—a kiss that carried urgency and need.
It was no longer the superficial touch of formal events, a brush of lips for cameras.
It was deep, desperate, his tongue seeking mine as if I were the air he needed to survive.
There was anger there, burning desire, but also a raw fragility, a silent plea neither of us knew how to face.
I surrendered without a fight. Our bodies were like opposing forces, magnetic, unable to pull away. His need for me—and mine for him—was stronger than any obligation, any power game. It was visceral, real, and I could feel it in every beat of his heart against my chest.
“I can't keep pretending anymore,” he whispered against my lips, his voice hoarse, almost broken, his dark eyes searching mine as his hands cradled my face, holding me as if I might disappear.
“Then don't,” I replied, my voice trembling, my hands sliding along his neck, pulling him closer, wanting to erase whatever distance still remained.
The kiss deepened, slow and intense, and his hands began to explore my skin, his fingers tracing my nape, trailing down my back with a calm that contrasted with the urgency in his eyes.
Each touch was electric, each sigh against my neck made me weak, and I knew this went beyond physical desire—it was him surrendering, letting me in where no one else had been.
Our clothes fell away slowly, unhurried, but with a fervor that grew with each piece we left behind.
I removed his shirt, my fingers grazing his warm chest, feeling the tense muscles relax under my touch.
He unbuttoned my dress, his eyes never leaving mine, and when the fabric fell to the floor, he pulled me to the bed, our bodies meeting with a softness that was almost reverent.
“You’re everything to me,” he murmured, his voice low as he laid me down on the sheets, his body covering mine, warm and solid.
I felt tears burn my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall—I just pulled him to me, kissing him again, slow and deep, while he slid his hands along my thighs, gently parting them.
When he entered me, it was gentle but intense, his cock filling me slowly, letting me feel every inch as I arched against him, my legs wrapping around his waist. “Fernando,” I moaned softly, and he answered with a kiss, his lips soft against mine, the rhythm of his thrusts building steadily—pure love, each movement saying what words couldn’t.
We moved together, our bodies in sync, pleasure rising like a warm, slow wave.
He held my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks as he looked into my eyes, and I saw everything there—the man behind the governor, the soul he hid from the world.
“I love you,” he whispered, and that was all it took—the orgasm washed over me, gentle yet overwhelming, making me tremble beneath him, my muscles tightening around him as I came, his name escaping in a sigh.
He came right after, his body tense against mine, his warmth filling me as he groaned low, his lips pressed to mine in one last trembling kiss.
We stayed there, breathless, our bodies still entwined, sweat mingling on our skin.
He held me in his arms, his fingers tracing my skin with a tenderness that disarmed me, and when he looked into my eyes, I saw something genuine—something human, vulnerable, ours.
In that moment, there was no politics, no party, no masks. Just us, making love, surrendered to each other like we’d never been before.
“I can’t promise you anything, Glória,” he whispered, his breathing still heavy. “But you need to know that… I can’t live without you anymore.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling my heart race even faster. There was no going back. Whatever this was, we were bound to each other now. And maybe that was stronger than any crisis, any power game.
“I know,” I said, my voice choked with the pain of knowing we were in dangerous territory—but also the joy of knowing that, finally, he had chosen me. Not for politics, but for us. “I can’t either.”