Chapter 23
When the plane touched down in Brazil, tension already hung thick in the air.
Europe's cool climate gave way to S?o Paulo's stifling heat, but the atmosphere brewing in Fernando's office was heavier than any tropical storm.
The party had demanded an immediate meeting.
Politics never sleeps, and the photos from Portugal—where Fernando and I appeared together, seemingly relaxed—had exploded like a bomb in the press.
Fernando still didn't know the extent of the damage, but I already felt the weight of what was coming.
They wanted to see us now, behind closed doors, and the party president was furious.
He'd always been so careful about controlling every aspect of his image, but he wouldn't be able to hold it together much longer.
What awaited me was no longer a political conversation. It was a judgment, and I knew it.
“I don't understand, Glória,” Fernando murmured, adjusting his tie in the mirror. He was visibly exhausted, his eyes red from days without proper sleep. “How is it possible that who I sleep with matters more than what we're doing with the S?o Paulo water project?”
His question hung in the air like an arrow shot at a target no one wanted to acknowledge.
I knew exactly how he felt. Politics had become a game of appearances, where people's actions—even the simplest ones—were meticulously analyzed.
The fact that we'd been in Portugal together, after so many months of political tension, was no longer about the project he'd presented to the European Union, or the victory he'd just won for the state of S?o Paulo.
No, now we were just another scandal waiting to happen.
I moved closer to him, gently touching his shoulder, trying to offer a comfort I wasn't sure would be enough.
“They'll always find something to criticize, Fernando.
That's politics. It's not fair, but that's how it works.
The water project is important, yes. But you know as well as I do that it won't be the focus now.
They'll focus on us. On how we were photographed together.
On the way you looked at me—the way you should never have looked at a woman while you were still married.
They'll try to destroy this because it's easier than dealing with the complexity of our work.
It's not fair, I know, but it's reality.”
Fernando turned to me, his eyes heavy with frustration. He was at war with himself—he didn't know who to trust or what to do about any of this. Politics had always demanded sacrifices, but now he was wondering if those sacrifices were really worth it.
“Why can't they see what we're doing, Glória?” he whispered, his voice choked.
“All I'm trying to do is improve people's lives.
All we want is to solve a real problem. And then one photo from a night in Portugal comes along, and everything we've done, all my work, gets thrown out the window.
What did I do? I loved a woman, but that, apparently, is more important than everything we've accomplished so far.”
His desperation touched me, and a wave of compassion washed over me.
I knew how he felt. Every move he made, every word he said, was meticulously calculated.
He wasn't used to having his personal life invaded in such a cruel and public way.
And the truth was, he no longer knew where the line fell between who he was as a politician and who he was as a man.
“We can't control what people think, Fernando,” I said, trying to sound more rational than I actually felt.
“But you have to understand that, for them, it doesn't matter what's at stake.
For the party, for the media, for everyone, this is just another scandal.
They want to see the human side, not the political one.
They want to see that you have weaknesses, that you're flawed, and that if you slip up, everything else comes crashing down.”
Fernando turned toward the window, his gaze fixed on the city skyline but distant, as if he were somewhere far beyond what the eye could see.
“I don't know what's worse, Glória. The fact that I'm trying to do what's right, or the fact that when personal life enters the picture, everything else disappears.
They'll never look at my government proposals, my public policies, what we've done for the environment, for education, for healthcare.
They'll only see what unites us. And that's… dangerous.”
I knew what he meant. What united us was more than politics. It was the desire, the tension that hung in the air whenever we were together, the passion we'd kept hidden for so long—which had now, inevitably, become the center of attention. They saw the scandal and couldn't see the truth behind it.
The silence between us was heavy, broken only by the distant sound of city traffic. I didn't know what else to say to ease the pressure. But then Fernando turned to me again, his gaze softer now, more vulnerable.
“And you, Glória?” he asked, his voice lower, more cautious. “What do you feel about this? About all of this? What we're facing, what's coming…”
I looked at him, feeling my chest tighten. How could I say what he wanted to hear when, deep down, I didn't even know what I was feeling? The political pressure, the media attention—all of it surrounded us, forcing us to play a game where the rules kept changing.
“I don't know,” I finally admitted, my voice sincere. “I'm as lost as you are. But one thing is certain, Fernando: I don't regret anything. Not what we feel, not what we have. Even if this destroys us, I don't regret it.”
He looked at me as if weighing my words, and in his eyes I saw the same conflict he carried inside. The passion, the desire—they were still there, still burning, but so was the fear of what this could mean for him, for us.
The meeting was about to begin. I knew the pressure would only increase from here. And even knowing that, I couldn't look away from him. The connection between us wouldn't break so easily. But what would that mean for Fernando's future? For all our futures?
Politics was a dirty game, but personal life—the kind that intertwined with your deepest feelings—became far more complicated. And now, with everything exposed, one question remained, the one Fernando was still trying to answer: What really mattered most?
The atmosphere in the meeting room was more tense than ever.
Fernando and I sat before the party president and the senior advisors, all wearing guarded expressions, eager to discuss what felt more like an ultimatum than a conversation.
There was no hiding anymore: the situation was out of control.
The photo of us from Portugal had spread across every newspaper, and the growing scandal over our closeness was forcing the party's hand.
“Fernando, Glória,” the party president began—a man with a calculating gaze and a deep voice—“we need to have a serious conversation about this. What happened in Portugal… We can no longer ignore it.”
The tension was palpable. I knew he was referring to our trip, our closeness. And I knew that deep down, he never cared about what we felt—only about the political fallout.
“Fernando's image as governor is invaluable to the party. We cannot allow it to be tarnished by speculation about an affair with Glória. That would compromise everything we've achieved,” he said bluntly, his tone harsh.
Fernando remained silent, jaw tense, eyes fixed on the president, trying to control his growing anger.
For my part, I felt the pressure building on my shoulders.
This wasn't just about the two of us anymore.
It was about all the work we'd done, about Fernando's political future.
About what the party expected from us—or rather, from him.
“So what's the solution, president?” Fernando finally said, his voice low but firm. “What do you want us to do so this doesn't affect the project?”
I could see he was trying to stay calm, but the frustration was evident.
He knew the party would never accept what he wanted: to keep working independently, without bowing to the whims of party politics.
They wanted control over everything—including who he loved or who stood by his side.
I knew that somewhere deep down, he was asking himself if it was worth surrendering to the machine that now controlled him.
The president, with his irritating calm, continued:
“The situation is simple, Fernando. We need you to either distance yourself from Glória or go public with the relationship. That will allow us to work on your image and turn this into a positive narrative. You, as a widower, need to justify this closeness—give the voters something that makes sense. Otherwise, the speculation will spread, and trust in your government will crumble.”
I swallowed hard. The pressure was immense.
I could have distanced myself, could have accepted what they were asking, but Fernando's eyes on me stopped me.
He was trying to be rational, trying to think about the party, but I knew this wasn't just about politics.
What we felt went beyond any calculation.
Fernando looked at me. The silence between us was heavy, tension spilling over as he tried to absorb the president's words.
“So what are you suggesting? That I pretend I never existed?” I said, unable to contain myself, anger rising in me. “Or that I distance myself from you and let this whole political game continue as if nothing happened between us?”
The president didn't hesitate.
“We're not saying you should distance yourself, Glória,” he said with an almost artificial calm.
“But we need to give the public an answer.
Either you commit to this once and for all as a couple and work on that image, or you end any possibility of maintaining Fernando's relationship with the party and his electoral base.”