Chapter 27
When Fernando and I finally decided to go public with our relationship, I knew it would be difficult.
The love between us had always carried an intensity that went beyond words and political conventions.
But what I couldn’t anticipate was the ferocity with which the world—especially social media—would react.
In the first few days, everything seemed bearable.
There was the curiosity from journalists, the buzz in bars, and the first anonymous “congratulations” on my social media accounts, which made it all seem like a simple celebrity romance.
But soon it turned into something darker. Something merciless.
At first, I tried to ignore it. I told myself it wasn’t worth paying attention to people who would never understand what was really happening between Fernando and me.
However, over time, the hatred grew. Every post I made was followed by an avalanche of hateful comments.
It didn’t take long before I realized it was impossible to escape the prison the internet had created for me.
I still remember the first malicious comment that hit me like a knife: “Fernando’s real mistress finally showed up.
I bet she killed Dona Rita and little Lucca to keep the governor for herself.
” I was paralyzed. The words cut me in a way I never imagined possible.
That comment, with its morbid cruelty, took over my mind for days.
The thought that someone on the other side of the screen would have the audacity to say something so sordid, without knowing the truth, consumed me.
Fernando noticed right away. I was silent during breakfast, my gaze fixed on my phone screen, trying to process the whirlwind of comments and conspiracy theories circulating online. He furrowed his brow, stopped eating, and came closer.
“What’s going on, Glória?” he asked, his voice low and tense.
I tried to hide it, but I couldn’t stop the tears from forming.
“They’re just comments... nothing I didn’t expect,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. But the pain was immense.
Fernando snatched the phone from my hands with surprising speed. He quickly scanned some of the posts, his eyes narrowing with rage.
“They’re monsters, Glória,” he murmured, more to himself than to me.
I took a deep breath, trying to wipe away the tears before he saw me cry. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was drowning. The internet’s tribunal of hatred doesn’t forgive, doesn’t care about the truth. It prefers the spectacle of destruction, of scandal.
“They’re saying things that don’t make sense, Fernando. That I was always your mistress, that I manipulated all of this to get power. They’re even insinuating that I caused Dona Rita and little Lucca’s deaths. How do I deal with this?”
Fernando stood up and came over to me, kneeling in front of me. He took my hands gently, looking at me with those eyes that always held the calm I needed, but which, at that moment, were also filled with frustration and helplessness.
“They don’t know anything about us. Nothing about what happened between you and me, nothing about what we’ve been through,” he said, his voice firm. “I love you, and that’s what matters.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted more than anything to lose myself in the comfort of his words, but what the world was saying about us was so much louder.
I wanted to disappear. I wanted to go back behind the scenes, where none of this would have ever happened.
But the weight of exposure was real, and I didn’t know how to bear it without sinking.
???
The following days were constant torture.
Every step I took seemed to be accompanied by a legion of voyeurs who fed on my vulnerabilities.
The internet, which had once been a tool to bring people together, now seemed like a battlefield where I was attacked from all sides.
It wasn’t just the anonymous comments that hurt.
There were also the “professionals”—journalists, bloggers, political analysts—who began to question my morals, my history, my life.
My image was being torn apart piece by piece.
And the worst part was that I felt Fernando was being dragged through this too.
What had once seemed like a relationship of mutual support now became a burden he also carried.
As much as he tried to protect me, what was happening on social media was much bigger than our efforts.
I could see in his eyes how much he was suffering.
There were nights when he held me tightly, as if trying to protect me from the world, and I felt like a weight on his shoulders.
But he didn’t complain. He never complained.
He just told me, his voice hoarse, that all of this was temporary and that soon the dust would settle.
But deep down, I knew he was also drowning in the pressure.
It was on one of those nights that he took my phone and started looking at the comments.
I didn’t have the courage to do it myself.
I was fed up with subjecting myself to that cruelty.
But he began to read, his eyes distant. I knew what he was reading: the same accusations, the same lies, the same baseless attacks.
“I’m going to ask the party to issue an official statement,” he said, without taking his eyes off the screen. “They need to stop this. We can’t let them destroy you like this.”
I didn’t want him to do that. I knew that no matter how hard he tried, nothing anyone said would change what people thought of me.
And honestly, I was starting to get tired of fighting against a system that would never accept me.
But when I saw his face, that determined expression full of love, I couldn’t deny that he was willing to do anything for me. For us.
“No, Fernando. I... I can’t do this anymore. I can’t stand these lies anymore. It’s destroying me,” I said, my voice choked with pain.
He came closer, taking my hands in his. His eyes were filled with a tenderness that seemed endless.
“You’re here with me, Glória. No matter what they say, you have my love and my protection. We’ll get through this together.”