Chapter 34
The whole country was watching, but for me, that day wasn't about cameras, headlines, or anyone else's curiosity.
It was about us. About the journey we'd taken to get here.
About every obstacle we'd overcome, every battle we'd won, every moment we chose to stay even when walking away would have been easier.
Still, there was no ignoring how big this moment was. Even though we'd chosen a private ceremony, just friends and family, the governor of S?o Paulo's wedding wasn't going to fly under the radar. I'd known that from the instant I said yes.
My dress wasn't just any gown. It didn't come from a luxury boutique or bear the label of some international designer.
It was Brazilian—handmade by the lacemakers of Carapicuíba, who transformed delicate threads into a true work of art.
Every stitch, every detail carried the story of the hands that wove it.
When I looked in the mirror, ready to make my entrance, I felt a tightness in my chest. Not from nerves, but from pure emotion.
The white lace hugged my body perfectly, flowing to the floor in delicate layers.
Tiny golden details, almost invisible, were woven through the fabric, as if tracing my own story: understated, yet impossible to ignore.
My mother walked in just then, her eyes shining with pride.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart.”
“And nervous.”
She laughed and took my hand.
“You’ve never been one to run from a challenge, Glória. And this wedding isn’t a challenge. It’s a choice. The best choice you two could make.”
I smiled. She was right.
The church was small and cozy, decorated with white flowers and candles that bathed the space in a soft, enchanting glow.
Fernando stood at the altar in a well-tailored black suit, his tie slightly crooked—a detail that made me smile because it showed that despite his impeccable posture, he was nervous too.
When the doors opened and our eyes met, the world around us simply disappeared.
I walked toward him with my heart racing. Each step was a reminder of what we were about to do. When I finally stood before him, I saw everything I needed to know in his eyes.
The love, the certainty, the silent promise that we’d never be alone on this journey.
“You look amazing,” Fernando whispered, taking my hand.
“And your tie is crooked.”
He laughed softly, and before he could fix it, the priest began the ceremony.
The vows were sincere, without exaggeration or empty promises.
“Glória, I used to be a man who thought he had to face everything alone. But you showed me it’s possible to be strong and vulnerable at the same time. You are my choice, today and always.”
I swallowed hard, feeling the emotion wash over me.
“Fernando, you’ve always been my safe harbor, even when I didn’t know I needed one. The love we’ve built isn’t perfect, but it’s real. And I promise I’ll always fight for it.”
When the priest declared us husband and wife, Fernando cupped my face in his hands and kissed me.
And in that kiss was everything: our history, our present, and the future we were building together.
The kiss went viral before the reception even started.
Behind the scenes, aides rushed around with phones in hand, satisfied smiles on their faces. The press was already calling it “the kiss that stopped Brazil.”
“You’ve become a romantic meme,” I teased, showing him a video where a sappy song played in the background while our kiss replayed in slow motion.
“Better than a political meme,” he replied, pulling me closer.
The dinner carried on in a celebratory mood. Emotional speeches, laughter, toasts, and hugs. But even surrounded by friends and family, the weight of this new chapter already hung in the air.
From now on, we’d be watched, judged, and scrutinized more intensely than ever.
And I knew the real challenge was still to come.
After all the craziness of the ceremony and reception, we escaped to what we called our “vacation from chaos.”
Our honeymoon had one goal: peace.
We chose a spot in the Northeast, far from the tourist crowds, where we could just be Fernando and Glória—no titles, no obligations, no rehearsed speeches.
The house we rented sat right by the sea, with hammocks on the porch and the constant sound of waves breaking on the sand.
On the first morning, I woke to the smell of coffee and warm bread. Fernando was in the kitchen, barefoot and in shorts, trying to balance a plate piled with fruit while holding two cups.
“Good morning, Mrs. Serra,” he teased with a lazy smile.
“Still sounds strange,” I replied, settling into a chair and accepting the cup of coffee.
“You’ll get used to it. After all, we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together.”
And there, on that porch, under the golden Northeast sun, I realized that despite everything—despite the challenges still to come—I had never been so happy.
“Come here, Glória,” he called, his deep voice rolling through the room like distant thunder, each syllable heavy with promise as his dark eyes followed me, blazing with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.
“For what?” I shot back, provocation dancing on my tongue, but my feet were already moving, drawn to him as if by an invisible thread, the smooth, cold wooden floor creaking softly beneath my bare feet with each step.
He smiled, his lips curving into a slow, dangerous arc, and grabbed a bottle of massage oil from the mahogany side table beside the bed.
The amber glass clinked against the surface, and when he opened the cap, the floral scent of lavender mixed with warm notes of vanilla and musk filled the air, sweet and intoxicating, washing over me as I approached.
“I want to relax you today,” he said, patting the mattress with his palm, the soft thud echoing in the silence. “You deserve it.”
I laughed softly, the sound escaping like a sigh as I lay face down, the silk of my nightgown riding up my thighs, the cool Egyptian cotton sheets brushing against my belly and arms where I rested my head.
Fernando climbed over me, the warmth of his thighs—still clad in light linen pants—pressing against the sides of my legs, his weight anchoring me to the mattress.
He lifted the nightgown slowly, his warm fingers grazing the sensitive skin of my back, the fabric bunching at my shoulders with an almost inaudible whisper, exposing me to the cool air drifting through the window.
The oil came next, dripping cold at the base of my spine, an icy drop that trickled slowly down the curve of my back, making me inhale sharply, the air cutting through my lungs as the liquid spread, viscous and silky against my skin.
His hands went to work, large and calloused, spreading the oil with firm pressure, his thumbs sinking into the tense muscles of my shoulders, the heat of his palms contrasting with the initial cold of the liquid.
Each movement was a soft slick of skin against skin, the oil amplifying the wet sound as he worked the knots of tension, the scent of lavender rising in warm waves with the heat of my body.
“You’re so tense here,” he murmured, his deep voice vibrating against my nape, his warm breath—carrying a faint trace of whiskey from the glass he’d had earlier—grazing my skin as his thumbs pressed deeper, undoing the stiffness with a force that made me sigh, the air escaping in small moans I tried to contain.
“Your fault, Governor,” I retorted, my voice muffled against my arms, but the heat was already rising through my belly, the wetness growing between my thighs as his fingers descended, tracing the line of my spine with a slowness that was pure torture, his nails grazing lightly, leaving trails of goosebumps across my oily skin.
He laughed, the hoarse sound echoing through the room like a low drumbeat, and his hands reached my waist, his thumbs sinking into the soft flesh above my hips, his long fingers grazing the sides of my breasts, the touch so close to my nipples that my body writhed, the fabric of the nightgown now trapped beneath my chest rubbing against the hard peaks.
“Relax, love,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss my nape, his warm, moist lips leaving a burning mark, his teeth grazing lightly as his hands slid to my ass, the oil dripping thick between my cheeks, the cold of the liquid making me arch with a low moan that echoed against the wooden walls.
His thumbs massaged my cheeks, the firm pressure spreading them apart, the oil sliding down the curves as the scent of vanilla mixed with my own musk, warm and heady, rising in the humid air of the room.
He grazed the entrance of my ass with his thumbs, the touch light but intentional, the oil amplifying the slippery sensation as I pushed back against him, the fabric of the sheets crumpling beneath my knees.
“Fernando…” I moaned, his name escaping in a hoarse whisper, the sound trembling in the air as he moved down to my thighs, his strong fingers spreading my legs wider, the oil dripping cold on the inside, trickling slowly down the sensitive skin toward the heat of my pussy, already wet and throbbing with desire.
“Shh, let me take care of you,” he responded, his hoarse tone thick with arousal, his warm breath against my spine as he returned to my ass, his thumbs pressing deeper, spreading me with a slowness that made every nerve ignite, the oil now dripping warm, heated by our bodies.
A finger slid between my cheeks, the oil easing the way as he grazed my ass, the growing pressure making me gasp, the air catching sharp in my throat.
He kissed the base of my back, his soft lips contrasting with the sparse beard that prickled my skin, and then the finger entered, slippery and firm, filling me with a fullness that drew a loud moan from me, the sound muffled against the pillow where I buried my face.
“That’s it, love,” he murmured, adding a second finger, the stretch slow and delicious, the oil amplifying the slide as I ground against him, the rough fabric of the sheets grazing my hard nipples.
“Please…” I begged, my voice breaking, my body trembling beneath his hands, the sweet scent of the oil mingling with his salty sweat as he accelerated, his fingers thrusting in a firm rhythm, the wet, rhythmic sound filling the room.
His other hand slid forward, the oil dripping between my thighs as his fingers found my clit, the slippery touch rubbing in quick circles, the pleasure rising like a warm, dense wave, my whole body tense, the muscles in my legs locking as I lost myself in the sensations—the cold oil, the hot skin, the floral scent, his hoarse moans against my nape.
“Come for me, my wife,” he whispered, his teeth sinking lightly into my shoulder, his warm breath burning me as the fingers in my ass curved, hitting a spot that made me see stars, the others on my clit speeding up until the pleasure exploded.
The orgasm hit me with visceral force, my body convulsing, my muscles clenching around his fingers as I screamed, the sound muffled against the sheets, a hot jet of squirt escaping, soaking his thighs, the sheets, the floor, the warm liquid dripping thick as I trembled, the musky scent of my pleasure mixing with the oil.
“Fuck, Glória, you’re perfect,” he grunted, his fingers still rubbing me slowly, prolonging the waves, the warm liquid dripping as I moaned, my body limp, my senses overloaded by the touch, the smell, the sound of his heavy breathing.
He turned me to face him, the oil glistening on my sweaty skin, and kissed me, his soft, hungry lips against mine, the taste of salt and desire on his tongue washing over me.
“You’re everything,” he said, lying beside me, his fingers tracing the slippery curves of my body as I panted, my heart pounding against my ribs.
“You wreck me like this,” I managed to say, my voice weak, my body sated but still vibrating, the scent of lavender and sex filling the air as he pulled me to his chest, his warmth enveloping me like a second skin.
“And I'll wreck you again tomorrow,” he replied, laughing low, the husky sound rumbling in my ear as we both lay there, sweaty, slick, surrendered to each other in the dim glow of night.