By the time Elena left the auditorium that night, her phone was buzzing nonstop. Notifications stacked like falling bricks—mentions, tags, news alerts, unread messages. She stuffed it into her bag, refusing to look. She already knew what she'd find.
The internet didn't sleep.
By dawn, every news channel was replaying the same thirty seconds: Adrian's sharp voice—"If you were the last woman alive, I still wouldn't marry you." Followed by her rebuttal—"Good. Because if you were the last man alive, I'd rather end humanity."
Clipped, subtitled, spliced into endless loops, it was everywhere.
"—the most savage debate moment of the decade," chirped one morning anchor, her smile half-shocked, half-delighted.
"This wasn't politics, this was theater," another analyst declared. "And the audience loved every second of it."
On social media, hashtags bloomed like weeds: #MarquezVsHale, #NeverEverMarriage, #PoliticalDivorce. Memes painted Elena and Adrian in gladiator armor, boxing rings, even wedding gowns with captions like 'Til never do us part.'
Adrian's father, Senator Charles Hale, sat stiffly in his leather chair, the television light casting hard shadows across his face. "You embarrassed the family," he growled at his son, not looking away from the screen. "You turned a policy debate into a circus."
Adrian lounged in the corner of the office, arms crossed, feigning indifference. "The circus was already there, Father. I just gave them a better show."
Meanwhile, across the city, Elena sat at her kitchen table with her brother Murad, staring at her laptop in horror. Each refresh brought new headlines, new jokes, new videos with millions of views.
"You've gone viral," Murad muttered, rubbing his temples. "For all the wrong reasons."
Elena dropped her head into her hands. "I'm finished. No one's going to take me seriously after this."
But Victor Armand was smiling.
He watched the clips from his office, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked neatly back, his suit as sharp as the gleam in his eyes. Where others saw scandal, Victor saw strategy.
"Perfect," he murmured, shutting the laptop. "Absolutely perfect."
The conference room smelled faintly of polished wood and sharp coffee, the kind meant to keep tempers steady but failing miserably.
On one side of the long table sat Adrian, his father beside him, posture rigid and unforgiving. On the other, Elena, with Murad at her shoulder, her arms crossed so tightly it looked like she might crack her own ribs.
At the head of the table, Victor Armand was the only one smiling.
He tapped a folder against the polished surface, letting the silence stretch until the tension was nearly unbearable. Then, smoothly, he began.
"You've both seen the coverage. The debate was not a policy exchange—it was blood sport. And the public loved it." His eyes gleamed. "But love turns fast. What's charming today becomes toxic tomorrow."
Elena bristled. "So what, we just crawl into hiding because the internet can't stop laughing?"
Victor's smile sharpened. "No. You own it. You control the narrative before it controls you. You give them a story so irresistible it drowns the scandal."
Adrian leaned back in his chair, jaw tight. "And what story would that be, Victor? That I propose marriage in the middle of a press conference? That we hold hands and pretend we don't want to strangle each other?"
"Exactly," Victor said, without missing a beat.
The room went still.
Elena blinked. "I'm sorry. What?"
Victor slid the folder open, revealing mock-up headlines, magazine covers with their faces side by side, smiling as if they hadn't been at each other's throats a night ago. Unity at Last, The End of Rivalry, A New Chapter.
"A marriage," Victor said softly, savoring the word. "A staged union between the heirs of two rival dynasties. The feud ends. The families reconcile. The media goes from scandal to fairy tale overnight."
Senator Hale's eyes narrowed. Murad swore under his breath.
Elena's voice rose. "This is absurd. You think I'm going to tie myself to him because Twitter thinks it's funny?"
Victor's gaze cut to her, sharp as a scalpel. "Not because Twitter thinks it's funny. Because if you don't, this moment will define you both. You'll be a meme, Elena, not a leader. And you—" he turned to Adrian, "—you'll look like a spoiled heir who can't keep his temper. But together…" His smile returned, snake-smooth. "…you'll be untouchable."
Adrian scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Untouchable? Or shackled to a nightmare in heels?"
Elena shot back instantly. "Better than being handcuffed to a walking ego in a suit."
The families shifted uncomfortably, but no one interrupted. Victor only leaned back, satisfied.
"You can scream all you like," he said, folding his hands. "But by tomorrow morning, this story will write itself—with or without your consent. The only question is whether you'll control it… or be destroyed by it."
The meeting adjourned with no decision, but the silence of their families spoke louder than words. Not one voice had risen to defend them.
Elena stormed down the marble hallway, heels striking like gunshots. Marisa hurried to catch up, her arms full of folders she'd nearly dropped in the chaos.
"This is insane," Elena hissed, shoving open the glass doors to her office. "Absolutely insane. They actually sat there and entertained it. My brother—my own brother—didn't say a word."
Marisa set the folders on the desk and leaned against it, arms folded. "Because he knows Victor's right. Public image is everything. You've seen the feeds—this is spreading like wildfire."
Elena ripped her blazer off, tossing it onto a chair. "So what? I should marry him to kill a meme?"
Marisa's tone softened, but her eyes stayed steady. "Not marry. Pretend. For show. For a year. That's all Victor's saying. A year of handshakes and smiles, then freedom."
Elena let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through her hair. "A year with Adrian Hale is a year in hell."
---
Across the city, Adrian's office looked like a storm had passed through. His aides hovered near the door, unsure whether to flee or stay. Adrian stood at the window, his tie loose, his hand clenched white around a tumbler of whiskey.
"They've lost their damn minds," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Marry her? Marry Elena Marquez? I'd rather —"
"Careful," one aide piped up nervously. "You already said that once, and it's still trending."
Adrian turned, glare sharp enough to cut glass. The aide shut up instantly.
His father's voice echoed in his head, calm but commanding: 'This is bigger than you. Don't be selfish.'
Adrian threw back the drink and slammed the empty glass onto the table. He felt caged. Trapped. And the worst part? He knew Victor was right.
---
The next evening, the trap closed.
A heavy oak door swung shut behind them, leaving Elena and Adrian alone in a private meeting room. No aides, no families—just the two of them and the low hum of the air conditioning.
For a moment, neither spoke. The silence stretched, thick and poisonous.
Finally, Adrian leaned against the table, arms crossed. "So. Our brilliant families want a circus. Guess we're the clowns."
Elena's laugh was sharp, humorless. "Clowns get paid. We get prison sentences."
He tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Come on, Marquez. A year of pretending I don't want to strangle you. Think you can manage?"
She stepped closer, eyes blazing. "Please. You couldn't even fake it if you tried."
The air between them crackled, every word layered with venom. They stood inches apart, glaring, neither willing to back down.
The silence after was dangerous.
The silence between them stretched like a drawn bowstring. Neither blinked, neither stepped back.
Adrian finally broke it, his voice low, mocking. "Alright, fine. Let's make this simple. One year. We play happy couple for the cameras, toast champagne, smile on command. Then we file the paperwork and forget this nightmare ever happened."
Elena's chin lifted, her glare sharpening. "No real marriage. No real feelings. Just business. Agreed."
Adrian's smirk deepened. "Trust me, feelings are the last thing I'm worried about."
She leaned in, close enough he could see the faint flecks of gold in her dark eyes. "Good. Because I'd rather kiss a live wire than you."
"Then this should be easy," he murmured, matching her stare.
For a moment, the air between them hummed with something unspoken—hatred so sharp it almost curved into something else. But neither acknowledged it.
Instead, Adrian straightened, extending a hand. "A deal, then?"
Elena glanced at it, her jaw tightening. She hated giving him the satisfaction. But slowly, she reached out and clasped his hand, her grip iron-strong.
"Don't think for a second," she said through clenched teeth, "that this makes us allies."
Adrian leaned in, voice low and dangerous. "Wouldn't dream of it, wife."
The door opened, breaking the tension. Victor stepped in, his smile wolfish. "Excellent. I'll have the press release drafted by morning. The world will believe in your love story by the weekend."
Neither Elena nor Adrian let go of the other's hand, both locked in a silent war of pressure, knuckles white.
It wasn't affection. It was battle.
And it was only the beginning.