It began with a headline.
At eight a.m. sharp, inboxes, feeds, and ticker tapes lit up with the same breaking alert:
"Unity at Last: Elena Marquez and Adrian Hale Announce Engagement."
News anchors who only days ago replayed their feud now leaned into their cameras, grinning like they'd been waiting for this twist.
"Just days after their infamous debate clash went viral, the heirs of the Hale and Marquez dynasties have shocked the nation by confirming what no one expected—a wedding."
Clips of the debate ran side by side with glossy press-release photos Victor's team had rushed out—Elena in a sleek black dress, Adrian in a tailored suit, their hands linked just enough to suggest affection.
"It's giving enemies-to-lovers," one commentator gushed.
"This isn't just a romance—it's history," another added, gesturing animatedly at a timeline of family feuds. "A reconciliation decades in the making."
On social media, the hashtags mutated overnight:
#NeverEverMarriage had morphed into #NeverSayNever.
#PoliticalDivorce became #PoliticalLoveStory.
And trending above them all: #HaleMarquezWedding.
Elena sat on her couch, hair unbrushed, coffee gone cold, staring at the television like it might burst into flames.
"This is a nightmare," she muttered.
Marisa perched at the edge of the armchair, scrolling furiously on her phone. "Correction: this is a very well-funded nightmare. Victor's fingerprints are all over this. He even planted those photos—where did he get those?"
"They weren't even taken the same day," Elena snapped. "That's from a conference last year. I wasn't even looking at him—I was glaring at the pastry table."
Marisa glanced up, smirking. "Well, you glared at the croissants like they'd betrayed you, so… close enough to love, apparently."
Elena groaned and buried her face in her hands.
---
Across town, Adrian was pacing his office, jaw tight, remote clutched like a weapon. His aides stood at a cautious distance.
"'Love story of the decade?'" he barked at the screen. "'A testament to unity?' This is insane."
One aide cleared his throat carefully. "Sir, public reaction is overwhelmingly positive. Your approval numbers are—well, unprecedented."
Adrian stopped pacing, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Approval numbers? I'm engaged to Elena Marquez, not the damn presidency."
The aide hesitated. "With respect, sir, the public doesn't see the difference."
Adrian muttered a curse under his breath, then hurled the remote onto the couch. Onscreen, the anchor smiled warmly at a graphic of two interlocked rings: From Rivals to Soulmates.
Adrian's lip curled. "Soulmates. God help us all."
---
And in his office across the city, Victor Armand leaned back in his chair, watching the coverage with the satisfaction of a man who'd just won a chess match in three moves.
"They hate each other," he murmured, eyes glittering. "Perfect. The world loves a good contradiction."
The studio was a battlefield disguised in white lights and roses.
An entire wall had been plastered with pastel backdrops—soft pinks, pale creams, even one obnoxiously floral sheet that looked like it belonged at a grandmother's tea party. In the center of it all, under the harsh glow of professional lights, stood Elena Marquez and Adrian Hale.
Side by side.
Holding hands.
The photographer, a wiry man in a turtleneck, clapped his hands with theatrical flourish. "Beautiful, beautiful! Yes, the nation's sweethearts. A symbol of love reborn!"
Elena's jaw ached from the smile she'd been forcing. "Sweethearts," she muttered through clenched teeth. "I'm going to kill him."
Adrian's grip on her hand tightened, his lips curved in a photo-perfect grin. "Careful, wife. The camera picks up murder in the eyes."
"Smile warmer," the photographer called, gesturing wildly. "Closer, closer! Pretend you adore each other. Perfect!"
Elena shifted just enough to press her shoulder against Adrian's chest, her nails digging sharply into the back of his hand where the photographer couldn't see.
Adrian didn't flinch. He leaned down, whispering so only she could hear. "You know, for someone who supposedly hates me, you're getting awfully comfortable."
She tilted her head up, smile radiant for the lens. "I'm imagining your tie around your throat, Hale. That's all that's keeping me from screaming."
Click. Click. Click.
The photographer squealed with delight. "Yes! That intensity—it's passion! Magnifique!"
Victor stood in the corner, hands clasped, watching like a conductor guiding a symphony. Every insult, every forced laugh was music to his ears.
"Now!" the photographer cried. "Wrap your arm around her waist, sir. Closer—touch her hair, yes! Intimacy sells!"
Elena froze. "Absolutely not."
"Yes," Adrian said at the exact same moment, smirking as he slid an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him before she could wriggle away.
Her gasp caught in her throat. The cameras flashed, capturing what the world would see as smoldering chemistry.
The photographer nearly swooned. "Exquisite! That fire between you—it leaps off the frame!"
Elena shoved Adrian's hand away as soon as the camera dropped. "Enjoying yourself?"
He leaned in, teeth flashing. "Immensely."
Click.
Even that glare made the cover of three magazines by morning.
The morning after the photoshoot, the glossy images were everywhere.
Elena flipped through a magazine someone had left on her desk—her own face staring back at her, glowing under the headline: "Love Conquers All: Marquez & Hale End Rivalry With Wedding Bells."
She wanted to shred it.
Mateo walked into her office without knocking, holding a stack of the same magazines like they were evidence in a trial. He slapped them onto her desk, pages fanning out with smiling photos of her wrapped in Adrian's arm.
"Explain this," he demanded.
Elena set the magazine down with deliberate calm. "It's a press campaign. What do you think it is?"
"I think it's bullshit," Mateo shot back. "You and Adrian Hale have spent years tearing each other apart in public, and now suddenly you're… engaged? What aren't you telling me?"
She looked away, out the window at the skyline. If she met his eyes, he'd see too much. "It's complicated."
"Complicated is an affair. Complicated is sneaking around. This—" Mateo jabbed a finger at a photo where Adrian was tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "—this is political theater. And you don't do theater unless you're hiding something."
Elena's jaw clenched. "Drop it, Mateo."
He stared at her, frustrated, but the finality in her tone shut him up. For now.
---
Across town, Adrian sat in his father's study, the air heavy with cigar smoke and disapproval.
Senator Hale held up one of the magazines, flipping through the photos with an arched brow. "You clean up well."
Adrian lounged in the armchair opposite, tie loosened, expression bored. "Glad to know my humiliation is aesthetically pleasing."
The Senator snapped the magazine shut, voice sharp. "Don't get clever. You've made your bed, now lie in it. The public adores this story—our rivals are choking on it. If you ruin this with one slip, Adrian, I won't shield you."
Adrian scoffed. "Because nothing says political strength like pimping your son out to the enemy."
The Senator's gaze hardened. "You think this is about you? This is bigger than us—bigger than her. You'll play your part, and you'll play it well. Or you'll regret it."
For a moment, father and son locked eyes, steel meeting steel. But it was Adrian who looked away first, grinding his teeth.
---
And in the quiet that followed, both Elena and Adrian sat in different corners of the city, staring at their glossy, picture-perfect smiles on magazine covers, each silently asking themselves the same question:
How much longer before the façade cracks?
The penthouse suite had been rented just for the "happy couple." A gesture, Victor called it. Privacy away from prying eyes.
Elena paced the length of the living room, heels clicking against polished marble. The city glowed outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, but she barely noticed.
"This is suffocating," she snapped. "A whole suite just so we can play house? He's turned us into reality TV."
Adrian lounged on the leather sofa, jacket tossed aside, a glass of scotch in his hand. His smirk was infuriatingly calm. "Relax, Marquez. You should be thanking him. You've never looked more beloved. Half the country thinks you're Juliet."
She spun on him, eyes flashing. "And you're Romeo? Don't flatter yourself. If this were a tragedy, I wouldn't hesitate to drink the poison first."
Adrian chuckled, sipping his drink. "Careful. Say lines like that on camera and people might think you're flirting."
Her voice sharpened. "No cameras here. Which means I can tell you exactly how this works."
He raised a brow, interested despite himself.
"No touching unless Victor forces it," she said, jabbing a finger at him. "No fake sweet talk unless the press is watching. And absolutely no crossing into my personal space when the doors are closed. Clear?"
Adrian set his glass down, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His eyes gleamed, sharp and teasing. "Crystal. But I should warn you, Marquez—your rules make it sound like you're worried. Jealous, even."
Her laugh was cold. "Of you? Please. The only thing I'm jealous of is anyone who doesn't have to share oxygen with you."
They were inches apart now, venom hanging thick between them, neither backing down. The silence was a dare.
Then Adrian leaned back slowly, smirk widening. "This is going to be fun."
Elena's jaw tightened, but she didn't move away. "For you maybe. For me, it's war."
And outside, the city screens blazed with their smiling faces, the world convinced they were madly in love—while inside, their first battle as an "engaged couple" had only just begun.