She was the story. He was supposed to be the strategy.
Camille:
I know how a story gets told. I’ve built careers out of controlling them.
So when a forty-second clip turns me into the internet’s latest cautionary tale, I know exactly what’s happening—and exactly how little I can do about it.
Then Roman Vale calls.
He’s watched the unedited footage. He’s counted the twenty seconds of stillness the edit cut out.
And he’s offering me a way back into the room: eight weeks, public appearances, a contract with an exit clause.
His campaign needs warmth. My reputation needs saving. The terms are clear. Strategic. Mutual. Survivable.
I’ve been chosen for my utility before. I know what that costs. So I set my conditions. I sign.
What I don’t plan for is the way Roman sees me—not the version I’ve built for public consumption, but the woman underneath it. What I don’t plan for is wanting to be seen that way.
The press is calling me the Meltdown Bride. His father is calling me a liability. And somewhere inside an arrangement designed to control a narrative, I’m starting to fall for the one man who could cost me everything.
Roman:
I have never said no to my father. Not once in all my years.
Then I watch the unedited footage of a woman the press is destroying, and I count the twenty seconds before she speaks—twenty seconds of the most disciplined public communication I’ve seen in this entire campaign cycle.
And I make the call.
The arrangement is supposed to be simple. Eight weeks. Mutual exit. A solution to the connection problem in my polling and the reputation problem in hers.
It works.
It works too well.
When my father issues his first public warning, I don’t end it. When the donor network starts to recoil, I don’t end it. And when he gives me forty-eight hours to choose between Camille and the seat my grandfather held for four terms and my father held for three, I drive to her brownstone with no strategy left.
Only the truth.
I am choosing her.
Not the optics. Not the campaign. Not the legacy.
Her.
I don’t know if I’ll win.
I know what I’m willing to lose.
A political fake relationship romance featuring:
Camille:
I know how a story gets told. I’ve built careers out of controlling them.
So when a forty-second clip turns me into the internet’s latest cautionary tale, I know exactly what’s happening—and exactly how little I can do about it.
Then Roman Vale calls.
He’s watched the unedited footage. He’s counted the twenty seconds of stillness the edit cut out.
And he’s offering me a way back into the room: eight weeks, public appearances, a contract with an exit clause.
His campaign needs warmth. My reputation needs saving. The terms are clear. Strategic. Mutual. Survivable.
I’ve been chosen for my utility before. I know what that costs. So I set my conditions. I sign.
What I don’t plan for is the way Roman sees me—not the version I’ve built for public consumption, but the woman underneath it. What I don’t plan for is wanting to be seen that way.
The press is calling me the Meltdown Bride. His father is calling me a liability. And somewhere inside an arrangement designed to control a narrative, I’m starting to fall for the one man who could cost me everything.
Roman:
I have never said no to my father. Not once in all my years.
Then I watch the unedited footage of a woman the press is destroying, and I count the twenty seconds before she speaks—twenty seconds of the most disciplined public communication I’ve seen in this entire campaign cycle.
And I make the call.
The arrangement is supposed to be simple. Eight weeks. Mutual exit. A solution to the connection problem in my polling and the reputation problem in hers.
It works.
It works too well.
When my father issues his first public warning, I don’t end it. When the donor network starts to recoil, I don’t end it. And when he gives me forty-eight hours to choose between Camille and the seat my grandfather held for four terms and my father held for three, I drive to her brownstone with no strategy left.
Only the truth.
I am choosing her.
Not the optics. Not the campaign. Not the legacy.
Her.
I don’t know if I’ll win.
I know what I’m willing to lose.
A political fake relationship romance featuring:
- Public scandal and reputation rehab
Campaign drama and forced proximity
Slow-burn tension
Family legacy pressure
A strategic arrangement that becomes impossible to fake
Genre: Romance
Used availability for Juli Hill's The Ground Holds