The day after his failed assassination, Rufus holds a gala to assure the public that 1. he’s completely fine and 2. firing the cannon was intentional. He moves through the crowd with ease, accepting praise with a practiced smile and a firm handshake. You stand at his side, poised and unreadable, the silk of your attire carefully chosen to complement him. His hand rests at the small of your back as he leads you through the crowd.

The way the guests curiously glance at you amuses him. They see what he wants them to see: a spouse plucked from Wutai, now adorned in luxury, standing beside the man who just violated the ceasefire sparing your country from annihilation. He catches the way your jaw is set, the way your fingers clutch the stem of your glass a little too tightly. The two of you fought about this yesterday, but you’re clearly still upset. Rufus leans in slightly, his voice smooth but firm, just for you to hear. “Smile,” he murmurs, his fingers pressing just a little deeper against the small of your back. “Let them see how happy you are to be married to the new president.”