"Look! Mommy is on TV!" the fair and plump child exclaims as he points at the gigantic television in the living room surrounded by antiques on shelves.
A tall man with exceptional features picks up and teases the kid with a gentle tap on the nose.
"As the mother of the nation, a lot of young women look up to you and admire the relationship you have with your husband. Would you care to tell us how it all started?"
The camera focused on a woman.
The camera panned in slowly, capturing her already seated with the poise of a woman who knew the world was watching. Dressed head to toe in ivory, she was a vision of sharp elegance—like a portrait from another era, brought vividly into the present. Her tailored jacket hugged her frame, each pearl button gleaming subtly under the natural sunlight. The skirt beneath flowed smoothly to her ankles, crisp and immaculate, her crossed legs revealing a flash of ivory heels.
A wide-brimmed white boater hat rested neatly on her head, its black ribbon and delicate netting casting a soft shadow over her cheekbones. Her long, raven-dark hair spilled in loose waves over one shoulder, a dramatic contrast against her pristine suit. But it was her eyes that held the power—clear green, impossibly vivid, like emeralds lit from within. They didn't dart or shift. They watched—calm, deliberate, devastating.
"I believe my husband would be elated to get a question like this. Be sure to ask him in an interview in the near future." The woman said laughing before she continued. "Well, it all started…"
—----
The Whitmore estate was quieter than usual. Aside from the sounds of pouring rain outside, shaking of leaves, and the flipping of a newspaper in the vast living room, no one else dared to make any noise.
The whole family was gathered in the living room, a rather rare occasion for the household. Bennett Whitmore, the head of the family sat on the sofa with his wife, Margaret Iarussi, on his right and his eldest son, Nathaniel Everret Whitmore, on his left.
The twin brothers next in line of succession sat on another sofa opposite Nathaniel's wife on velvet armchairs
One member of the family did not receive the grace of a proper seat and that was the young lady of the Whitmore estate.
Cecelia Arden Whitmore.
Words to describe her include stubborn and intelligent, quite a contrast to the frail and sickly description of her on the front page of the newspaper Bennett held in his hand.
Margaret could not take it anymore, watching her precious daughter kneeling on the cold hard floor, and tugged at the corner of her husband's sleeves.
"Dear, it has been an hour…why not consider-"
Before she could finish her sentence, Bennett slammed down the newspaper on the coffee table, shocking everyone but the girl kneeling with her head down.
"She made a mistake, let her atone for it, lest she does not learn her lesson and runs off again. Your coddling is what spoiled her!"
"Please calm down…"
"Do you understand the humiliation this family endured because she ran away from the wedding? Do you know the losses we suffered?"
"Father. Stop it. Us brothers have already paid for the losses, let our sister go."
Bennett's sharp gaze shifted towards his second son, Alden.
"Paid what? Paid for the losses..? Margaret, will you tell this boy to stop talking nonsense? Sure, you may have covered the loss, but what about the possibilities for future development that slipped through our hands? That is something immeasurable!"
"Father.." A meek voice came from the woman. She slowly lifted her head to reveal her bloodshot eyes and tired expression. "Don't blame my brothers. Hold me responsible. I will…"
Before she could continue, she collapsed.
Everyone but Bennett rushed to her side. Margaret pulled her onto her lap while Alden called out for someone to call the family doctor.
"Enough." Bennett stood up, grabbing his wooden cane, "I accept her back. She is once again a Whitmore. In five days, we will have a banquet to announce she is back. Since we said she is receiving treatment abroad, it would not be unusual if she miraculously recovered and is back home, right?"
Margaret lowered her head, her arms tightly wrapped around her unconscious daughter, "Thank you."
By the time Cecelia had regained consciousness, she was wrapped in a silk night gown, in a bed filled with soft pillows and a thick comforter. Her delicate eyelashes fluttered open, catching the attention of Margaret, sitting next to the bed.
The elder woman's posture was impeccable, her silver hair swept into an elegant chignon, not a strand out of place. A pair of fine pearl earrings gleamed at her ears, and though her tailored suit jacket had been removed and folded over the velvet armchair nearby, she still carried herself with the air of someone always ready to greet a guest of state.
"Ah," Margaret breathed, her voice composed but touched with relief. "She stirs."
Cecelia blinked slowly. The ceiling above her vaulted, cream-hued, crowned with gilded molding felt distant, unfamiliar. Light filtered in through the tall columns and heavy drapes of the open terrace. Beyond it, a view of manicured lawns and a glistening pond shimmered beneath a pitch black sky decorated with stars. The room smelled faintly of lavender, linen, and something older like cedarwood.
"Where…?" Cecelia's voice came out barely above a whisper.
Margaret reached for the silver tea tray beside her, lifting the porcelain soup bowl and offering it gently. "Drink. You'll feel stronger. And after that, I suggest we discuss what comes next. Because, my dear Cecelia, the house has been holding its breath waiting for you."
"Is father still…"
Margaret smiled as she stirred the chicken broth soup with a chirirenge.
"He will come around to it soon. You know how he is, stubborn as a mule."
Cecelia sat up and leaned back with a sigh, "I would hope so."