Don't make a fuss, Mr. President

Chapter 4

Moving day was a symphony of controlled chaos.

Boxes labeled *KITCHEN – FRAGILE* and *JOHN’S DINOSAURS – DO NOT TOUCH* cluttered the hallway. Linda directed two movers with the precision of a general, while John rode on a rolling office chair shouting, “Wheee! Spaceship!”

Patricia, ever the strategist, had already claimed the smaller bedroom. “It’s closer to Mom’s room,” she explained, as if that settled everything.

Mary smiled. She’d chosen this apartment not just for its proximity to work, but for its layout—two bedrooms sharing a wall with hers. No child would ever wake up alone again.

By sunset, the place felt lived-in. Photos of the twins (printed from Robert’s backup drive) adorned the walls. A secondhand piano sat in the corner—Patricia’s silent dream, now within reach. John’s toy bin overflowed with plastic animals, each given names and elaborate backstories.

That night, Mary cooked spaghetti. Burnt slightly, but the kids devoured it.

“You’re getting better,” Linda said, sipping tea at the table. “Last week, you boiled water for twenty minutes thinking it was rice.”

Mary groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

But Linda’s eyes twinkled. “You’re learning. That’s what matters.”

The next morning, Mary dropped the twins at the daycare Robert had recommended—secure, vetted, and staffed by women who’d once worked for royal families. Patricia clung to her hand until Mary whispered, “Be my spy. Report back if anyone tries to steal John’s snack.”

Patricia’s lips twitched. “Mission accepted.”

At the studio, the atmosphere had shifted.

No more whispers. No sideways glances. Instead, Richard from props greeted her with a bear hug. “Welcome back, kid! Heard you’re Robert’s right hand now. About damn time.”

Even Margaret offered a rare smile. “Your fabric samples for the Li residence? Perfect. Client cried happy tears.”

Mary floated through the day. She coordinated deliveries, revised floor plans, and even suggested a last-minute switch from marble to terrazzo for a celebrity client’s bathroom—saving the budget and earning a standing ovation in the design meeting.

At lunch, Barbara—her fiery fashion-designer friend—stormed in wearing leopard-print boots and a scowl.

“You ghosted me for *three weeks*!” she accused, plopping into the chair opposite. “I thought you’d been kidn*pped by aliens or worse—married William!”

Mary laughed. “Just amnesia and toddlers.”

Barbara’s anger melted. “Oh, honey.” She reached across the table, squeezing Mary’s hand. “You look… different. Stronger.”

“I feel it,” Mary admitted.

That afternoon, Robert summoned her to his office.

His space was sleek—glass desk, abstract art, a view of the Huangpu River glittering under the afternoon sun. He gestured for her to sit.

“You’re exceeding expectations,” he said, steepling his fingers. “Margaret says you caught a $20K billing error in the vendor contracts. Richard says you rebuilt the prop storage system in two days.”

Mary shrugged. “Someone had to.”

Robert leaned forward. “I have a proposition. Next month, we’re launching a spin-off: *Dream Home: Reimagined*. High-end renovations for elite clients. I want you as lead designer.”

Mary’s pulse spiked. “I’m not ready for that.”

“You are,” he said firmly. “You’ve got instinct, taste, and grit. And you understand what home really means—not just aesthetics, but *feeling*.”

He slid a folder across the desk. “First client: a penthouse in the Bund. Budget: unlimited. Deadline: six weeks.”

Mary opened it. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Marble fountains. A private elevator.

And in the corner of the reference photo—a man in a tailored suit, half-turned, his profile sharp enough to cut glass.

*James.*

Her stomach dropped.

Robert watched her closely. “Problem?”

She closed the folder. “No,” she said, voice steady. “No problem at all.”

Because this time, she wouldn’t run.

This time, she’d walk into his world—and redesign it on her terms.

That evening, she picked up the twins early. Took them to the park. Let John climb trees while Patricia practiced scales on a public piano.

As the sun dipped below the skyline, John tugged her sleeve. “Mommy, are you happy?”

She looked at her children—alive, loved, hers.

“Yes,” she said. “More than I ever thought possible.”

And for the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, she believed it.