Don't make a fuss, Mr. President

Chapter 5

The morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains of Mary’s modest apartment, casting soft golden stripes across the wooden floor. Patricia sat cross-legged at the tiny dining table, meticulously arranging cereal pieces into what looked suspiciously like a geometric proof. John, meanwhile, was attempting to climb onto her lap with a banana in hand, giggling as he missed and tumbled onto the cushioned rug.

Mary watched them from the kitchen counter, a mug of lukewarm tea cradled between her palms. Her fingers still trembled slightly—not from caffeine, but from the lingering echo of last night’s dream. Again, it had been *him*. James. Not the cold-eyed stranger from the charity gala, but the boy from years ago—the one who’d once silently handed her an umbrella during a downpour, only to vanish before she could thank him. The memory was hazy, wrapped in static, but the feeling remained: a strange mix of safety and dread.

She blinked it away. She had no time for ghosts. Not when two small lives depended on her waking up every day and pretending she knew exactly what she was doing.

The doorbell chimed.

Patricia’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing like a sentry on high alert. “Who is it?” she asked, voice low and serious beyond her four and a half years.

“It’s probably Mr. Robert,” Mary said, smoothing her cardigan. “He said he might stop by this morning.”

John scrambled to his feet. “Robbie!” he cheered, already halfway to the door.

Mary opened it to find Robert standing there, impeccably dressed in a dove-gray suit, holding two paper bags that smelled faintly of cinnamon and butter. “Good morning,” he said, smiling warmly. “I brought breakfast from that little bakery you mentioned. The one with the croissants shaped like swans?”

“You remembered,” Mary said, touched.

“I remember everything about this project,” he replied lightly, though his gaze lingered on her face a beat too long. He stepped inside, nodding politely to Patricia, who gave him a cautious nod in return. “And how are my two favorite critics today?”

“Hungry,” John declared, already reaching for a bag.

Robert chuckled and handed it over before turning to Mary. “I came to talk about your official role. If you’re ready.”

Her stomach fluttered. This was it—the lifeline she’d been praying for. But also, the first real step into a world she wasn’t sure she belonged in.

They sat at the table while the children ate, their chatter filling the silence that might have otherwise grown heavy. Robert pulled out a sleek tablet and slid it toward her. On the screen was a contract—*Assistant Creative Director, “Dream Home” Program*.

“The title’s a bit grand,” he admitted, “but I need someone I trust implicitly handling concept development, client liaison, and on-site coordination. You’ve got an eye, Mary. More than most designers I’ve worked with who charge triple your rate.”

She scanned the document. The salary listed made her breath catch. It wasn’t just enough to cover rent and daycare—it was enough to breathe. To save. To maybe, one day, afford therapy for herself… or even piano lessons for Patricia, who’d been eyeing the neighbor’s upright with quiet longing.

“And the hours?” she asked carefully. “I can’t be away from them past six.”

“Flexible,” Robert said without hesitation. “You’ll work remotely most days. Only required on set during shoots or client meetings. And if emergencies arise”—he glanced at John, who was now trying to balance a strawberry on his nose—“you bring them along. My crew adores them already.”

Mary’s throat tightened. It felt too good to be true. And yet… Robert had never given her reason not to trust him. Unlike *someone else*.

A shadow crossed her mind—James’s face at the gala, the way his voice had dropped to that dangerous, velvet growl when he’d said, *“You think you can disappear from me?”*

She pushed it down. “I accept,” she said firmly.

Robert’s smile widened. He extended his hand. “Welcome aboard, officially.”

As they shook, Patricia suddenly spoke up, her voice crisp. “Does this mean Mommy won’t have to work late anymore?”

Mary turned to her daughter, surprised. “How did you—?”

“You were crying last week,” Patricia said simply, pushing her empty bowl aside. “When you thought we were asleep. You said, ‘I can’t do this alone.’ But now you don’t have to.”

Mary’s eyes burned. She reached across the table and squeezed Patricia’s small hand. “No,” she whispered. “I don’t.”

Later that afternoon, after Robert left and the children were napping, Mary sat at her secondhand desk, staring at her new email inbox. Messages poured in—production schedules, mood board requests, vendor contacts. It was overwhelming, exhilarating, terrifying.

She opened a folder labeled *JAMES LIN – PROPERTY PORTFOLIO* and immediately closed it. Her finger hovered over the delete key. But she stopped herself. Not out of sentimentality. Out of caution. If James was involved in real estate—and given his empire, he undoubtedly was—she needed to know what projects overlapped with hers. Knowledge was armor.

Still, her hands shook as she typed her first official reply: *“Thank you for the opportunity. I’ll review the brief and send initial concepts by Friday.”*

She hit send.

And for the first time since waking up in that hospital room with two strangers calling her “Mommy,” Mary felt something flicker inside her chest—not just fear, but power.