Don't make a fuss, Mr. President

Chapter 7

The ballroom of the Grand Oriental Hotel shimmered like a sea of liquid gold. Crystal chandeliers cast prisms across silk-draped walls, and the air hummed with the low murmur of Shanghai’s elite—venture capitalists in bespoke tuxedos, socialites dripping in Cartier, and philanthropists whose names graced hospital wings and university halls.

Mary stood near the champagne fountain, her fingers trembling slightly against the stem of her glass. She wore a midnight-blue gown borrowed from the show’s wardrobe department—sleek, modest, but undeniably elegant. The fabric hugged her waist before flaring gently at the hips, and though she’d protested it was “too much,” Robert had insisted. “You’re not just my assistant tonight, Mary,” he’d said, adjusting the strap with a gentle smile. “You’re representing *Dream Home*. And yourself.”

She tried to believe him.

For weeks, she’d thrown herself into work—studying floor plans, sourcing sustainable materials, even sketching redesign concepts for the show’s upcoming eco-luxury episode. Robert had given her real responsibility, not just coffee runs or file sorting. And at home, Patricia and John had begun to trust her—not as a stranger who woke up claiming to be their mother, but as *Mom*. Last night, John had crawled into her bed during a thunderstorm, his small arms wrapped around her neck like an anchor. Patricia, ever watchful, had left a hand-drawn “Do Not Disturb” sign on her door the next morning.

She was building something real. Something safe.

“Smile,” Robert murmured beside her, offering his arm. “You’re doing brilliantly.”

She did. And for a moment, it felt genuine.

They moved through the crowd with practiced ease. Robert greeted donors with warmth and authority, introducing Mary as “my brilliant new design associate—the mind behind our zero-waste kitchen concept.” Heads turned. Not with pity, not with suspicion—but with interest. A gallery owner asked for her card. A tech CEO complimented her ear cuffs—tiny silver leaves that caught the light like dew.

For the first time since waking up in that hospital room, Mary felt… seen. Not as a victim, not as a ghost of someone else’s past, but as *herself*.

Then—

A chill.

It started at the base of her spine, sharp and sudden, like ice sliding beneath her skin. Her breath hitched. Without thinking, she turned.

Across the room, near the grand staircase, a man stood alone.

Tall. Impeccable in a black tuxedo that cost more than her annual salary. His posture was rigid, almost predatory, as if he’d been waiting. Watching.

*James.*

Her glass nearly slipped from her fingers. She caught it just in time, the champagne sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

He hadn’t seen her yet—or had he? His gaze swept the room, methodical, relentless. Then it paused. Locked.

Their eyes met.

Time didn’t stop. It *shattered*.

Memories—fragmented, violent—flashed behind her eyes: rain on a windshield, a raised voice, the smell of whiskey and regret. She couldn’t remember what he’d done, only that it had hurt enough to make her run. To disappear. To lose *years* of her life.

And now he was here.

“Mary?” Robert’s voice cut through the fog. “Are you alright?”

She forced her lips into a smile, brittle as porcelain. “Fine. Just… a little overwhelmed.”

But her pulse roared in her ears.

James began to move.

Not quickly. Not obviously. But with the quiet certainty of a man who owned every room he entered. He nodded at a passing acquaintance, exchanged a few words with a senator, all while never breaking eye contact with her.

*He knows.*

The thought hit her like a physical blow. He knew about the children. He’d found her.

Panic clawed up her throat. She wanted to bolt—to grab Robert’s arm and flee into the night, back to her tiny apartment where the locks were sturdy and the windows could be barred. But she couldn’t. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

So she stood taller. Lifted her chin.

Let him come.

---

Meanwhile, in the hotel’s private elevator, James adjusted his cufflinks with deliberate calm. His driver had called ten minutes ago: “Miss Mary is here, sir. With Mr. Robert.”

*Robert.*

The name tasted like ash. That pretty-boy producer with his soft hands and softer promises. James had seen the photos—Mary laughing at some studio event, Robert’s hand resting lightly on her shoulder. Protective. Possessive.

*As if she were his to protect.*

His jaw tightened.

He hadn’t planned to attend tonight. The gala was beneath his usual interests—charity theater for the nouveau riche. But the moment he heard she’d be there, dressed like a queen instead of the frightened girl he remembered, something primal had surged in his chest.

*She thinks she can erase me?*

No.

He stepped out onto the marble landing, the noise of the party swelling around him. And there she was—smaller than he remembered, yet somehow *more*. Her hair was longer, her posture less hunched. She looked… whole.

Except for the way her eyes widened when she saw him.

Good. Let her be afraid.

Let her remember who she belongs to.

He descended the stairs slowly, savoring the tension in her stance, the way her fingers whitened around her glass. He stopped three feet away. Close enough to see the faint tremor in her lower lip. Close enough to smell the jasmine perfume she’d always loved.

“Mary,” he said, voice low, smooth as velvet over steel.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Behind her, Robert approached, polite but wary. “Ah, Mr. Fu. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

James didn’t look at him. His gaze never left Mary’s face. “I hear you’ve been taking good care of her.”

The words were courteous. The tone was a threat.

Robert stiffened. “Mary is a valued member of my team. And a friend.”

“A friend,” James repeated, finally glancing at him. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “How… generous of you.”

Then he turned back to Mary. “You look well.”

She swallowed. “Thank you.”

“You’ve been avoiding my calls.”

“I didn’t know they were yours.”

A lie. They both knew it.

James leaned in, just slightly—enough that only she could hear the next words. “You have two children, Mary. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

Her breath caught.

Before she could respond, a waiter passed between them, offering canapés. The moment broke.

James straightened. “We’ll talk later.”

Then he walked away, leaving her standing there, cold despite the warmth of the room, the echo of his voice ringing in her skull like a death knell.

She had known this day would come.

She just hadn’t expected it to feel like the end of the world.