The President's Wife

(The day people of Beloria believed) The sky was blooming above Virex, the capital of Beloria, was full of fireworks, as though the stars themselves had come to witness history. From the crowded streets of Lagosara down to the manicured boulevards of Maitama City, car horns blared in rhythm with drums, and green-and-white flags waved in celebration. Citizens poured into the streets, chanting the name of the man they believed would change their nation forever: “Belor! Belor! Belor!” Television anchors called it a “new era.” Radio hosts hailed him as “the people’s hope.” Social media exploded with selfies, hashtags, and declarations of faith in Darian Belor, the young, charming president-elect who promised to eradicate corruption, alleviate poverty, and restore hope to Beloria. Inside the grand ballroom of the Transcora Hotel, where party leaders, international observers, and high-ranking officials had gathered, champagne flowed freely. Cameras flashed constantly, capturing every grin, every handshake, every carefully staged gesture. And standing beside him — composed, radiant, fearless — was Samira Belor. She wore white. Pure, crisp, white. Not cream. Not silver. White (the color of hope, authority, and purpose) Her smile was effortless, serene. But her eyes scanned the room like a strategist surveying a battlefield. Around her, whispers circled. Corrupt colleagues leaned close to one another, plotting, nudging, whispering something into the newly elected president's ear. Lobbyists handed over subtle bribes disguised as “advice.” Senior officials, smiling for cameras, were already weighing how much they could manipulate the man they claimed to serve. But Samira looked unmoved. She seemed to fear nothing. Not the schemers. Not the whispers. Not the power-hungry men and women who thought a president could be swayed by charm or cash. Darian raised both hands as the chairman of the Independent Electoral Board announced the final results: “Having satisfied all legal requirements and received the highest number of valid votes, I hereby declare Darian Belor as the duly elected President of Beloria.” The hall erupted. Delegates hugged. Women dabbed at tears. Men shouted. Cameras clicked endlessly. Darian turned to Samira, his smile warm and unassuming. He placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered, “We did it.” She smiled back, soft and graceful. “Yes,” she replied quietly — though inside, her mind was already racing. She had known from the very beginning that the presidency was a dangerous stage. Corruption, greed, manipulation — all lurking just beneath the polished speeches. Would she be able to cope? Her mind running with questions. Tonight, she would let the world see a loving, devoted First Lady. But she also knew that behind every charming promise was a network of schemers trying to bend her husband to their will. Trying everything possible, means to influence her husband's mind. Darian stepped forward to address the nation. His voice was smooth, calm, confident, and full of warmth. “My fellow Belorians, today marks a new dawn for our country. Together, we will fight corruption, strengthen education, protect the vulnerable, and bring opportunity to every citizen. I promise you — this government will be of the people, by the people, and for the people.” The crowd roared. Cameras flashed. Journalists scribbled. Supporters cried. Samira’s smile never faltered. She remained poised, elegant, commanding without a word. She was the woman no one noticed at first — but everyone respected, whether they realized it or not. She moved closer to Darian as he continued speaking. Around them, advisers whispered, lobbyists schemed, colleagues plotted. Samira could feel it all, as if the room were a chessboard and each player a piece moving toward their selfish goals. She did not panic. She did not flinch. She observed. Calculated. Already planning. Darian, unaware of the silent power at his side, spoke as if nothing could touch him not even in his dream. But Samira knew the truth: Beloria’s future, the fate of every promise he made tonight, depended not only on him — but on the woman standing next to him. She could perceive the surroundings full of Harry and Clarry. And she knows it clearly she won't fail to stand with her husband in all situations. “I can do it” she mumbled. As the national anthem swelled, she placed her hand lightly on Darian’s arm, not for comfort, but for strength. The cameras captured the perfect image: a loving and supportive wife beside a promising and charismatic president. But Samira’s thoughts were sharper than any speech, more potent than any promise. Let them come, she thought. Let the schemers whisper, let the corrupt plot. I will not fear them. I will guide him, guard him, and — if necessary — change the course of this nation myself.. For now, the nation cheered. The streets erupted. Beloria believed it had chosen a savior. Only one woman in that grand ballroom knew the truth which is she, Samira. And she had already begun writing the new narrative.