Celestina sat at the head of the long conference table, her back stiff and her hand resting instinctively on her growing stomach. The baby was a constant reminder of both her vulnerability and her hope for the future, yet every day felt heavier than the last.

“Madam President,” one of her advisors began, shuffling through papers. “The public has raised concerns about the food aid program. They’re questioning why funds were allocated to agriculture instead of direct relief.”

Celestina’s head shot up, her exhaustion flaring into frustration. “Then they can question me while they eat!” she snapped. “Do they think fixing this mess happens overnight? Do they think food grows out of thin air?”

The room fell silent, her outburst echoing uncomfortably. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her hand gripping the edge of the table. “We’re doing the best we can. Remind the public that rebuilding takes time. And remind them where the real blame lies—at the feet of the last regime that gutted our nation.”

Her advisors exchanged wary glances but nodded in agreement.

Later that evening, Celestina sat alone in her room, the day’s events replaying in her mind. The protests outside the palace had grown louder, the crowds demanding immediate action for issues she couldn’t solve overnight. Her advisors had bombarded her with conflicting plans, each insisting theirs was the only way forward.

And then there was Dimitri.

Her chest tightened as she thought of him. She missed the comfort of his presence—the quiet moments when his calm words had steadied her—but the betrayal still stung. She couldn’t look at him without imagining his late-night conversations with Nivea, his words of encouragement meant for someone else.

She glanced at the empty space beside her on the bed, tears welling in her eyes. The hormones weren’t helping; they made every emotion feel overwhelming, every frustration amplified.

Why am I doing this alone? she thought bitterly.

But then she felt the baby kick, and her hand instinctively went to her stomach. She closed her eyes, letting the tears fall as she whispered, “For you. I’m doing this for you.”

The following day, Celestina summoned her chief of security to her office. The man entered briskly, his posture rigid and his expression serious.

“Madam President,” he said, bowing slightly.

“Sit,” Celestina said, motioning to the chair across from her.

As he settled in, she leaned forward, her tone firm. “I need additional security measures in place. Another layer of protection.”

The chief nodded, pulling out a notepad. “What exactly are you looking for, Madam President?”

Celestina’s eyes hardened. “I don’t care what it costs. I need to know that my child will be safe—always. Add more guards, increase surveillance around the palace, double-check every staff member. If anyone so much as breathes suspiciously, I want to know about it.”

The chief hesitated. “I understand your concerns, but these measures might make it difficult for the public to feel connected to you. Increased security can create a barrier—”

“A barrier is what I want,” Celestina interrupted sharply. “I’ve seen what’s out there. Assassination attempts, bomb threats… This isn’t about appearances. It’s about survival—for me and for my baby.”

The chief nodded, his expression grim. “Understood. I’ll implement the changes immediately.”

Outside the palace walls, the protests were becoming more volatile. Citizens demanded jobs, food, and accountability for the corruption that had left their country in shambles.

From her office window, Celestina could hear the chants: “Where is our future? Where is our president?”

The words cut deep, though she didn’t show it. She pressed her hand against the cool glass, watching as the protesters waved signs and shouted into the night.

Her advisors had warned her to stay out of public view for a while, at least until tensions cooled, but it felt like cowardice. She wanted to face her people, to reassure them that she was working tirelessly for their future. But with her pregnancy making her physically weaker, and the risks growing every day, she had to pick her battles.

Still, the guilt gnawed at her.

That night, as Celestina tried to focus on yet another stack of reports, a knock on the door startled her.

“Come in,” she said wearily.

A palace guard entered, holding a small envelope. “This was left for you, Madam President. No return address.”

Celestina’s brow furrowed as she took the envelope. The guard waited for further instructions, but she waved him off. “Thank you. I’ll handle it.”

When the door closed, she opened the envelope carefully, her heart sinking as she read the message inside:

“You’re building a future for a child who may never see it.”