Celestina stood at the podium in the grand press room, the cameras flashing relentlessly as journalists shouted over one another to ask their questions. She wore a pale blue blazer that fit snugly over her growing stomach, a symbol of both vulnerability and strength. She had prepared answers, but the barrage of inquiries was becoming overwhelming.

“Madam President,” a sharp voice cut through the chaos, belonging to a young journalist near the front, “many believe you’ve been prioritizing your personal safety over the nation’s recovery. Your increased security measures and recent absences from public events suggest a lack of commitment. What do you say to the people who feel abandoned?”

The room fell silent, all eyes on Celestina.

Her grip on the podium tightened. She could feel the heat rising to her face, her composure threatening to crack. “You want to question my priorities?” she said, her voice steady but edged with anger.

The journalist didn’t back down. “With all due respect, Madam President, the people want to know if you’re still focused on leading them or if you’re too consumed by—”

“Consumed?” Celestina snapped, cutting him off. Her voice rose, laced with fury. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to carry the weight of an entire nation while carrying a child? To face death threats every single day? Maybe you should walk a day in my shoes before you point fingers!”

The room erupted in murmurs as her outburst echoed through the hall.