The room, richly decorated but dimly lit, suddenly felt too small, the air too thick, as though it had grown heavier with every heartbeat. Shadows clung to the corners, twisting with the flicker of the candlelight. My pulse quickened, the BA-BUMP in my chest echoing like a drum in the silent space.
"WHAT. WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"
The shout was sharp, sudden, and it made me jerk. My arm snapped away instinctively, my hand trembling as if it had a mind of its own. I hadn't anticipated this, hadn't even imagined that my quiet, careful observation would escalate into something so shocking. Just moments ago, I'd been standing there, watching him slump over, his body heavy and loose, his face slack with drunken exhaustion. He seemed… harmless, completely oblivious to the world, his breathing deep and even.
He seems completely drunk.
My mind raced, scattering thoughts like shards of glass. This is my chance to leave. The thought was a lifeline, a thread I clung to. I took a cautious step back, the soft CLACK of my heels on the marble floor sounding impossibly loud in the tense stillness. The shadows seemed to lean closer, watching.
And then—
His hand shot out like lightning, wrapping around my wrist with a grip that was shockingly strong, burning against my skin.
"I wasn't expecting this."
The words barely formed in my mind as panic surged. My eyes widened, chest tightening. The grip was firm, almost painfully unyielding. My heart hammered faster—BA-BUMP, BA-BUMP—against my ribs, as if trying to escape along with me. He wasn't awake. Not really. His eyes remained closed, heavy lids veiling a consciousness that was barely present.
I should ask him my question later.
Then, almost as suddenly as it had come, his hand went completely limp, sliding away. I stumbled forward, caught off guard, my hair spilling into my face. My fingers brushed my cheek, trying to regain composure. The spot where he had touched me tingled, red and stinging. The heat lingered, radiating from the memory of his grasp. Was it his intoxication that made it burn? Or was it something else—something deeper, something I didn't want to name?
I took a step back, then another, needing space, needing air. The room felt like it was shifting, the glow chasing me, the shadows whispering.
"But… what was he trying to say just now?" I thought, the memory of his slurred words clawing at the edges of my mind. They had been incoherent, garbled by drink, but the force behind them had been undeniable. Something raw, something urgent, had slipped through the fog of his stupor. It sent a shiver down my spine, a warning I couldn't ignore.
I had to get out. Now.
The question could wait. I couldn't afford to let curiosity bind me to him in this state—not when he was unpredictable, not when he was dangerous in ways I couldn't yet name. I turned toward the exit, every sense alert, every nerve screaming. My footsteps echoed against the marble, steady but cautious. The door ahead seemed impossibly far, and the room seemed to contract around me with every passing second.
I would wait. I would watch. And I would strike only when I had the upper hand. But until then… I had to survive this night.
The man had been calling someone's name in his drunken slumber, the sound a low, slurred echo that seemed to linger in the dim corners of my memory. And the image of his hand gripping mine—hot, firm, almost impossibly so—refused to fade. The sensation was still there, a flash of bewildering heat in the cool, silent room, leaving me unsettled and acutely aware of every movement, every shadow. It was another mystery to file away about Sir Eiser, one I wasn't sure I wanted to fully understand.
🍽️ The Dinner Party Menu
The following morning, the day of the trip to the President's house, the manor was alive with quiet, purposeful activity. The sunlight spilled across the polished floors, reflecting off the silverware and crystal glasses laid out for inspection. It was going to be a long day, and the work began in earnest.
The vintage telephone on the desk rang sharply, slicing through the morning stillness.
"Hello?" I answered, keeping my tone crisp, professional, carefully neutral.
"Yes, hello. This is Sui, Head Maid of the manor. You may speak to me," a firm, courteous voice replied.
It was the chef from the President's house. "Hello, Ms. Sui. I'd like to discuss the menu for the dinner party with the President."
Perfect. This was exactly the kind of proactive communication I appreciated. "Yes, certainly," I replied. How considerate of them!
The chef continued smoothly, "I wanted to check if there are any allergies we should be aware of, or if there are any ingredients we should avoid."
I took a steadying breath, already recalling Lady Serena's precise preferences. Fish, not meat. No peaches. Small portions. My mind moved through the details like clockwork.
"Yes, I understand," I confirmed. "For the appetizer and the main course… Lady Serena prefers fish over meat, and Sir Eiser will be fine with steak."
"That sounds good," the chef noted appreciatively.
"And if you have any peaches, please make sure to leave them out. Lady Serena is allergic," I added firmly. "Everything else is fine." That was non-negotiable; I couldn't risk an oversight.
We moved on to the final course. "We're thinking of serving seasonal fruits and cake, with coffee or tea for dessert."
"If you could prepare tea for Lady Serena and unsweetened coffee for Sir Eiser, that would be lovely," I instructed. I added one last, crucial detail about Lady Serena's dining habits. "And Lady Serena has a small appetite, so she'll enjoy the meal much more if you serve her small portions."
The chef confirmed every detail, leaving nothing to chance. I hung up the phone, a quiet sense of satisfaction settling over me. The menu was settled, carefully tailored to each guest, each preference.
All that remained was the journey itself. And as I prepared, I couldn't shake the memory of Sir Eiser's hand, the heat of it lingering in my thoughts. It was a detail I would tuck away for now, a private reminder that even amidst the meticulous planning and polished appearances, the unexpected could always strike.
I completed the call with the President's chef, a quiet satisfaction settling over me. All of Lady Serena's needs had been carefully communicated, most importantly her allergy to peaches. It was a small victory, but one that mattered—a detail that could not be overlooked.
Turning my attention to the remaining staff, I straightened my posture, projecting the same calm authority that the manor expected of me.
"I need to go and take care of what Lady Serena asked of me," I said firmly to one of the junior maids, my tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. "Make sure to have everyone prepped for their journey as instructed, understood?"
The maid's response was immediate, her voice bright and eager. "Yes, Ms. Sui! There's nothing to worry about. Of course! I won't let my guard down!"
Her enthusiasm made me pause, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my lips despite the seriousness of my tasks. The sparkle in her eyes was almost disarming—a strange contrast to the gravity of my instructions.
"Why do you look so happy, though? HAHA," I asked, letting a hint of amusement creep into my otherwise stern voice.
She giggled, the sound light and infectious. "It's not every day that Sir Eiser, Lady Serena, and I leave the manor all at once!"
I shook my head, my own face remaining carefully composed. "Try not to get too excited about it. This is a business trip," I reminded her gently, though I couldn't deny her happiness was oddly contagious. One final nod, and I stepped away, focusing on the next set of tasks waiting for me.
🚗 Lady Serena's Journey
The large motorcade rolled up with a deep VROOM, engines rumbling like restrained beasts before settling into a steady hum. The journey to the President's house had begun. I settled into the back seat, feeling the weight of the past few days pressing down on my shoulders, a dull ache from long hours and constant vigilance.
The anniversary event is right around the corner, I thought, stifling a large YAWN. I worked on preparations until the early hours before getting up for this trip. I feel so exhausted.
A stack of documents lay in my hands, papers fluttering slightly in the gentle breeze drifting from the window. I would love to get some sleep… but I have to finish reading this before we arrive. The financial details, the contracts, the intricate schedules—they could not wait.
I shifted slightly in my seat, glancing over the document, but my gaze instinctively found him.
Eiser.
He sat across from me like nothing had happened the night before, perfectly composed in his tailored suit, looking out the window with the same calm detachment he always carried. His posture was immaculate, his expression unreadable. Not a trace of last night's intoxication, not a hint of the hand that had burned my wrist with its brief, unexpected grip.
I spent the morning replaying the memory over and over—his strong, sudden hold, the heat of his skin, the unintelligible name he had called in his stupor.
How can he seem so unaffected?
Was his constitution truly that robust? Or was he simply a master of masking everything beneath a polished exterior? My thoughts lingered, heavy and insistent, as I stole another silent GLANCE in his direction. The man sitting opposite me, calm and composed, held more secrets than I could yet fathom. And I had a creeping suspicion that this was only the beginning.
I gave one last GLANCE at Eiser. He sat there, his profile sharp and cold against the fading light streaming through the window. He went to work the next day like nothing had happened—answering all my questions, perfectly composed, meticulous as always. But there was something different today. A subtle shift, almost imperceptible, yet undeniable. He seemed more subdued, colder than usual, a quiet restraint that made his usual calm even more imposing.
I couldn't understand it. How could he appear so unaffected after having such a strong drink the night before?
I quickly chastised myself. Focus. This isn't my concern right now… I reminded myself, tightening my grip on the fluttering documents in my hands. The papers were dense, full of figures, deadlines, projections—details I had to memorize, digest, and prepare to discuss.
But the lack of sleep, coupled with the gentle SWING of the luxury car over smooth roads, worked against me like a silent, persuasive lullaby. My eyelids grew impossibly heavy, each blink longer than the last. The landscape outside blurred into a wash of golden-orange light, the late afternoon sky stretching endlessly.
My head began to NOD. Once… twice…
I fought it, digging my nails lightly into the papers, a feeble attempt to anchor myself. I would love to get some sleep… but I have to finish reading this before we arrive.
It was a losing battle. Exhaustion from the endless preparations for the anniversary event, the early start to the day, and the constant tension finally claimed me.
With a soft SLUMP, I surrendered to sleep, the papers slipping unnoticed onto my lap. My body leaned involuntarily toward the only solid presence beside me, a warm inevitability I hadn't anticipated.
I was asleep—my head resting lightly on Eiser's shoulder.
Eiser, who had been staring out the window in quiet contemplation, felt the sudden weight. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, a tiny twitch at his brow betraying his initial surprise before his face resumed its rigid neutrality.
He shifted just slightly, careful, deliberate, glancing down at me. His gaze took in the sight of my peaceful, deep sleep—the soft rise and fall of my chest, the gentle rhythm of my breathing, punctuated by tiny, almost inaudible ZZZs.
He didn't move. He simply observed, the taut muscles in his jaw and shoulders coiled in silent calculation. Then, with a precision that was all his own, he adjusted his posture just enough to support me comfortably, becoming an unwitting pillar of steadiness. The master of finance, the cold strategist, now silently holding space for someone else, unmoving, steadfast, and almost impossibly patient.
For the remainder of the drive, he remained so—an immovable presence, quiet, alert, yet protective in his own unspoken way. I slept on, oblivious to everything except the gentle security of his stillness beside me.
Against my shoulder. I didn't move. I simply looked down at her sleeping form. The gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest—ZZZ ZZZ—was the only soft sound in the otherwise quiet car.
What was she doing all night that made her this tired…?
The question was involuntary, a flicker of genuine curiosity cutting through my usual detachment. She looked completely vulnerable—soft and unguarded—a stark contrast to the sharp, controlled persona she presented every day.
Sigh.
Do I really need to tell her that she should get enough rest before an important meeting? Of course, I did. But I already knew the outcome. She'd be furious once she realized she'd been leaning on me.
I stayed still, a human cushion, tolerating her presence. I watched the tiny TWITCH near my eye settle as the moment stretched on, a silent testament to the clash of irritation and restraint within me.
Just as the car slowed for a turn, my gaze lingered on her face. For someone who's in a loveless marriage, you do seem to know Ms. Serena rather well.
The thought was unexpected, uninvited. I immediately dismissed it, forcing my focus back to the road ahead.
I was jolted awake by a sharp impact—BONK—as the car slowed suddenly, throwing my head forward and then back.
"AH?!" I exclaimed, disoriented, my vision swimming as the world tilted and SPUN SPIN SPIN around me.
"Huh? Did I… doze off?" My heart gave a loud THROB, panic surging as I realized the extent of my blunder. I had leaned. On him.
I quickly tried to right myself, adjusting my clothes, clearing my throat with a loud AHEM, desperate to reclaim some semblance of composure.
I must have looked ridiculous. My head swung like a pendulum, sliding and slumping as I attempted to sit upright, yet my body still betrayed me, leaning involuntarily toward the warmth I was trying to flee.
Eiser, stiff as a board, reached up and gave my shoulder a quick, firm TAP, pushing me just enough to prevent me from collapsing back onto him.
My cheeks burned hot with mortification. I couldn't look him in the eye. Not only had I fallen asleep, but I had used the man I was carefully avoiding as a pillow! The memory of him, patient and still, holding himself as I slept, only compounded my embarrassment.
I swallowed hard, trying to summon my dignity. This… this is going to be a long trip.
The car ride was finally over. I stepped out into the grand foyer of the President's estate, the polished marble floors gleaming under the crystal chandeliers. The air was cool and hummed with hushed formality, carrying the delicate scent of expensive flowers—lilies and orchids, subtly mingled with the faint perfume of the arriving guests. Serena was likely being escorted elsewhere to freshen up before the dinner, leaving the space between Eiser and me quiet, almost tense.
I watched him as he scanned the room, every movement controlled, precise. His posture, the tilt of his chin, the deliberate way he took in his surroundings—he exuded a power that was effortless and undeniable. He was striking in a way that demanded attention, even in a room full of influential figures.
Curiosity overrode my restraint. I decided to press him, just enough to observe the cracks behind the icy exterior.
"For someone who's in a loveless marriage," I began, keeping my voice low, almost conversational, "you do seem to know Ms. Serena rather well."
His striking blue eyes snapped to mine, a flicker of surprise—or was it calculation?—passing through them.
"…Me?" he asked, voice steady, controlled.
I smiled faintly. Reading people was my specialty, and Eiser, despite his cold facade, was remarkably transparent when it came to his wife.
"You're so good at reading other people, yet you don't know yourself well, do you?" I continued, stepping a fraction closer, letting my words brush against the edge of intimacy without overstepping. "I could tell just by watching you…"
He said nothing, remaining silent, his expression unreadable, yet alert.
"You also seem to enjoy her reactions when you tease her," I added, letting the observation hang in the air.
I noticed a slight tension in the muscles along his jaw—a minuscule tell, almost imperceptible, that betrayed a spark of amusement or challenge. Serena's presence clearly elicited more than he let on.
"What do you mean…?" His voice was low, cautious, as though testing the waters.
I leaned in just enough that only he could hear me, my words carrying an intimacy that skirted the edge of propriety. "There's more to Ms. Serena than meets the eye… and you have the ability to see who she really is."
I paused deliberately, letting the weight of the words settle on him like a stone in water.
"From what I can see," I continued, my tone soft but edged with warning, "your knack for reading people and figuring out what they're thinking… it will come back to bite you."
Eiser's eyes narrowed slightly, the blue depths calculating, processing the implication. The truth he had glimpsed in Serena—the side she hid, the fire behind her calm exterior—was dangerous. It threatened the delicate balance of his own carefully controlled world.
"So," he said slowly, skepticism curling his tone, "it will 'come back to bite me.' Will that really be the case?"
I offered nothing but a subtle shrug. "Knowing you, you won't be able to ignore that side of her."
I took a small STEP back, signaling the end of the conversation. My lips curved into the faintest curve of a smile. "You'll see it more clearly as time goes by."
The grand dinner party loomed ahead—an arena of polished smiles, whispered strategies, and hidden agendas. And in that space, between glances and subtle exchanges, the game of politics and personal secrets had just intensified.
Eiser pov
Absolutely! Here's an expanded version of your passage, keeping the tone introspective, tense, and character-driven while adding depth to the internal conflict and fascination:
---
I watched Serena, seeing in her the embodiment of everything I both valued and rejected in a subordinate.
"People who handle the tasks I give them with ease make me feel reassured and confident in their abilities," I mused, the thought almost a sigh. Predictability, competence, guaranteed success—these are the pillars of the structure I have painstakingly built. They are the walls I trust, the floors I walk on without fear of collapse. Everything neat, ordered, precise.
"That always makes me feel uncomfortable and uneasy."
It is too neat. Too absolute. It breeds a terrifying complacency. I have seen brilliance wither when the rules are followed too faithfully, when innovation is sacrificed at the altar of safety. Those who cling to structure are reliable, yes, but they are inert, lifeless engines. There is no spark. No fire.
"However, Serena always does things her own way, and she doesn't hesitate in the slightest. And even when her own methods end up failing, she never feels intimidated or discouraged."
That defiance—it is a variable I cannot eliminate, nor entirely trust. She is a risk factor on the ledger, a constant source of friction, and yet, against every instinct, I am drawn to it. Every misstep she makes seems to ricochet off her, leaving her intact, unshaken, almost invincible in her audacity.
"And it also irritates me immensely..."
Her very existence challenges my philosophy. She is the wild, unpredictable force to my rigid order, a living contradiction to everything I hold sacred in the pursuit of mastery and control. It is maddening. I cannot bend her. I cannot fully anticipate her. I cannot own her.
"...yet it also fascinates me."
A flicker of light behind the cloud. That irritating, bewildering resilience. It is what keeps her moving forward when any other person would have crumbled under the weight of their failures—or the weight of my expectations. She refuses the equation I try to impose upon her life. She twists it, reshapes it, defies it, and somehow, she still arrives at results.
"Maybe it's true."
The thought is a private confession, one I would never voice aloud. "It could be that I like your defiance, your failures, your relentless efforts… because they pique my interest."
She is a puzzle I cannot look away from, a difficult equation I am compelled to solve. And perhaps there is a dangerous truth in that: that the chaos she embodies is more potent than the sterile, flawless obedience I have cultivated elsewhere. Her sheer, unadulterated will is a form of power, one that bends circumstances to her favor simply through persistence, through refusal to break, through stubborn, chaotic momentum.
"Sometimes, you look like you would fail to achieve anything... yet you make things happen."
She bends the rules—not by calculation, but by an instinctual force that feels almost elemental. That is her genius, dangerous, wild, alive. It is untamed, frustrating, and yet, I cannot deny its allure. I do not need a tool that simply obeys; I need a force that achieves, that moves, that disrupts, even if I must endure the disorder she leaves in her wake.
And so I watch her. I watch her stumble, rise, defy, and persist. I watch her make a mess and turn it into progress. I watch her exist outside my control, and in that impossibility, I find a quiet, unspoken admiration. I cannot tame her. I do not wish to. Perhaps, in the chaos she brings, there is something I have been missing all along: the raw, unrefined heartbeat of possibility.
---
I observed her, cataloging the contradictions that defined her existence—a mesmerizing, maddening paradox.
"You look like you'll fail to control your emotions and cry every single day, yet you hold back your tears because you don't want to look weak." That struggle, that internal battle for control, is what truly draws my attention. She is perpetually on the brink, and yet she refuses to fall. There is a quiet, ferocious discipline beneath her apparent fragility, a stubborn defiance that refuses the comfort of surrender. It is as if she refuses to allow the world—or me—to see her broken.
"You always have your guard up around me, yet you also lean on my shoulder, totally defenseless, as you are doing now." It's an infuriating mix of antagonism and reliance, as if she trusts me implicitly despite every reason to distrust me. Her reliance unsettles me. I should feel power here, superiority—but instead, I feel drawn, caught in a gravity I cannot name.
The masks she wears are flawless, yet I see the girl underneath. "Sometimes, your eyes are as fierce as those of a wild beast... and sometimes, you look like an innocent child." A lioness in a lamb's wool. That is her essential nature. She is strength and vulnerability intertwined, a duality that defies the simplicity of expectation. Every glance, every subtle twitch betrays layers of thought, emotion, and raw, unfiltered intent.
"At home, you act like a defiant child, but outside, you seem like the rightful owner of serenity." She knows how to perform for the world, how to project an aura of calm and authority that commands respect. Yet in my presence, she drops the facade, revealing the raw, unpolished energy beneath. It is a dangerous honesty, one that both irritates and fascinates me. She is untamed here, and the untamed is always the hardest to resist observing.
"Even though you're inexperienced, you have the will and determination to take care of your responsibilities. And once I teach you how, you are committed to completing a task." Her commitment, once earned, is absolute. She doesn't need to be naturally gifted; her sheer will makes up for any deficit. She transforms effort into power, stubbornness into achievement, mistakes into lessons.
She has evolved before my eyes. "Instead of acting like a still and silent lake... you've become a fierce, restless ocean..." She is no longer predictable, no longer quiet. She is a force—capable of disruption, capable of creation. She moves through the world and leaves traces, even when she does not intend to.
"...And you keep showing your presence from time to time. It's irritating... annoying..."
It is irritating precisely because I cannot ignore it. She has become an uncontrollable variable, a force outside my equations, yet one that, against all logic, I am beginning to value. My careful order has gaps now, spaces she fills without permission. And yet, within those gaps, there is life, unpredictability, energy. I find myself unwilling to undo her presence, even if I cannot entirely tame it.
There is danger in her chaos, yes, but also a strange, magnetic vitality. She forces me to reconsider control, to measure patience and irritation against fascination. Perhaps that is the cruelest paradox of all: the one who should unsettle me most has begun to command my attention, and in that attention, a grudging admiration takes root, stubborn and unyielding, much like her.
I observed her face, serene in sleep, and allowed myself a moment of brutal honesty regarding my own motives.
"...Annoying... and vexing when you keep catching my eye." She is a constant distraction, a disturbance in the carefully ordered universe I maintain. Her presence is a variable I cannot eliminate, and yet, I find myself unwilling to do so.
I sought to rationalize this fixation, to box it and label it, minimizing the depth of the anomaly. "You're merely a source of amusement that distracts me from the tedium of my daily routine. That's why I've been watching you with interest. And that's all there is to it." A logical explanation, clean and emotionally sterile. She is a fascinating specimen, nothing more. A spark in the dark, a fire that I can observe without fear of being burned—at least, that is what I tell myself.
The scene abruptly shifted, jarring the quiet introspection. I found myself at a distance, observing the kitchen of the President's House, the atmosphere bright and bustling, a contrast that made the intensity of my thoughts feel heavier by comparison.
It was the President's new wife—a woman with a tight, calculating smile, savoring a peach that had no doubt been taken directly from the display intended for guests. She didn't possess Serena's chaotic fire; she had a different, more familiar kind of ambition: neat, polished, and self-serving.
SLURP
CRUNCH
She held the fruit, a deep red globe, close to her lips. "Hmm... it's so sweet and ripe." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes sharp and precise. "Now, does everyone know what these peaches are for? These were handpicked by the President himself to serve to our precious guests. Make sure you serve these at the dinner."
The irony was not lost on me. The wife, outwardly compliant and perfectly groomed, was indulging a petty, selfish desire, consuming a precious gift meant for others. She was the expected kind of weakness—predictable, venal, safe. She did not inspire fear, nor admiration; she inspired nothing but the quiet, dismissive boredom reserved for the conventional.
Serena, on the other hand, was the unexpected kind. A beautiful tempest, an ocean that would not be still. She was annoying, yes, but she carried a weight, a force that could not be ignored. She did not sneak peaches; she waged wars. Her defiance, her stubbornness, her relentless drive to act on her own terms—these were the qualities that set her apart, qualities that drew me in against all reason.
And that, I concluded, sinking back into the silence of my own private space, is the difference. The difference between a simple nuisance and a worthwhile interest. One is easily cataloged, contained, and forgotten; the other is alive, unpredictable, and dangerous—precisely the kind of force that cannot be overlooked, no matter how inconvenient or vexing it might be.
The final image lingered in my mind: the wife, orderly and compliant, versus Serena, unyielding and chaotic. One consumed her peach, the other consumed my attention. And in that quiet, private reckoning, I understood—my interest was no longer casual. It was deliberate, inescapable, and entirely beyond logic.
(The setting is still the brightly lit kitchen of the President's House, right after the President's new wife has sampled one of the prized peaches.)
The President's new wife—I still hadn't bothered to commit her name to memory—chewed slowly, savoring the sweetness. Her smile was tight, a professional effort that didn't quite reach her eyes, a mask perfected through endless repetition.
"Hmm... it's so sweet and ripe. Make sure you serve these at the dinner," she instructed, her voice deceptively light, each word carefully measured to assert her dominance while ensuring the staff understood their place.
She placed the half-eaten peach on the counter—the perfect fruit slightly damaged, a small display of her entitlement. Then, leaning in toward one of the nearby maids, she lowered her voice conspiratorially, yet loud enough for the entire kitchen to hear. It was theater, a subtle power play, a performance designed to cement her status and spread whispered judgments.
Her eyes roamed the remaining peaches with a predatory curiosity, calculating which morsels would convey obedience, which would be coveted. "I hear that our pretty guest tomorrow..." she began, letting the sentence dangle, leaving the staff to fill in the blank with speculation, judgment, and gossip. Every eye in the kitchen followed her lead, their imaginations spinning tales from her half-spoken insinuation.
They are discussing Serena, I thought, a sudden, cold sense of proprietorship settling over me. They see her as a topic of gossip, a pretty thing to be discussed over stolen peaches, an object to dissect and comment upon. They do not understand the sheer force she is. They will never understand.
She is my chaos. She is uncontainable, untamed, and dangerous—not the kind of person to be neatly cataloged, whispered about, or dismissed. And this woman, this President's wife, is merely a predictable annoyance, polished and petty, a veneer of control over trivial indulgences. Compared to Serena, she is nothing.
Serena bends rules with stubborn momentum. Serena commands attention without effort. Serena carries a storm in her chest that no careful smile can replicate, no whisper in the kitchen can diminish.
And in that realization, I sank a little deeper into the shadows of my observation, tasting satisfaction in my private, unshakable knowledge: she is not theirs to judge. She is mine to watch, to reckon with, and—if only in the small, dangerous corners of my mind—to respect.