JENNIE'S POV.
I bolted upright.
Sunlight was already slicing through my curtains. My heart dropped.
“No. No, no, no—”
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. 7:43 AM.
My alarm. I missed my alarm.
“Leanne Jane!” I gasped, throwing the blanket off and nearly tripping over it as I rushed out of bed.
“Baby, wake up!”
It was her first day of first grade. Her first day. And I overslept. I stumbled into the hallway, hair a mess, shirt twisted, panic rising in my chest. I rushed to her room and opened the door. She was still asleep. Peaceful. Curled up with her stuffed bunny.
For a second, I just stood there. Because yes—I have a daughter.
Her name is Leanne Jane, but I call her LJ. She’s six years old. She has the softest cheeks, the brightest smile, and eyes that sometimes make my chest tighten for reasons I try not to think about too much.
“LJ, sweetheart.” I said gently, brushing her hair away from her forehead.
“Wake up. It’s your first day of school.”
Her little eyes fluttered open.
“Mommy?” She mumbled.
I smiled despite the chaos brewing in my head.
“Yes, baby. And we are very, very late.”
That did it. She shot up, suddenly excited, and I rushed toward the kitchen before time could run any faster than it already was. I tied my hair into a messy bun and started cooking breakfast— scrambled eggs, toasted bread, sliced strawberries. Simple. Fast. First-day-of-school worthy.
As I flipped the eggs, my mind drifted. It always does on mornings like this.
Six years ago, I didn’t imagine this life. Six years ago, I was just a girl celebrating a friend’s birthday at a crowded bar. Music loud. Lights flashing. Laughter echoing everywhere.
I remember drinking. Too much. Way too much. I remember telling myself I’d stop after one more glass. I didn’t.
The world started tilting. My vision blurred. My friends were still laughing somewhere behind me, but I needed to lie down. The bar had rooms upstairs for guests who needed to rest, and I paid for one before stumbling toward the hallway.
I barely remember walking straight. The floor felt uneven. My head was spinning. And then I almost fell. Strong arms caught me.
I remember blinking slowly, trying to focus. The person holding me was tall. Warm. Their steps weren’t exactly steady either—I could tell they’d been drinking too.
“Careful.” A low voice murmured.
We walked together down the corridor. Or maybe swayed would be more accurate. When we reached my door, I fumbled with the keycard and finally pushed it open.
The hallway light spilled inside. And that’s when I really looked. It was a woman. Sharp features. Dark hair. Eyes that seemed intense even through the blur of alcohol.
For a second, we just stared at each other. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was loneliness. Maybe it was the way she was looking at me like I was something fragile she didn’t want to break.
I don’t know what possessed me. But I leaned forward first. I kissed her. And she kissed me back. It was messy. Clumsy. Drunken. But it felt electric. Like the world had narrowed down to just that room.
I didn’t know her name. I didn’t ask. I wasn’t aware of anything beyond the heat of the moment—not even that she was intersex. I didn’t know anything about her at all. All I knew was that I didn’t want her to walk away.
That night became my first time. And, as it turned out, my last.
When I woke up the next morning, the other side of the bed was empty. Cold. She was gone. No note. No number. Nothing. Just the faint scent of perfume on the pillow and the dull ache between my legs reminding me it hadn’t been a dream.
I stared at the ceiling for a long time that morning. I didn’t even know who she was.
Weeks later, I found out I was pregnant. I remember sitting in the bathroom, holding the test with trembling hands. I was terrified. But when I told my parents, they didn’t yell. They didn’t turn away. They held me. They told me we would figure it out. They asked about the father. And I had nothing to give them. No name. No number. No memory clear enough to trace. Just a face I couldn’t forget.
They never pushed me after that. They accepted LJ the moment she was born. They visit us every week, bringing groceries, toys, homemade food. My daughter adores her grandparents.
And now, six years later, it’s just the two of us in this little house above my flower shop.
Well.
Three, if you count my stubborn peace lilies.
“Mommy! I can’t find my socks!” LJ shouted from her room. I snapped back to the present and laughed softly.
“I’m coming!”
I plated breakfast quickly and walked back down the hallway. As LJ sat at the table, swinging her little legs excitedly, I studied her face. Her smile. Her eyes.
Sometimes, when the light hits just right, I see someone else in them. Someone from a blurry night under neon lights. Someone whose name I still don’t know.
But I shake the thought away. Because that was six years ago. And this—this is my life now. My daughter. And our flower shop.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about being a mother, it’s that life doesn’t pause for your overthinking.
“Mommy, can I bring Mr. Bun-Bun to school?” LJ asked, holding her stuffed bunny like it was a passport to survival.
I smiled, wiping egg from the corner of her mouth.
“Only if Mr. Bun-Bun promises to behave during class.”
She nodded seriously.
“He will. He’s brave.”
“I know he is.”
After breakfast, the house turned into a battlefield of ribbons, hair ties, and last-minute reminders.
“Did you brush your teeth?”
“Yes!”
“Show me.”
She flashed a foamy grin.
“Good enough.” I laughed, helping her into her little cardigan.
I fixed her hair into two neat pigtails. She insisted on them because she said first graders with pigtails are “extra smart.” When she stood in front of the mirror, backpack on, shoes finally tied, I felt something tighten in my chest. She’s growing up. Too fast.
“Mommy?” She looked at me through the mirror.
“Are you going to cry?”
“No.” I scoffed dramatically.
“I am a strong, independent flower shop owner. I do not cry on first days of school.”
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
“You look like you will.”
I hugged her from behind instead. Maybe I would.
I drove her to school and it was filled with excited chatter. She talked about making friends, about wanting to sit near the window, about how she hopes her teacher is “nice but not too strict.”
When we arrived, the school gates were crowded with parents and children. I parked and walked her to the entrance, holding her small hand tightly. Too tightly.
“Mommy.” She giggled.
“You’re squeezing.”
“Sorry.”
We stopped in front of her classroom. I knelt down to her level and adjusted her backpack straps.
“Listen to your teacher. Be kind. If someone is mean, tell an adult. And don’t skip lunch.”
“I won’t skip lunch, Mommy.”
I kissed her forehead.
“Okay. Go.”
She took a few steps toward the door. Then she turned around and ran back to hug me again. My heart nearly exploded.
“I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you more, LJ.”
She disappeared inside.
I stood there for a moment longer than necessary.
Six years. Six years of doing this. And somehow, we’re okay. More than okay.
Back at the flower shop, I unlocked the door and inhaled the familiar scent of roses and eucalyptus.
My sanctuary.
“Morning, Jennie!” Rosé greeted from behind the counter. She’s been helping me at the shop for two years now, practically family at this point.
“You’re early.” I said.
“You look like you fought a war.”
“I did. It’s called first grade.”
She laughed.
“Ah. The battlefield.”
I tied on my apron and got to work, trimming stems and arranging bouquets. It was a normal day. Orders for anniversaries. A sympathy arrangement. A birthday bouquet.
Until the bell above the door chimed again. A man in a tailored suit stepped inside. Corporate. Definitely corporate.
“Good morning.” I greeted automatically.
“Are you the owner?”
“Yes.”
He handed me a sleek black envelope.
“We’re hosting a corporate event this weekend. A major one. We’d like your shop to handle all floral arrangements.”
My brows lifted slightly.
“What kind of event?”
“A presidential appointment ceremony.”
I blinked.
“President of what?”
“Manoban Enterprises.”
The name didn’t register immediately. It’s just another corporation, I told myself.
“It’s a high-profile event. Media will be present. We require elegance. Class. Discretion. The Chairman will be there as well as the CEO.”
Chaeyoung was practically vibrating beside me.
“I’ll need to see the venue and theme.” I said professionally.
“Of course. Our team will coordinate with you.”
He gave me the details and left as quickly as he came. When the door shut, Chaeyoung grabbed my arm.
“Jennie. Do you know how huge this is?”
“It’s just flowers.” I shrugged, though my heart was beating a little faster.
“It’s not just flowers. It’s exposure.”
I looked down at the black envelope again.
Presidential appointment. A major corporation.
Then, the rest of the morning settled into something familiar.
Chaeyoung hummed while wrapping a bouquet of white tulips. I was behind the counter trimming long-stemmed roses, carefully removing thorns one by one.
Snip. Turn. Snip. Routine.
Customers came and went. A husband buying apology flowers. A teenager ordering a single sunflower for his crush. An elderly woman who buys fresh daisies every Monday because they remind her of her youth. This is the kind of love I understand. Simple. Chosen. Gentle. The bell above the door chimed again. I didn’t look up immediately.
“Welcome to Petals & Bloom—”
I sighed before I even finished the sentence. Of course.
“Kai.” I muttered.
He stood there with his usual bright grin, hands in his pockets, like he hadn’t been rejected a hundred times already.
“Good morning, beautiful.” He said casually.
Chaeyoung smirked and disappeared into the back room, traitor.
“Kai.” I repeated flatly.
“What do you want today?”
“Coffee.” He replied immediately.
“I passed by that café you like. Thought maybe we could sit down together.”
“No.”
“How about Lunch?”
“No.”
“Dinner?”
“No.”
He chuckled like I was joking. I wasn’t.
Kai has been doing this for two years. Two. Whole. Years.
Ever since he first came into my shop to buy flowers for his sister’s graduation, he’s been persistent. Sweet. Patient. Annoyingly consistent. He asks me out every week. Sometimes every day. And every time, I say no.
“I’m not giving up, you know.” He said lightly, leaning against the counter.
“You should.” I replied, arranging the roses into a vase.
“You’re wasting your time.”
“Loving someone isn’t a waste of time.”
I froze for half a second. Then continued arranging.
“Kai, you don’t love me. You’re just persistent.”
He shook his head.
“I know you, Jennie. You’re strong. You take care of your daughter alone. You run this shop by yourself. You don’t let anyone in.”
“I let customers in.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
I avoided his gaze. He stepped closer.
“What if we start small?” He tried again.
“Coffee. Just coffee. No pressure.”
“No.”
“Lunch.”
“No.”
“Dinner.”
“No.”
He ran a hand through his hair, but he was still smiling. Then he said the one thing that made me look at him directly.
“What if we have dinner together with LJ?”
My jaw tightened.
“She likes me.” He continued.
“I bring her chocolates sometimes. She laughs at my jokes.”
I said nothing.
“I can take care of her too, you know.” He added gently.
“If you give me a chance. I promise I’ll treat her like my own.”
There it is. The condition. I slowly set the scissors down.
“Kai.” I said quietly.
“Don’t.”
“I’m serious. I can be there for both of you. You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“But you deserve someone.”
I looked at him steadily.
“And if I say yes—” I asked calmly.
“It’s because you’ll help me raise my daughter?”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“It is.”
He frowned slightly.
“If you really care about LJ—” I continued, my voice firm now.
“—Then care about her. Without conditions. Without expecting me to be your girlfriend in return.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but I didn’t stop.
“If you want to be in her life, do it because you genuinely want to. Not because you’re bargaining your way into mine.”
Silence settled between us. Kai’s smile faded, just a little.
“I’m not bargaining.” He said softly.
“It feels like you are.”
He looked down for a second before meeting my eyes again.
“I just—want a chance.”
“I can’t give you one.”
“Because of someone?” He asked.
My heart skipped.
“There is no ‘someone'.” I said quickly.
He searched my face.
“You’re still waiting for someone.” He said quietly. I forced a small, tight smile.
“I’m not waiting.”
But maybe a part of me is. For a face I remember. For a name I never knew. For answers that never came. Because if fate gives us a chance, if things are right, I want LJ to meet her mom and maybe, only maybe, we can be a family.
Kai straightened up.
“I’ll still come by tomorrow.” He said, attempting a light tone again.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
He walked toward the door, pausing before leaving.
“I mean it, Jennie. I’d take care of both of you.”
The bell chimed as he exited. I exhaled slowly. Chaeyoung peeked out from the back room.
“So, that went well.”
“Don’t.” I warned. She grinned.
“He’s not bad, you know.”
“I know.”
And that’s the problem. He’s kind. Patient. Stable. Everything a single mother should want.
But I want to focus on LJ. Give everything I have and my time to her.
The rest of the afternoon moved on like it always does. Orders. Payments. Deliveries. I busied myself with hydrangeas and peonies, letting the rhythm of work quiet my thoughts. Every time Kai’s words tried to replay in my head, I drowned them out with the sound of scissors cutting stems and paper crinkling around bouquets.
You deserve someone.
I shook it off. I don’t need someone. I have LJ. I have this shop. That’s enough.
By three in the afternoon, Rosé was labeling delivery tags while I finalized the design drafts for the corporate event. Elegant. Clean. White orchids with hints of deep green foliage. Nothing overly romantic. Strictly sophisticated.
“Jen.” Rosé said, glancing at the design sketch.
“This is big-league stuff.”
“It’s just flowers.” I repeated, though my heart did a tiny flip again. Before she could argue, the shop door flew open.
“Jennie!”
I nearly dropped a vase.
“Irene?!” I gasped.
There she was—perfectly styled as usual, heels clicking dramatically against my wooden floor, holding a tablet in one hand and pure chaos in the other.
“What are you doing here?” I laughed.
Yeji, who had just come in from a delivery, froze.
“Why do you look like you just won the lottery?”
“Better.” Irene beamed.
“We just secured the biggest event of the season.”
“Oh?” Rosé raised a brow.
“A presidential appointment ceremony for Manoban Enterprises this weekend.”
The scissors slipped from my fingers and clattered against the counter.
I slowly reached for the black envelope tucked under the register.
“Manoban Enterprises?” I repeated carefully.
“Yes!” Irene practically bounced.
“The new President reveal? Media? Investors? Huge, huge deal!”
I slid the envelope toward her. Her eyes scanned it. And widened.
“Wait.” She whispered.
“You too?”
Rosé leaned over Irene’s shoulder.
“No way.”
I nodded slowly.
“We’re handling the floral arrangements.”
There was a full second of silence. Then—
“We’re working the same event?!” Irene shrieked.
Rosé screamed. Yeji screamed. I ended up screaming too. The shop turned into chaos.
“Oh my God.” Irene laughed breathlessly.
“Do you know how insane this is? My team is handling full event planning—stage design, lighting, seating arrangements—everything.”
“And we’re doing the flowers.” Rosé added, eyes sparkling.
“We’re going to be in the same venue.” Yeji said dramatically.
“Rich people. Cameras. Fancy food.”
Irene grabbed my hands.
“Jennie. This is huge exposure for both of us.”
I couldn’t help but smile. The universe works in strange ways. Out of all the event planners and flower shops in the city…
Us. Together.
“I can’t believe this.” Rosé said, shaking her head.
“We deserve this.” Irene corrected confidently.
“We’ve worked for it.”
We spent the next hour talking over each other, planning colors, coordinating themes, matching floral palettes with stage lighting. Irene showed me the venue layout on her tablet—grand ballroom, massive chandeliers, elevated stage.
Elegant. Intimidating.
“Who’s the new President?” I asked casually. Irene shrugged.
“They’re keeping it confidential until the reveal. Big surprise moment.”
“Dramatic.” Rosé commented.
“Corporate people love drama.” Irene replied.I smirked.
“Clearly.”
We were still laughing when I glanced at the clock.
4:52 PM.
“Oh my God.” I gasped.
“I have to pick up LJ.”
“First day!” Rosé squealed.
“How was it?” Irene asked excitedly.
“I don’t know yet!” I grabbed my bag and keys.
“I overslept this morning, I cannot be late picking her up too.”
“Go, go!” Irene waved me off dramatically.
“We’ll finalize details tomorrow.”
I paused by the door, looking at my friends.
“I’m proud of us.” I said softly. They smiled.
“We’re just getting started.” Irene replied.
I stepped outside, locking the shop behind me, the late afternoon sun warm against my skin. My life feels steady. Predictable. Manageable.
A successful shop. Supportive friends. A daughter waiting for me at school, probably bursting with stories.
I got into my car and started the engine.
By the time I reached the school, the parking lot was already half full of parents. Some were standing outside their cars, checking their phones. Some were peeking toward the gate like it would magically open faster if they stared hard enough.
I parked and stepped out, smoothing down my blouse instinctively. Why am I nervous? It’s just pick-up time. The bell rang. The school gates opened.
And suddenly, children poured out like excited confetti. My eyes searched automatically. Black pigtails. Pink backpack. Bunny keychain.
There.
“Mommy!” LJ’s voice cut through the noise.
She ran toward me, almost tripping over her own shoes. I knelt just in time to catch her.
“How was it?” I asked immediately, brushing her hair away from her face.
“It was fun! My teacher is nice but a little strict. I made a friend. Her name is Mia. She likes crayons too.”
“That’s good.” I smiled.
“Did you eat lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Everything?”
“Most of it.”
I narrowed my eyes. She grinned. I stood up and held her hand as we walked towards the car.
“Did anyone cry?” I asked.
“A boy did.” She said seriously.
“But I didn’t. Because I’m brave.”
“Yes, you are.”
As we drove home, she kept talking—about the classroom, the chairs, the smell of new books. I listened to every word. Because these are the moments that matter.
When we reached home, she ran upstairs to change while I prepared a small snack.
The house felt warm. Peaceful. My phone buzzed on the counter. I glanced at it.
Irene:
“Meeting with Manoban team moved to Friday morning. We’ll send full details tonight.”
Manoban.
The name is starting to feel heavier. I typed back a quick reply and locked my phone.
“Mommy!” LJ called from upstairs.
“Can you help me with my homework?”
“Coming!”
I climbed the stairs and found her sitting cross-legged on her bed with a worksheet in front of her.
“Write three sentences about your family.” She read out loud slowly. She looked up at me.
“What should I write?”
I sat beside her.
“Well—” I smiled softly.
“You can write that you live with your mom.”
“And Grandma and Grandpa visit every week.” She added proudly.
“Yes.”
She began writing carefully in her neat six-year-old handwriting.
My name is Leanne Jane.
I live with my mommy.
She sells flowers and makes them pretty.
I swallowed.
“You forgot something.” She said suddenly.
“What?”
She tilted her head.
“My teacher said we can write about our daddy too.”
My heart paused. I kept my voice steady.
“You can write whatever you’re comfortable with, baby.”
She stared at the paper for a moment.
Then she wrote:
I don’t have a daddy but my mommy is enough.
I blinked quickly.
“Who told you that?” I asked softly. She shrugged.
“No one. It’s true.”
I pulled her into a hug before she could see my expression.
“You’re enough too.” I whispered.
More than enough.
Then dinner came. Fried rice, sliced cucumbers, and the leftover strawberries from breakfast. LJ insisted on setting the table herself tonight because, according to her, “first graders are responsible now.”
I let her.
She placed the spoons a little crooked, the napkins folded in strange shapes, but she looked so proud that I didn’t dare fix anything.
We ate while she told me more about her day—how her teacher wears glasses on a chain, how Mia laughs like a squeaky toy, how she wants a pink lunchbox instead of the yellow one.
I listened. Nodded. Smiled.
After dinner, I washed the dishes while she hummed from the living room.
Then bath time.
She splashed water everywhere, giggling as bubbles clung to her cheeks.
“Close your eyes.” I said gently while rinsing her hair.
She squeezed them shut dramatically. When I wrapped her in a towel, she smelled like baby soap and warmth. These moments. These are the ones I hold onto.
By the time she was in her pajamas, hair dried and brushed, she crawled into bed and patted the space beside her.
“Story time.”
I grabbed her favorite book and lay down next to her. She rested her head on my arm while I began reading softly.
The room was dim, only the small night lamp glowing on her bedside table. Halfway through the story, I felt her shift slightly.
“Mommy?”
“Hmm?”
She traced circles on the blanket with her tiny finger.
“Why don’t I have a daddy?”
There it is. My chest tightened. I knew this day would come. I just didn’t know it would feel like this. I closed the book gently and set it aside. I exhaled slowly, keeping my voice calm.
“Well…” I began softly.
“Some kids have a mommy and a daddy.”
She nodded.
“Some kids have only a mommy.”
She nodded again.
“And some kids have two mommies.”
Her brows furrowed slightly.
“Two?”
“Yes.”
I brushed her hair behind her ear.
“You know how families can look different? Like how Mia lives with her grandma? Or how your friend at daycare used to live with his aunt?”
She thought for a moment.
“Yeah.”
“Families aren’t all the same.” I continued gently.
“What makes a family isn’t just who lives in the house. It’s who loves you. Who takes care of you. Who chooses you every single day.”
She looked up at me carefully.
“So I have two mommies?”
My heart beat a little faster.
“Yes.” I said softly.
“You do.”
She blinked. Processing.
“One mommy is me.” I smiled. She smiled back.
“And the other mommy—is someone who helped bring you into this world.”
“Where is she?” LJ asked quietly. I swallowed gently.
“She doesn’t know about you.” I answered honestly, keeping my tone light enough for her little heart.
“But that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t care.”
“Is she far away?”
“Yes.”
“Does she have black hair like me?”
I smiled faintly.
“Yes.”
“Is she pretty?”
My breath caught for half a second.
“Yes.” I whispered.
“Very.”
LJ went quiet.
“Did she not want me?”
The question pierced straight through me. I cupped her cheek gently.
“Oh, sweetheart. No. It’s not like that.”
“Then why isn’t she here?”
I chose my words carefully.
“Sometimes grown-ups meet for a short time. And sometimes they don’t know how their lives will change later. She didn’t know about you, baby.”
LJ stared at the ceiling.
“So she’s not bad?”
“No.” I said firmly.
“She’s not bad.”
She turned back to me.
“I’m okay with one mommy.” She declared after a moment.
“You’re enough.”
My throat tightened.
“I’ll always be here.” I whispered.
She wrapped her small arms around my waist.
“And if I have two mommies–” She mumbled sleepily.
“—that means I’m extra lucky.”
A tear slipped from my eye before I could stop it.
“Yes.” I whispered against her hair.
“You are.”
Within minutes, her breathing evened out. She fell asleep in my arms.
The words lingered in the quiet room. Six years ago, I didn’t know the name of the woman who changed my life. I still don’t.
But one day—if fate ever brings her back—I don’t know what I’ll say.
I stayed beside her a little longer than usual. Watching her breathe. Watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
Sometimes I wonder about that night. Not with regret. Not exactly. But with questions.
Does she ever think about it? About me? About what could’ve happened? Does she even remember my face the way I remember hers?
I waited until LJ’s breathing turned deep and steady before I carefully slipped out of her bed. Her small hand clutched the blanket where I had been.
I gently tucked it back around her and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.
“Extra lucky.” I whispered.
Then I walked out. The hallway felt longer tonight. Quieter. Heavier.
When I entered my room and closed the door behind me, the silence finally caught up. My chest tightened.
I sat at the edge of my bed, hands resting on my thighs, staring at nothing. She’s starting to ask. I knew she would.
Children grow. They become curious. They compare families. They notice differences.
I thought I had more time.
But tonight, when she asked why she didn’t have a daddy. When she asked if the other mommy was bad. When she asked if she didn’t want her.
That’s when it hit me. I don’t have answers. Not real ones. I don’t know her name. I don’t know where she is. I don’t know if she would’ve stayed.
Tears slipped down my face before I could stop them. I covered my mouth to keep from making a sound.
For six years, I’ve been strong.
I didn’t break when I found out I was pregnant. I didn’t break when I gave birth alone. I didn’t break when people whispered. I didn’t break when LJ asked about her other parent for the first time in preschool.
But tonight felt different. Because she’s old enough to understand now. Old enough to remember my answers. Old enough to question them.
“What am I going to do…” I whispered to the empty room.
The tears kept falling for a few more minutes.
I let them. Then I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand.
No.
I don’t get to fall apart. Not when she’s counting on me. I inhaled deeply. Exhaled slowly.
“I need to be strong.” I told myself quietly.
For her. Only for her.
I stood up and walked to my desk, opening my laptop. If I can’t control the past, I can at least focus on the present. Work.
I typed:
Manoban Enterprises.
Search.
The company profile appeared almost instantly. Fastest growing conglomerate in the country. Diversified industries—real estate, technology infrastructure, renewable energy, logistics, high-end hospitality. Their name was attached to skyscrapers, ports, luxury hotels, even smart city projects. Ambitious. Strategic. Aggressive growth.
Their branding was clean—black, silver, deep emerald accents. Minimalist. Powerful.
They weren’t a soft company. They were calculated. Precise. Respected.
I clicked on the leadership tab.
Chairman Marco Manoban — head of the Manoban family. Visionary. Built the empire from a mid-sized trading firm into a national powerhouse.
Below that:
Chief Executive Officer — Jackson Manoban, Eldest Son.
There were interviews, business features, awards. Then I searched for information about the upcoming President.
Nothing. No profile. No name. Just announcements about the reveal happening this weekend.
Strange. I scrolled further.
A short article mentioned that the Chairman has two heirs. The eldest son—currently CEO. And a second child. But there was no public information about the second heir.
No interviews. No photos. No corporate spotlight. Almost hidden.
“Maybe it’s the second child.” I murmured to myself.
If this event is a presidential appointment, it must be significant. Family succession. A shift in power. And they’re keeping it confidential for dramatic impact. I leaned back slightly. A company like this doesn’t do anything halfway.
Their floral design cannot be romantic. No soft pinks. No playful colors. It needs structure. Authority. Luxury without excess.
White orchids for elegance. Calla lilies for strength. Deep green foliage to balance the monochrome theme. Maybe touches of silver accents in the vases. Clean lines. Symmetry. No chaotic arrangements. Everything deliberate. Controlled. Just like them.
I grabbed my sketchbook and began drafting layouts. Stage framing arches—tall, structured installations flanking both sides of the platform.
Low-profile table centerpieces so they don’t block sightlines for media cameras. A dramatic but refined floral backdrop behind the presidential podium. Statement pieces at the entrance—something that says power the moment guests walk in.
As I sketched, my breathing slowly evened out. This is what I know. Flowers. Design. Building beauty out of uncertainty.
I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know how I’ll answer my daughter’s questions five years from now. But I do know how to arrange petals.
How to make something bloom in the right place.
And for now, that’s enough.
I closed my laptop past midnight. Tomorrow will be busy. Meeting preparations. School drop-offs. More questions, maybe.
I turned off the lights and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, it's just another fight for me, for us.
——
A/N:
Hi! New Story again. I hope you like it guys. 💓