Chapter 2: The Gifts and the Girls

When news of First Lady Song’s pregnancy arrived, Fairview Heights Estate came alive with anticipation. The kitchen buzzed like a Sunday brunch rush—someone burned toast, and the scent of coffee cut through the chatter. Even the landscaper paused his mower to catch the latest gossip from the porch. For a moment, the old house almost felt young again.

Grandma Carol received the presidential letter herself, her hands trembling with excitement. "This is wonderful news. I wonder if Her Ladyship is well?" She adjusted her glasses and held the envelope like it was spun gold. Her voice quivered—she’d waited a lifetime for something good from the White House.

The aide who delivered the letter was a young man in a sharp blue suit—Georgetown type, probably, the kind who still called his mother every Sunday. He smiled as he helped Grandma Carol up, smoothing his tie, maybe nervous, maybe just polite, but his eyes flicked to me like he knew a secret. "With the President by her side, Her Ladyship is doing very well."

"The First Lady is pregnant, and the President is over the moon. He also heard Her Ladyship mention all the young ladies here, so he’s sent plenty of gifts for the First Lady—and the girls can share them."

He gestured to the glossy boxes stacked on the sideboard, wrapping paper glinting in the sunlight. As he spoke, his gaze flickered over to me, so quickly it almost didn’t happen.

I stood in the corner, bone-tired. I hadn’t slept all night, and as soon as I returned, I was summoned to the parlor for the letter. Every muscle ached for a bed and a locked door.

The floor felt unstable beneath me. My dress—a hand-me-down from last Easter—itched at my skin, but nobody noticed. I kept my head down, grateful for the swirl of attention elsewhere. If I was lucky, I’d disappear into the wallpaper.

When the crowd dispersed, I trailed after them to the main hall.

The heavy oak doors creaked as we filed in. I moved with the others, careful to keep my smile polite and my distance measured.

Grandma Carol was still giddy, her laughter—raucous and high-pitched—echoing down the hallway. Even the family dog thumped his tail, and the staff smiled at her joy.

The truth was, Fairview Heights had seen better days. Only the First Lady—once just another daughter—could support the family. After years of childlessness, her pregnancy was a miracle. The old family photos in the sitting room seemed to glow with new hope, as if the estate was holding its breath, waiting for the future to arrive.

The legal wife stepped forward to flatter her. "Now that Her Ladyship is pregnant, if she has a son, the girls will have the First Lady for an aunt and a little boy for a cousin. Their marriages will go up a whole new level."

Her voice was honeyed, every syllable calculated. She patted my legitimate older sister’s hand, her bracelets jangling—a suburban symphony of ambition and pride. My sister’s eyes sparkled as she surveyed the gifts, already dreaming of what she’d claim.

I followed her gaze and saw the set of gold-inlaid gemstone hair combs, set with fine pearls, dazzling and radiant. The velvet-lined box looked like it belonged behind glass at Bergdorf Goodman, light scattering rainbows across the marble.

I’d seen it before, tucked away on Luke Harrison’s desk beside a crystal paperweight. Back then, the lights were low and the pearl gleamed softly. I’d wondered what kind of woman would ever wear something so exquisite.

He’d caught me staring and kissed me. "Silly girl, you act like you’ve never seen such treasures. I’ll give it to you later." His laughter was low and fond, making my cheeks burn hotter than whiskey.

Now, in a gesture meant to appease me, he sent the item—but I knew it wouldn’t end up in my hands.

Even here, the rules were clear: the best things flowed to legitimacy. The ache in my chest was old, familiar. As expected, the legal wife smiled as the combs were sent to my legitimate sister’s room. She teased, "The things your own aunt sends are naturally yours as the legitimate daughter. Why are you so eager?" The maids tittered. I pressed my lips together.

In the end, I took a few pearl hairpins and two boxes of blush back to my room. The blush was the kind you’d find at CVS, wedged between the clearance shampoo and the off-brand nail polish. I tried to be grateful, but bitterness tasted stronger than the fake cherry scent.

Janey, the only maid who knew the truth, hugged the box and complained on my behalf. "Man, Mrs. Song’s got some nerve... The President meant those gifts for you, but guess who walks away with the good stuff?"

Janey was from Detroit—sharp, loyal, and never one to hold back. She plopped down on my bed, box in her lap, her scowl pure attitude.

I rubbed my brow in silence, getting ready to sleep. I pressed my palm to my chest, as if I could stop the ache from spreading. Sleep was the only escape from the day’s indignities.

I never expected those hair combs. That kind of luxury belonged to someone else’s story, someone with a seat at the table.

Luke Harrison is the President. Could he really not have thought of these things? But I didn’t want to dwell. Sending it to the estate let him keep his hands clean—at least in public. The gesture was for his conscience, not mine. It was only to comfort his own heart.