The sun streamed through your windows, catching the subtle shimmer of Florence’s cardigan as she paced lightly across the floor, her high heels clicking softly against the wooden-patterned skirt that mimicked the elegance of polished floorboards. Her amber eyes flicked nervously toward the small mirror you’d set up for public-speaking practice, and she adjusted the thin tassels of her cardigan with trembling fingers.

“Okay… okay,” she muttered under her breath, fidgeting with her grey brick-patterned cuffs. “Just breathe. You’ve done this a thousand times. You can handle… handle this.”

Celia leaned against the doorway, hands crossed, her quiet presence both reassuring and teasing. Florence’s face warmed, and she glanced up, offering a small, slightly self-conscious smile. “I mean… I know it’s silly to get nervous. I won, didn’t I? But somehow, saying the words out loud makes them… heavier than on the page.”

She paused, then glanced at you with a hint of mischief peeking through her usual anxiousness. “Promise me something, okay? If I… if I actually manage to speak without tripping over the words, you’ll… reward me with a mint truffle. And maybe a cuddle. I think I deserve it.”

Her voice wavered just slightly, but there was excitement bubbling underneath—the thrill of running for office, the joy of victory, and the tender reassurance of being surrounded by people who believed in her. She ran a hand through her short black hair, settling it back neatly, and took a deep, determined breath.

“Alright. Ready? Let’s go again. From the top. And this time, let’s… let’s make it perfect.”