She sat, crumpled, in the corner of her white sofa, sipping on a glass of red wine. It was 11:30am, too early to drink, but why stand on ceremony now? Her eyes were heavy and swollen from fatigue and tears. Her mind churned, her fingers quivered as she gripped the wine glass.

He’d won.

How could they have let this happen? Had they collectively lost their minds? After all he’d done, all he’d said…

She’d watched him make a fool of himself, secure in the knowledge that he would never get far. It was all a joke, a lark, a boost to his overinflated ego. He’d been digging his own grave from the very start, burying himself under his misogyny, his vitriol, his blatant racism. And then, incredulously, he’d started to inch ahead.

She’d sprung quietly into action then.

She’d found all those women and convinced them, through various anonymous channels of course, to come forward and share their stories with the world. She’d released those racy photos, letting the world question the propriety of the potential First Lady. She’d made the plagiarism of Michelle’s speech so blatant it was comical. And she’d dug up that incrimination video, released it to the media, and rested easier, then, when it seemed to have struck the right chord.

She’d thought she’d done enough. She’d done her best. But now she saw the truth: they would rather a baboon lead them through the fiery gates of Hell than have a woman lead them at all. Now the world would lay in ruins under his tiny, tiny hands.

Sometimes she wished she could just go home again. Sometimes she regretted the choices she’d made, the mess she’d gotten herself into. She’d been blinded by greed. She’d made the wrong decision. She couldn’t save herself, so she’d tried to save them all instead. But they didn’t want to be saved. And now they were as trapped as she was.

A single tear rolled down her cheek, a shiver ran its fingers along her spine. She shook her head, trying to snap out of the stunned stupor she’d been in since Wednesday. Like the rest of humanity, she’d have to pull herself together and make the best of a horrifying situation. Life goes on. There were things to do.

Like discuss the reception menu with the chef and have her assistant order flowers for the gala. And there was a PTA meeting this evening she should get the nanny ready for. Oh and she should tell that girl to do another batch of laundry, get the orange out of the new sheets. If only she could remember her name: Rosita or Conchita, something Mexican like that.

“Maria?” she called out tentatively into the wide open space of the lily white living room.

There was no response.

Melania sighed a deep and heavy sigh and poured herself another glass of wine.

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