Sissy Room

CHAPTER 5   The second practice of the day was a fast-paced 6 vs 6 game on a small field. Petra played against Kira's team—from the opening whistle, it was clear who would be celebrating victory today. The teams were uneven in skill to begin with, but Petra moved like someone learning the game for the first time. She arrived late to every pass, her first touch sent the ball bouncing away from her, and twice she drifted offside without realizing it. Her legs knew what to do, but the commands from her brain arrived seconds late, tangled in static. Kira, on the other hand, was everywhere. She scored three goals in the first ten minutes, added two assists, and each time she ran past Petra, she let her shoulder brush against Petra's—not hard enough to be a foul, just enough to say: I'm here. You're not. In the final seconds, Kira broke through the defense one more time. And then something shifted in Petra's eyes—a flicker of the old fire. She exploded forward, closed Kira's lead, and slid across the grass toward the ball just before Kira's shot. Her tackle was clean, perfect, and she redirected the ball past the goal. Kira collided with her, lost her balance, and fell hard, her hand flying to her back. "Beautiful, clean tackle! More of that, Petra!" Närpiölä shouted from the sidelines. Kira stayed on the ground for an extra second, her face hidden. When she stood up, her expression was calm—too calm. She didn't look at Petra. She walked to the sideline, picked up her water bottle, and drank slowly, her eyes fixed on something in the distance. The players walked to get water and catch their breath; the cool-down would be independent. Petra didn't join them. She climbed a narrow path to the top of a small hill, where a dark green bench sat sheltered by pines. She sat down and stared at her hands. They were still shaking. Or maybe they weren't. She couldn't tell anymore. ****** Lena had been following Petra from a distance. Now she carefully sat down at the other end of the bench. "You look like you ran a marathon without training," Lena said. "And I know what that looks like—my brother tried once." Petra didn't respond. Her breathing was too steady, too controlled—the kind of breathing someone does when they're trying not to feel anything. Lena pulled out a snack bar and tore the wrapper open. "Here. Eat." Petra stared at it. "Seriously. Just eat." Lena placed it in Petra's hand and closed her fingers around it. "Thanks," Petra said. Her voice came from somewhere far away. "Kira's been... intense lately," Lena said carefully. Petra didn’t answer. "Has she said something to you?" Lena asked. "No." Petra's voice came too fast. Lena studied her. Petra's eyes were focused on something invisible in the distance. "Okay. Just... she can be a lot. If you ever need to talk, my room's always open. Literally—I keep forgetting to lock it." "I never forget," Petra said. It wasn't a joke. It wasn't anything. Lena waited a moment longer, then stood and walked down the hill. She didn't look back. ****** Petra lay on her bedroom floor, staring at the smoke detector. Its red light flashed every minute. She tried to count the seconds between flashes, but kept losing track. Fifty-three. No, that was wrong. Start over. One. Two. Three— The door opened. Closed. Petra didn't move. She heard Kira's footsteps cross the room, felt her presence like a change in air pressure. Then Kira's shoes appeared in her field of vision. "On your feet," Kira said. Petra didn't move. Kira waited three seconds. Then: "I said. On. Your. Feet." Something in her voice made Petra's body respond before her brain could decide. She stood. Her legs felt unsteady. She kept her eyes on the smoke detector. "Good girl." Kira's voice was honey. "Now look at me." Petra's gaze shifted slowly. Kira stood close—too close—studying her with the cold attention of someone examining a specimen. "You dared to tackle me," Kira said. Her voice was almost admiring. "In front of everyone." Petra said nothing. "That was brave." Kira circled her slowly. "But a pet doesn't treat its owner that way. You just got a yellow card. Next offense, and I publish the video." Petra's hands hung at her sides. She didn't clench them. She didn't move. "You'd get in huge trouble for that," she said. Her voice was flat. Kira laughed. "Listen carefully, pet. I'm not the one in trouble. I'm not the one with everything to lose. Arms up." The command was sharp. Petra raised her arms. Kira grabbed the hem of her shirt and lifted it over her head. Petra stood there, bare-chested, arms still raised, waiting. "Lower." Her arms came down. Kira studied her like a sculptor examining marble—cold, assessing. Her fingers traced along Petra's ribs, ghosting over her skin. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of Petra's black running tights and pulled them down. Petra stepped out of them automatically, the way she'd learned to do as a child when her mother helped her dress. The thought made her stomach turn, but her body kept obeying. Kira's hands hesitated for a fraction of a second before she ripped Petra’s diaper off. Kira held it away from her body, her nose wrinkling at the smell. She didn't look aroused or excited. She looked like someone who had just touched something unclean and was trying not to show how much it bothered her. She dropped it on the floor and wiped her hands on her thighs. "Crawl to your cabinet." Petra didn't move. For three seconds, she held Kira's gaze. Then she looked away, lowered herself to her knees, and began to crawl. The floor was hard. Her knees found every uneven spot. Behind her, she heard Kira's soft intake of breath—surprise, maybe, or satisfaction. Petra focused on the cabinet. On counting. On not feeling. She picked up the key from the table, unlocked the cabinet, and reached inside. Her hand found an open package of diapers. "Put one in your mouth. Crawl back." The diaper was soft against her tongue. It tasted like paper and plastic and the faint lavender scent she usually found comforting. Now it made her want to gag. She crawled back, the meters stretching into kilometers, her body trembling so hard she thought she might fly apart. Kira didn't speak. She just watched. Her expression was hard to read—concentration, maybe, or the focus of someone completing a task they'd planned carefully. Petra reached her and stopped. She sat back on her heels, the diaper still in her mouth, and waited. Her eyes were empty. Her body was still. She had become a thing. Kira inhaled softly. For a moment, something flickered in her expression—uncertainty, perhaps, or a question she didn't want to ask herself. Then it was gone. "Good girl." She pulled the diaper from Petra's mouth. "Obedience isn't so hard, is it? Now lie on the bed. On your back." Petra rose and lay down. She stared at the ceiling. The smoke detector flashed. One. Two. Three. Kira opened the diaper. She had practiced this—watched videos, studied the technique. But her movements were stiff, clinical. She handled the diaper like it was a medical supply, something to be managed efficiently rather than touched. She slid it under Petra, folded the front over her stomach, and began fastening the tapes, her fingers careful not to brush against Petra's skin any more than necessary. "From now on, I change my pet's diapers. You don't touch them. You don't change them. You get one seven-minute bathroom break each day—I'll tell you when. The rest of the time, you wear what I give you. If you need a change, you ask. But I decide when you actually get one." She smoothed the front of the diaper with the back of her hand, avoiding direct contact. "I'm eco-friendly. We won't be wasting too many." She fastened the last tape, then leaned down and kissed Petra on the forehead. Her lips were dry, perfunctory—the kind of kiss you give a doll when you're done playing with it. "Good night, little slut." Her voice was flat. Then she was gone. Petra lay very still. She counted the flashes. One. Two. Three. When she reached sixty, she pressed the pillow against her face and screamed into it—a long, muffled sound that went on and on until her throat was raw. Then she stopped. She didn't cry. She didn't move. She just lay there, in her diaper, staring at the ceiling, waiting for whatever came next. ***** The summer day was turning to evening, but Sini was still sitting on the branch of a large oak, hidden by a green canopy of leaves. No one had come looking for her. No one ever did. Sini liked it here. The branch was wide enough to sit comfortably, and the leaves hid her completely. She had two notebooks with her—one for her manga, one for her diary. The black-covered diary looked official and boring, which was exactly what she wanted. No one would ever guess what was inside. She uncapped her pen and began to write. “I threw up in the cafeteria yesterday. The vomit was a funny color, so I took a picture and asked AI what it means. Apparently my soul type is fiery purple. No one else got sick, even though the feta cheese looked like Grandma's false teeth. They put me in quarantine—some old cleaning closet at the back of the building. No windows. No toilet. Great place for someone with a stomach bug. I watched anime on my phone until the battery died, then I left. No one noticed. No one ever notices. The adults here are useless. The head coach wants to be coaching a men's team. The volunteers just want to get away from their families. They sleep in their own building at the back—it smells like pizza and weed over there. I know because I walked past it once.  I talk sometimes to a guy named Tero. He does maintenance, but mostly he drinks coffee and plays on his DS. He has a dog and a wife and two kids. He tries to flirt with me. I told him I'm robosexual so he'd stop. He didn't get it. He still tries. I gave him my game login so he can collect steps for me. My exercise quota is full for now. This place is terrible—football all the time. But it's still better than pipe renovation. I wish I lived in a house with no pipes.  Earlier, I was in the oak tree near the parking lot. That's when I saw Kira. She was meeting a man—bald, thick neck, looked like a villain from an anime. He handed her a bag. She opened it to check the contents, and I saw something inside.  A collar. Black leather. I couldn't see what else was in the bag. But the way Kira smiled when she looked inside... it wasn't a nice smile.  Kira looked around to see if anyone was watching. She didn't see me. I'm like a ninja up here. A ninja always wins.  I don't know what it means. But I know it's not good. Petra has been strange lately—quiet, empty, like a character who's been put under a spell. Remember that manga I was reading? The one where the brother finally finds his sister, but she doesn't recognize him because of the amnesia curse? Petra looks like that. Like someone trapped inside herself, waiting to wake up.  And Kira... Kira has been watching her. Waiting.  I'm going to figure this out. A bad feeling is growing in my stomach, the same kind I get when the lighting in a room is wrong. When something is about to happen. I drew a picture of Kira and her bald villain standing in the parking lot. This manga will probably be called "The Weird Camp Where I Threw Up."  Sini closed her diary and looked toward the hotel. Room 74's window was dark. She thought about Petra, alone in that room, and about the collar in Kira's bag, and about the way Kira had smiled when she checked the contents. She thought about the brother in her manga, who searched for twelve years and finally found his sister—only to realize she didn't know who he was. The amnesia curse couldn't be broken. He had to start over, from the beginning, earning her trust one day at a time. Sini didn't know if Petra had a curse. But she knew something was wrong. She didn't know what to do with what she knew. But she knew one thing: she would keep watching. A ninja always watches. The sun set behind the trees, and Sini stayed in the oak, invisible, waiting.  

At DUNE, Sally steps into the center of the table like she’s done it her whole life, not performing wealth but quietly steering the night with an ease that makes everyone else relax. She lets the chef choose, brings the room into a shared rhythm, and even when a tipsy yacht acquaintance drifts in too close, she redirects him with warmth and a boundary so smooth it barely leaves a ripple. By morning, the glow of being “star of the night” collides with the unglamorous reality of a damp battle she didn’t win, and then with something bigger: a press release that turns her family into headlines and her into a line item the world feels entitled to interpret. But in the middle of praise, spectacle, and private progress, Sally finds a steadier kind of shine, the kind that doesn’t need applause to count.   Chapter 158 - Star of the night Jana was the surprise. She wore color—warm tones, carefully chosen, nothing loud. Her hair was in her usual small braids, but her expression was different. Open. Welcoming. The seriousness she usually carried had eased, replaced by something lighter. Sally noticed immediately and smiled. “Look at you,” Sally said quietly as they gathered. Jana laughed once. “Don’t get used to it.” The drive to The Ocean Club was short and easy. Conversation flowed without effort. Priya filled the space naturally, pointing out the last streaks of sun over the water. Franz listened more than he spoke. Joseline took in details, already cataloging them. Adam watched the road. At DUNE, they were shown to a table on the terrace. The sea stretched out beyond them, calm and darkening, the breeze steady but gentle. Sally waited until everyone stood around the table before choosing her seat. Not at the head. Not at the edge. She took the middle, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. By coincidence—or something that felt like it—Adam settled on one side of her, Theresa on the other. Sally glanced left, then right, amused. “My two marines,” she said lightly. Theresa gave a small smile. Adam inclined his head, courteous, unreadable. “If I start giving orders, stop me,” Sally added. Adam looked at her then, briefly. “Not my role tonight,” he said. “Good,” she replied. “I’m hosting.” Menus were opened. Chairs adjusted. The first glasses of water were poured. They sat—not as a team on duty, not as staff orbiting a principal, but as people sharing a table. And Sally, centered between calm and vigilance, rested her hands lightly on the linen and let the evening begin. -- The maître d’ approached with an ease that suggested long familiarity with tables like this one. The sommelier followed half a step behind, leather-bound list tucked under her arm. Both of them addressed Sally first, not because she was the youngest, but because she had already been quietly identified as the host. “Good evening,” the maître d’ said. “May I assist you with the menu?” Sally nodded, composed. Adrian’s voice flickered briefly in her memory—not instructions, just guidance, offered earlier with the confidence of someone who knew she would carry it well. “Yes,” she said. “We’ll share.” The maître d’ waited, attentive. “I’d like you to speak with the chef,” Sally continued. “Ask him to select the best seafood dishes for the table. Whatever is at its best tonight. Small plates to begin, then a few larger ones to share.” There was no hesitation in her voice. The maître d’ inclined his head, pleased. “Of course.” Sally glanced around the table. “Everyone here loves seafood,” she added lightly. “So if you think something works, please include it.” The maître d’ smiled. “I’ll let the chef enjoy himself.” As he stepped away, the sommelier leaned in slightly, lowering herself to Sally’s level without making a performance of it. “Would you like help with the wine?” Sally unlocked her phone and turned the screen toward her. “My father suggested this,” she said. “If you have it.” The sommelier scanned the name and her expression warmed. “It’s an Albariño from Galicia,” she said. “Excellent choice. Crisp, mineral, very clean. It will work beautifully with seafood.” “That was his thinking,” Sally said. “I’ll bring it chilled,” the sommelier replied. Before she stood, Sally added, “And for drinks—please let everyone choose what they’d like to start with.” She looked around the table as she spoke, inviting rather than directing. Priya was first. “Something citrus,” she said, cheerful. “Surprise me.” Franz chose something classic and restrained. Joseline followed, polite but decisive. Jana hesitated, then smiled and picked a cocktail she rarely ordered, emboldened by the tone of the evening. Even Adam ordered—a simple drink, neat, nothing decorative. When the sommelier turned back to Sally, she shook her head gently. “I’ll have sparkling water,” she said. “With lime, please.” The sommelier paused, just long enough to register the choice, then nodded without comment. “Very good.” As they walked away, the table felt subtly rearranged—not physically, but socially. Sally had made decisions, included everyone, and stepped back again without retreating. Theresa noticed. Adam noticed too. Sally rested her hands in her lap and looked out toward the darkening sea, the first trace of a smile touching her mouth as the evening found its rhythm. -- The first plates arrived quietly, set down and adjusted without ceremony. Grilled fish, delicate crudo, shellfish prepared simply. Nothing dramatic. Everything precise. The table leaned in almost instinctively. Priya was the first to speak, smiling as she reached for a shared dish. “This reminds me of food from the west coast of India,” she said. “Not the spices—just the way seafood is treated. Respectfully.” Sally looked up. “Did you spend much time there?” “Not growing up,” Priya said. “I was raised in London. But my parents took me back often. Goa, Kerala. Early mornings, fish markets, meals that lasted forever. This”—she gestured with her fork—“feels closer to that than to anything fancy.” Franz nodded. “Seafood tells you immediately if someone is trying too hard.” He took a bite, considered it, then added, “I trust Spanish seafood more than German. No offense to my education.” Sally laughed softly. “None taken.” “Andalusia especially,” Franz continued. “But Galicia is good too. Cold water. Clean flavor. Honest.” Sally’s expression warmed. “That’s why the Albariño works,” she said. “It doesn’t compete. It stays out of the way.” The comment landed easily. No one questioned how she knew. The wine in their glasses suddenly made more sense. Franz lifted his glass slightly. “And then there is Jerez,” he said. “Not the town—the wines. People think only of sherry, but they don’t understand the range. Fino, amontillado, oloroso. It’s history in liquid form.” “History tends to taste strong,” Theresa said. “Only if you rush it,” Franz replied. Adam had been quiet, listening more than eating. When Theresa asked him if he agreed, he nodded once. “Spain has a lot to offer,” he said. “People underestimate it.” That alone would have been enough. But then he added, almost casually, “I passed through Rota a few times. American base. Good food nearby.” Sally glanced at him, curious but careful. “And?” she prompted, gently. Adam hesitated, then surprised them. “What really got me wasn’t Spanish food,” he said. “It was Arab food. Iraq. Afghanistan. I wasn’t expecting that.” The table went still—not tense, just attentive. “I was blown away,” he continued. “Bread. Rice. Lamb. Simple things done right. Hospitality, even in places that had no reason to offer it.” No one rushed to respond. Theresa watched Sally, but Sally stayed present. That was when Franz spoke again, thoughtful now. “Oskar Weiss loved Andalusia,” he said. “He heard about Jerez through my family. Asked questions. Read. Visited.” Sally froze for half a second. She had been wondering if there was a connection. “My grandfather?” she asked. Franz nodded. “He recruited me later. But he was already curious. He had a way of following people’s roots.” Adam set his fork down. “He recruited me too,” he said. “From Blackwater.” The words settled heavily. Not dramatically—just firmly. Sally felt it again, that quiet chill of realizing how much of her grandfather existed beyond family stories. She didn’t speak immediately. She let the pause breathe. Then she smiled, just slightly, and reached for the serving spoon. “I think the chef underestimated us,” she said, glancing at the nearly empty plates. “We may need a second round.” Laughter returned, light and welcome. The tension dispersed without denial. As fresh dishes were cleared and new ones promised, the conversation shifted—naturally, deliberately—back into motion. Sally leaned forward, steady again, carrying with her the growing outline of a man she had never met, and the calm certainty that some stories were meant to be discovered slowly. -- The chef came out herself when the last plates were cleared. She was small—almost startlingly so—young, bright-eyed, her jacket sleeves pushed up as if she had forgotten they were there. She moved quickly, energy first, smile already forming before she reached the table. “I just wanted to say thank you,” she said, breathless but delighted. “You let us cook.” There was pride in it, but also relief. Sally stood instinctively. “We loved everything,” she said. “You made it feel… honest.” The chef laughed. “That’s exactly the word.” She glanced around the table, clearly impressed—not by money, but by attention. By the empty plates. By the way people had shared without hesitation. “You trusted us,” she said again, almost to herself. Before Sally could respond, the chef stepped forward and hugged her—quick, spontaneous, entirely uncalculated. It was over as fast as it began. “Thank you,” the chef said, stepping back, suddenly shy. “Really.” Sally smiled, a little surprised, a little touched. “Thank you for feeding us,” she replied. The chef waved once, already retreating toward the kitchen, buoyant as she went. As Sally sat back down, the table felt warmer somehow. Less like a restaurant. More like a place where something good had been exchanged. -- They were settling back into the rhythm of the evening when the interruption came. The man approached with the confidence of someone used to being welcomed everywhere. His voice arrived before he did, loud with good cheer, buoyed by wine and recognition. “Well look at this,” he said, grinning broadly. “I knew it. Sally Weiss.” He stopped directly beside the table, swaying just enough to make his wife’s hand tighten on his arm. She looked mortified, eyes already searching for an exit that had not yet opened. “We saw your parents on Saturday,” the man continued, undeterred. “Been on my yacht. Wonderful family.” He laughed, leaning closer. “You’ve got the look.” “Please—” his wife murmured. Sally stood. Not sharply. Smoothly, like someone rising to greet a guest who had arrived exactly where they were expected to stop. She turned first to the wife. “Good evening,” Sally said warmly. “I’m Sally.” The woman’s face softened instantly. “I’m so sorry,” she said, barely above a whisper. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Sally replied, her tone light, reassuring. “I’m hosting some friends tonight.” She turned then to the man, her smile still in place but narrower now—pleasant, guarded. “My parents aren’t here this evening,” she said. “But I’ll be glad to tell them you said hello.” The man blinked, still smiling, but the momentum had slowed. “Well of course,” he said, laughing again, though this time there was a note of self-awareness. “Just wanted to say—” “I hope you’ve had a lovely night,” Sally said gently, stepping back just enough to make the boundary visible. The wife seized the opening. “We have,” she said quickly. “Thank you. Truly.” She tugged at her husband’s sleeve, firmer now, guiding him toward the exit. He allowed himself to be steered away, still smiling, still talking, but already receding. The maître d’ appeared seamlessly at their side, hand light on the man’s elbow, presence calm and unintrusive. He murmured something polite, something final. Sally waited until they were gone before sitting back down. No one commented. Adam remained still. Theresa exhaled once, almost imperceptibly. The table settled again, the sea unchanged, the evening intact. -- The evening wound down without ceremony. Coffee arrived. A final dessert was shared. Conversation softened into fragments and pauses, the kind that signaled contentment rather than fatigue. The maître d’ checked in once more, discreet, satisfied that the table had returned fully to itself. Sally settled the bill quietly, a brief exchange near the edge of the terrace that drew no attention. When she returned, she thanked everyone simply, as if the night had unfolded exactly as planned. They rose together. Outside, the air was cooler now, the sea barely visible beyond the low lights. At the entrance, the group paused instinctively, reluctant to fracture the evening too quickly. A black Mercedes waited at the curb. Sally turned to the others. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I’m glad we did this.” Priya smiled, warm and unguarded. Franz inclined his head. Joseline reached out briefly, touching Sally’s arm with quiet affection. Theresa stayed close, eyes scanning without urgency. Adam opened the rear door of the white Toyota van parked just behind, already shifting back into logistics. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sally said. Adam nodded once. “Good night.” Theresa watched until Sally was safely seated in the Mercedes, the door closing with a soft, final sound. Only then did she turn toward the van. The vehicles pulled away in opposite directions—the Mercedes toward the villa along the dark curve of the road, the van back toward the lights of the resort. The night held. And with it, the sense that something had been carried well, and quietly set down. -- Sally knew before she even opened her eyes. There was a heaviness between her legs. Warm. Unmistakable. She lay still for a moment, staring at the pale ceiling of the Bahamian villa, listening to the faint hum of air conditioning and the distant rush of the ocean. No star today. She exhaled slowly. Last night had been perfect. Confident. Elegant. Controlled. This morning was… damp reality. She rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up, pressing her lips together. The routine had been careful. Bathroom. Wait. Focus. No rushing. But the mocktail had been generous, the sparkling water steady, and that one conspiratorial sip or two of Albariño Theresa had insisted she try had not exactly helped. “Cause and effect,” she muttered to herself. There was no drama in it. She was tempted to relax, procrastinate in the familiar warm bulk between her legs… But no. She showered, dressed for her run, and tied her shoes with the same steady determination she had used at Dune. If she couldn’t control the night yet, she could control the morning. The run helped. The rhythm steadied her. Sweat replaced frustration. By the time she returned to the villa, the sun was higher, the sea brighter, and her disappointment had thinned into something manageable. Business mode. At breakfast, scrambled eggs and toast sat between her and Jana at the kitchen island. Sarah moved quietly in the background, setting down coffee and a glass of juice. Jana didn’t bother with small talk. “You got a big fan,” she said, cutting into her fruit. Sally looked up mid-bite. “Fan?” “Adam.” Sally blinked. “Adam.” Jana nodded, calm. “He was surprised.” “That sounds ominous.” “It’s not,” Jana said. “He said you were composed. Natural. That you didn’t try to perform wealth. You hosted.” Sally stared at her plate for a second. “He said that?” “Word for word,” Jana replied. “And he approved of how you handled the yacht guy. No escalation. No retreat. You made him feel dismissed without being dismissed.” Sally felt her ears warm. “So you’ve been trading notes about me?” “Yup.” Jana took a sip of coffee. “Nightcap at the resort bar. You thought we’d go to sleep and keep our mouths shut?” Sally let out a soft laugh. “No. I guess not.” “Franz said you listen more than you speak,” Jana continued. “Priya said you command a room without announcing it. Joseline nearly cried because you thanked the chef like a human being.” Sally groaned softly. “That’s embarrassing.” “It’s leadership,” Jana corrected. Sally shook her head. “I was just trying not to mess up.” “That’s the point,” Jana said. “You weren’t trying to impress. You were trying to host. Big difference.” Sally leaned back on her stool, considering that. “Did you enjoy yourself?” Jana’s mouth curved slightly. “I did.” Theresa entered just then, tablet in hand, already half in work mode. She paused long enough to look at Sally. “Star of the night,” she said evenly. Sally frowned. “You too?” Theresa stepped closer, resting her knuckles lightly against the counter. “You shined, kiddo. And not because you sparkle. Because you stayed steady.” Sally looked down at her coffee. There it was. The contrast. Steady at dinner. Not steady at night. Theresa seemed to read the flicker in her face. “Different battles,” she said quietly. “Both count.” Sally looked up, grateful and slightly exposed all at once. “Thanks, Theresa.” Theresa gave her a small nod and moved toward the study where Adrian was already on a call. Jana watched Sally finish her toast. “Ready for History at eight?” she asked. Sally straightened. “Ready.” No star this morning. But no collapse either. And that, she decided, counted for something. -- The end of the day belonged to them. No staff. No calls. No schedules humming in the background. Just the three of them and the sound of water. Sally braved the pool again, though not for long. A few quiet laps, a pause at the edge, sunlight flickering over the surface. Then she climbed out, dried off quickly, and changed into black leggings and an oversized soft T-shirt. Comfortable. Barefoot. When she padded back into the living room, Adrian and Bridget were shoulder to shoulder on the sofa, Bridget’s tablet balanced between them. Their heads leaned close in quiet concentration. “Come check this out,” Adrian said, glancing up. “It’s going to be released tomorrow.” Sally folded herself onto the sofa beside them, close enough that her knee touched her mother’s thigh. Adrian handed her the tablet. She read.   FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE The Weiss Family Announces the Expectation of a Child The Weiss family wishes to share that Adrian Weiss and Bridget Pembroke-Weiss are expecting a baby later this summer. The news comes as a joyful and deeply personal surprise for the family, who have chosen to make this announcement at this moment with gratitude and humility. Both parents are in good health, and the pregnancy is progressing well. Adrian and Bridget are especially grateful for the warmth and kindness that have surrounded their family over the past year. They have been moved by the goodwill expressed by so many and wish to acknowledge it with sincere appreciation. Sally Weiss, who will become an older sister, shares fully in this happiness, and the family looks forward to welcoming this new life together. The Weiss family respectfully asks for privacy as they enjoy this season of anticipation. No further details will be shared at this time. With thanks for the continued consideration and support, Weiss Public Relations Office   Sally lowered the tablet slowly. “Wow,” she said. “It sounds… official.” “That’s how it’s supposed to sound,” Adrian replied. “Clean. Forward-looking. No room for speculation.” “It avoids drama,” Bridget added softly. Sally ran her thumb along the edge of the tablet. “It feels like something bigger than just… us.” “It is bigger than just us,” Adrian said calmly. “Whether we like it or not. And it’s good for business.” She turned to him. “What does business have to do with a baby?” “Stability,” he answered. “A family that looks united, grounded, growing—that signals long-term thinking. Investors read between the lines. So do partners. So do critics.” Bridget leaned back slightly, one hand resting over the gentle curve of her stomach. “People attach narratives to families like ours. Better to offer them a true one before they invent their own.” Sally absorbed that. “Unity is good for the foundation too,” Adrian continued. “A child doesn’t weaken your position. It strengthens the idea of continuity.” Sally blinked. “Continuity.” “Yes,” he said. “We are not a short story.” She looked back at the line that mentioned her. Sally Weiss, who will become an older sister… “Priya put my name in there,” she murmured. Bridget smiled. “Of course she did.” Sally looked up. “Why?” “Because you’re not a footnote,” Bridget said gently. “You’re part of the headline.” Silence settled for a moment, warm and heavy. “People have their eyes on us,” Sally said quietly. “Like the couple at Dune.” Bridget laughed softly. “The Rayfords.” “You know them?” Sally asked, surprised. “We had lunch on their yacht on Sunday,” Bridget said. “Irina texted me this afternoon. She was mortified. Said you were an angel.” Sally winced. “That’s exaggerated.” “She apologized for Brian,” Bridget continued. “Said he gets… extra friendly when he’s had too much to drink.” Sally looked down at her hands. “He wasn’t awful. Just loud.”   Adrian cleared his throat lightly. “Theresa told me what happened.” Sally glanced at him, bracing slightly. “She said you stood up calmly. Redirected him without embarrassing him. Protected your table without escalating.” Sally shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. “It felt better than just sitting there and letting him lean in. I didn’t want him to think we were… intimidated.” “You weren’t,” Adrian said simply. Bridget reached over and squeezed Sally’s arm. “And you were kind to them. That matters.” Sally leaned back into the sofa, exhaling slowly. “I didn’t feel kind,” she admitted. “I felt… alert.” “That’s not the opposite of kindness,” Adrian said. “It’s maturity.” Sally stared at the ocean through the open terrace doors. The horizon was soft gold now, the day nearly done. “So tomorrow,” she said quietly, “everyone knows.” “Yes,” Bridget answered. Sally handed the tablet back. “Okay,” she said. She didn’t sound overwhelmed. Or nervous. Just ready. Adrian slipped an arm around both of them, drawing them in without ceremony. For a moment, there were no press releases, no investors, no watchful eyes. Just a family on a sofa in the fading light, holding something new and fragile and strong all at once. -- BREAKING NEWS: Weiss Family Expecting a New Addition This Summer By National Desk -  January 28 In what is being called the most quietly joyful news of the new year, the Weiss family has confirmed they are expecting a baby in mid-to-late summer, sparking an immediate media flurry and waves of public affection. The announcement, delivered via the family’s public relations office, came with a serene family portrait taken shortly after New Year’s at the Weiss residence in Old Cutler Bay, Miami. In the image, Adrian Weiss and Bridget Pembroke-Weiss stand side by side, with 15-year-old Sally Weiss — already hailed as America’s favorite teenager — beaming in the foreground. Though the statement was brief, its implications reverberated far and wide.   A Family of Global Interest The Weiss family, long known for their staggering yet discreet fortune, made headlines last year following Sally’s survival of a devastating private jet crash. Since then, their public image has shifted from enigmatic elite to America’s most quietly beloved family. The news of a pregnancy — at what sources confirm is 12 weeks — has only intensified interest. While no further details have been released, observers have noted the significance of the moment. This will be the second child together for Adrian and Bridget, who married in an understated but elegant ceremony in Napa Valley last October.   Spotlight on Bridget: Pregnancy at 47 Much of the attention, understandably, has turned toward Bridget Weiss, who at 47 is entering her second trimester. While pregnancies over 45 are considered medically high-risk, experts point out that successful births in this age group are increasingly common with proper prenatal care and medical oversight. “There’s every reason to believe this will be a healthy and safe pregnancy,” says Dr. Monica Avery, a maternal-fetal medicine specialist at New York Presbyterian. “Especially with the kind of attentive, world-class care someone like Mrs. Weiss is likely to receive.” Though Bridget has long avoided the spotlight, her recent public appearances — notably at the Coral Gables café — reveal a healthy, elegant woman who appears to be enjoying this chapter with quiet joy.   Sally’s Evolving Role The announcement also underscores the remarkable arc of Sally Weiss, who at just fifteen is poised to become a big sister — and possibly a symbolic matriarch-in-the-making. Already dubbed the most watched teenager in America, Sally has handled global attention with quiet charm and a signature grace that evokes comparisons to figures like Audrey Hepburn or a young Queen Letizia. While Sally has never given a full press interview, her thoughtful online presence, focused on faith and personal insight, has drawn admiration far beyond her age. She has also captured the public imagination for her grounded lifestyle, famously learning to drive in a manual Ford Fiesta and being spotted browsing local stores without entourage or airs. With the Pembroke-Weiss Foundation’s Miami headquarters now officially active, and whispers of philanthropic expansion into Latin America gaining credibility, Sally’s role in the family’s future is clearly growing — personally and publicly.   A Family that Captures the Imagination With America, and perhaps the world, paying close attention, the Weiss family remains a unique case study in private wealth, public fascination, and modern legacy. Unlike the heavily orchestrated moves of European royalty or tech billionaires, the Weisses have opted for strategic restraint — a choice that seems only to magnify their mystique. Now, with the arrival of a new child on the horizon, the family adds another chapter to its unfolding story — one that is being watched, admired, and, perhaps most surprisingly, deeply loved. -- Sally woke slowly, aware first of light. Bahamas light. Thin gold through linen curtains. Then she became aware of something else. Dry. She lay still for a second, almost afraid to confirm it. Then she shifted slightly beneath the sheet. She slid her hand down to her diaper. Dry. Her lips parted into a quiet, disbelieving smile. “Full star,” she whispered to herself. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Katrina. Of course. Sally rolled onto her side and opened the message. A link. Followed by three dramatic emojis and:    “YOU ARE LITERALLY ROYALTY NOW.”   She tapped. Her face changed as she read. At first, amusement. A little exhale through her nose. Then stillness. She skimmed the tone, the phrases, the careful admiration wrapped in spectacle. Her parents’ names. The analysis. The way her mother’s age was treated like a headline. The way her own life was gently placed under a magnifying glass. “Symbolic matriarch-in-the-making?” she murmured. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or hide under the duvet. Her eyes softened at the description of her mother. That part she liked. Elegant. Joyful. Safe. But then her name again. America’s favorite teenager. She stared at that line longer than she meant to. “I’m just trying to pass German,” she muttered. Her bladder interrupted the moment. Not urgently. Just firmly. She blinked. Right. Full star did not mean infinite capacity. She sat up carefully, pushed the covers aside, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. There was something deeply grounding about what happened next. She stood. She crinkled softly into the bathroom, undoing the tapes as she went. She used the toilet. Like she should. No rush. No panic. No cleanup. Just normal. When she finished and washed her hands, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Barefaced. Bare legs. Hair messy. Fifteen. Not a headline. She smiled faintly. Full star. Her phone buzzed again.   Katrina: ARE YOU FAMOUS OR WHAT?   Sally picked it up, thumbs hovering for a second before she typed back:   Sally: Apparently. But I still have to do school at seven.   She set the phone down, exhaled slowly, and looked at herself once more. Dry morning. Public spectacle. Private progress. Both real. -- They decided—quietly—that nothing dramatic would follow the announcement. No hiding. No grand gestures. Just life. Which, in the Bahamas, looked suspiciously like a magazine spread. Mornings were school. Proper school. Jana at the kitchen island with her laptop and a clipboard, coffee black, hair braided neatly, tone efficient. “Sally. German composition due Friday. French oral next week. Otto asked for your outline by Thursday.” “Yes, ma’am,” Sally would reply, not looking up from her notes. No princess treatment at seven a.m. By eleven, she would be deep into essays, or on video with a tutor, sunlight stretching across the marble floors while Sarah quietly placed a glass of water beside her elbow. At one, siesta. Not optional. Her mother insisted. “You are growing. Your brain needs to breathe,” Bridget would say, closing the blinds halfway. Sally would protest half-heartedly, sit on the toilet, then sleep anyway.  Afternoons meant the pool. Short swims. Slow laps. Back floating, staring at the Bahamian sky like it owed her answers. The house felt lighter after the Zurich team left. Only Theresa and Jana remained—and even they had shifted tone. They’d moved into the guest wing and, despite working remotely, were treated like visiting royalty by Wesley and Ruth. “Miss Jana, fresh mango?” “Miss Hernandez, would you prefer tea or iced tea?” Jana tried to look unimpressed. Failed. Theresa accepted it with amused grace. “If I get used to this, I’m blaming you,” she told Sally. Evenings belonged to the three of them—Adrian, Bridget, Sally. Theresa and Jana waved them off from the foyer like older sisters. “Don’t wait up,” Sally would say dramatically. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Jana replied flatly. “That narrows nothing,” Theresa added dryly. They went out—to oceanfront restaurants, quiet terraces, candlelit tables where staff moved discreetly and menus were offered like sacred texts. Sally was, undeniably, pampered. Waiters recommended the best catch. Shop assistants brought out dresses “just to try.” Jewelry cases opened like treasure chests. Adrian would casually say, “If you like it, take it,” and Bridget would raise an eyebrow that said, Choose wisely. One evening, after being coaxed into yet another boutique and emerging with a silk scarf she absolutely did not need but suddenly adored, Sally sighed theatrically. “This is outrageous,” she said, adjusting her sunglasses. “I am being spoiled.” “You are being introduced,” Adrian corrected gently. “To what?” “To what life can look like if you handle responsibility well.” She glanced at him sideways. “That sounds suspiciously conditional.” He smiled. “Everything worth having is.” Later, seated at dinner overlooking the water, Bridget rested a hand on her stomach and watched her daughter thoughtfully. “This isn’t about luxury,” she said softly. “It’s about exposure. Travel. Conversation. Culture. Work that takes you places.” “Productivity with good lighting,” Sally murmured. Adrian laughed. “Exactly.” He leaned back, glancing toward the dark horizon. “Who knows. July. Skiing in New Zealand. Off-season slopes. Fewer crowds.” Sally blinked. “You’re serious.” “Why not?” he shrugged. “Winter in July. Meetings in Auckland. A few days in Queenstown. Work in the morning, mountains in the afternoon.” Bridget smiled. “We could take Oskar’s first passport photo before he’s born.” Sally shook her head slowly. “This is absurd.” “This is your life,” Adrian replied calmly. She looked out at the sea, at the way lantern light flickered against water. School. Foundation. Staff meetings. Press releases. Diapers and star charts and German essays. And skiing in New Zealand in July. No such thing as normal. She reached for her glass of sparkling water and lifted it slightly. “To productivity,” she said. “And perspective,” added Bridget. “And proper edge control on icy slopes,” Adrian finished. They clinked glasses. And somewhere between algebra homework and Albariño, between siesta and strategy meetings, Sally understood something quietly powerful: This wasn’t indulgence. It was preparation.

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Before I mess my diaper; I really don't know what I will have. This morning my poopie is soft, warm, and getting squishier by the minute sitting here. Sometimes my poopie is firm and I feel like I am sitting on warm softball that gets compressed and flatter when I sit down. Cleaning up this morning will be a little more labor intensive, but I can handle it.

I'm from South wales bridgend