The Reinhardt estate was basking in the gentle blush of early spring. Sunlight kissed the pale stone of the mansion, and the sprawling gardens were awake with soft hues of blooming magnolias, pale roses, and trailing wisteria. Bees hummed lazily over the blossoms, and the air was rich with floral perfume and the distant echo of birdsong.
It was the perfect day for a luncheon, and Giselle Reinhardt had spared no detail.
The courtyard had been transformed into a vision of refinement. A long table, cloaked in cream linen with embroidered gold trim, stretched across the center. Crystal glassware caught the light like prisms. Ornate porcelain plates and cutlery glinted beside arrangements of fresh-cut tulips and peonies.
Every guest was greeted with a chilled glass of citrus spritzer by the estate staff—attired in pressed uniforms and moving like clockwork under Giselle's careful eye. The guest list was composed of the most influential women in Westdentia: politicians' wives, philanthropists, fashion icons, corporate CEOs, and the ever-enigmatic Michelle Smith.
Michelle arrived fashionably late, draped in a pale lavender silk dress that made her eyes glow an ethereal green-blue. Her red curls were pinned delicately at the nape of her neck, and a soft flush touched her cheeks. Her appearance was poised, but Giselle saw the guarded stillness in her gaze instantly.
"Michelle," Giselle called from across the table with a warm, knowing smile. "I was beginning to think you'd abandon me to the wolves."
Michelle laughed lightly as she took her seat beside her. "As if I would let you fend them off without me."
The chatter at the table was light and practiced, the air thick with the polite tension of status and curated civility. They discussed charity initiatives, spring fashion collections, and, of course, the upcoming Westdentia Spring Gala—the very social crown jewel of their world.
"Michelle," said Verena Elwick, a councilwoman known for her sharp suits and sharper tongue, "we've heard little about your plans for the Gala this year. I assume you'll be dazzling us as usual?"
All eyes turned.
Michelle's smile never faltered. "Oh, I prefer surprises, Verena. Besides, this year has already been full of unexpected developments."
A few women chuckled politely, though the glint of curiosity remained in their eyes. Giselle gently placed her hand over Michelle's under the table—a wordless gesture of solidarity.
The meal arrived in cascading courses: a delicate smoked salmon tartlet, spring pea soup in hand-painted cups, lamb medallions with lemon risotto, and finally, Giselle's pièce de résistance—a strawberry shortcake so perfect it drew a collective breath from the table.
Giselle stood briefly, raising her glass, the epitome of grace. "To spring, to new beginnings, and to the women who make Westdentia more than just powerful—they make it beautiful."
They toasted, and the moment passed like a silken breeze.
---
Later, as the guests filtered out and the staff quietly cleared away the last of the glasses, the golden afternoon folded into the soft blue of early evening. Michelle remained seated beside Giselle on a garden bench, their heels discarded, champagne flutes half-full, and the distant sound of birds still lingering.
"You held court like a queen," Michelle said, her tone lighter now that the crowd had dispersed.
"Darling, I *am* a queen," Giselle quipped, tossing her hair. "You, however, are far too composed. Something's different."
Michelle looked down at her lap, her fingers tightening slightly.
"Reginald and I... we found out last week. I'm four months pregnant."
Giselle froze, blinking. "You *what*?"
Michelle smiled, fragile but real. "I didn't want to say anything before I was sure. I thought it was the winter. Or stress. But the doctor confirmed it."
There was a brief, weightless silence.
Then Giselle threw her arms around her, pulling Michelle into a tight hug, laughing and tearing up all at once. "You're serious? You're *actually* having another baby?"
Michelle nodded into her friend's shoulder. "I know it's unexpected. And Samantha's finally doing better. Her health's improved so much we're thinking of enrolling her at Westdentia Academia."
Giselle pulled back, her eyes shining. "Oh, she would thrive there. And you—you'll have your hands full. Again."
"I'm scared," Michelle admitted. "But I'm also... happy. I think."
"That's the thing with motherhood," Giselle whispered. "It never gets easier. But somehow, we keep growing with them."
They sat in silence for a while, the kind only true friends could share—no need to fill it, just to be in it.
The sky dimmed, casting long shadows over the garden, and the first lanterns began to flicker on along the walkway. Giselle stood, offering her hand.
"Come," she said. "Let's toast properly inside."
Michelle grinned. "No more toasts today. Just tea."
"Fine," Giselle conceded. "Tea. With cake. And dancing. And a playlist of my choosing."
Michelle laughed as they disappeared into the house together, arms linked, voices trailing into the warm, lamp-lit hallways of the Reinhardt estate.
That night, there were no plans made, no strategies discussed. Just two women, once bound by status and social graces, now bound by shared secrets, motherhood, and sisterhood.
And the night, soft and full of promise, stretched ahead of them like spring itself.