In a gilded chamber aglow with flickering candlelight champagne flowers and 17th century art.. where laughter rose like the strains of an unseen violin, the shadows of ambition entwined with false mirth. Mika, in Maralago…her eyes gleaming with an ardor feigned yet persuasive, murmured to Trump, “You light up a room.” Her words, sweetly poisonous, danced on the air like a spider’s thread. Beside her, Joe leaned forward, his grin wide as a serpent’s coil, declaring, “When you open your mouth, it’s ratings heaven!” The champagne sparkled, Toast of Trump tower where they used to all meet as friends.. its effervescence a mocking toast to bygone alliances. Yet, as the mirage of camaraderie dissolved, a notebook lay askew, its scribbled schemes betraying sincerity, while Mika’s phone gleamed ominously—a harbinger of unseen whispers and truths concealed…their adoration of President Donald Trump
