After All

Diplomatic Dinner

The grand halls of Malacañang Palace were alive with the kind of quiet sophistication reserved for only the most exclusive of state events. Tonight, the opulence of the palace was on full display as the President of the Philippines, Nozomi Marino, hosted a state dinner in honor of the Emir of Kuwait, who was visiting for diplomatic talks. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, casting soft light over the polished floors and ornate furnishings, while the air hummed with the muted conversations of high-profile guests, diplomats, and politicians.

Amidst the elegance, a group of familiar faces moved through the reception area. Ryoma, Monica, Gen, and Kara walked together, dressed in their finest. The siblings had grown accustomed to attending events of this scale, but tonight felt different. Tonight, they were not just here as guests—they were part of the family that represented the highest office in the land.

As they passed through the beautifully decorated halls, their footsteps echoed softly in the vast space. Monica, elegant in a deep blue gown that shimmered under the lights, glanced up as they approached a large alcove just off the main hall. There, hanging side by side, were two state portraits: one of their grandfather, Karl Marino, and the other of Nozomi Marino, their aunt—the fifth parent and child pair to have served as Presidents of the Philippines.

The portraits, grand and dignified, captured the legacy of power that their family had carefully built over decades. Karl's portrait showed him in his signature pose: seated, strong, and commanding, with a serious expression that hinted at the weight of the office he once held. His eyes seemed to follow them, as if reminding them of the responsibility that came with being a Marino.

Beside him, Nozomi's portrait was equally striking. She stood tall, her expression one of quiet strength, dressed in the formal barong that had become a symbol of her presidency. The portrait exuded grace and power, her gaze steady as if she were already planning the future of the country.

Ryoma stopped in front of the portraits, his eyes lingering on Karl's image. He stood there for a moment, his hands in his pockets, the weight of his grandfather's legacy pressing down on him. "You know," he said quietly, "I sometimes wonder what Grandpa would think of us now."

Monica, standing beside him, looked up at the portraits, her lips pressing into a thoughtful line. "He'd be proud. But he'd also remind us that we haven't done enough yet." Her voice was soft but firm, carrying the same sense of duty that had been drilled into them from a young age.

Kara, always the one to lighten the mood, smiled as she stepped forward, glancing between the portraits. "Well, I think Aunt Nozomi's definitely holding her own. It's not every day a family produces two presidents."

Monica chuckled, though her gaze remained on Nozomi's portrait. "It's not just about holding her own, though. Aunt Nozomi's got the weight of the country on her shoulders, just like Grandpa did. And we're all tied to that legacy, whether we like it or not."

As they stood there, Gen remained quiet, his hands clasped behind his back as he observed the family dynamics. His eyes shifted from the portraits to Monica, and once again, he found himself mesmerized by her poise, her strength. She carried the same quiet power that ran through the Marino bloodline, but there was something more—something that made her stand out from the others. He hadn't quite figured out how to put it into words, but every time he was near her, the feeling grew stronger.

Kara, ever observant, noticed the way Gen's eyes lingered on her sister, and a knowing smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She nudged Ryoma with her elbow, leaning in slightly to whisper. "Looks like someone's smitten."