https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-4000887400212447
Although Mrs Trump – and the other people who appear in this story – are real public figures, this is a work of fiction. The scenes, conversations, thoughts and events you are about to read are entirely imagined and are not intended to reflect real life, private behaviour or factual events.
This piece was written in response to the recent release of a new documentary film focused on Mrs Trump, and uses that moment of renewed public attention as a starting point for a fictional, speculative portrait of life behind a very public image.
Written by Alison Little, this story explores themes of power, performance, isolation and identity at the highest level of public life – not as journalism, and not as biography, but purely as fiction.
Positioned on the intricacies of their mantelpiece, she stands through her second stay in the White House, Donald’s second term pressing in around her like a sealed room. The daily torment of the Epstein files runs through every news cycle, every whispered briefing, every cautious glance from staff. Staff who move past her in disciplined lines, dressed uniformly in black, heads lowered, expressions sealed. She alone is in camel — immaculate, expensive, unmistakably separate.
Her failed documentary — the one meant to reshape her image — sits buried beneath hostile headlines and late-night mockery. She had even believed that letting it be known she and Donald still had sex would be a turn on for the public. Instead, it had landed as something faintly pitiful, faintly grotesque.
The happy day: a falsehood, like herself, a manufactured outer shell. He owns her like his property empire, the White House, the billionaire who purchased the United States — if not the world. Her vision moves towards the photos from their honeymoon. Modest, but designer-suited, backed by the vision of a meadow. A meadow which they never walked in, only fantasies of jumping and throwing things at each other as she gathers wild flowers. A nature she had never submerged herself in, not even in youth. Even when at the beaches of the tropics, she goes no further than the spotlessly cleaned lounge areas of the most luxurious hotels.
Eyes manoeuvre back towards the image of the big day. The bridesmaid from her side, a cousin she hardly knew, flown over from Slovenia. A girl who would look good in the dress the stylist selected for her — which she didn’t question. The bridesmaid figure they were able to call up and slot in again when needed for media-staged family occasions, now replaced by their son, carefully positioned for the cameras whenever stability is required.
The fallacy of the photograph. As she looks over it she feels nothing. Void of emotion, and equally void of dissatisfaction with the home life she has built. A fake marriage, a collection of houses in which she didn’t enjoy living. A husband whose affections wander over those he can afford. Horses they hire people to ride. Land they purchase as nothing more than a pleasant view from bullet-proof windows. Dead inside, presenting a placid outer shell. Simply stand by his side. Mrs Trump: the ultimate purchase — a representation of beauty, an outer crater containing nothing but stale air.
Reminiscing on the excitement of her youth, before she became the third Mrs Trump. The wild all-night parties of her modelling work, Milan, then Paris. A smile takes over her face and her lower lip becomes moist as she recalls the thrill of jetting into London to bare all for GQ magazine. Fully naked, draped over furs, neck adorned by jewels, staring directly into the lens. When she had everything ahead of her, desired by all, she could have made any man her partner.
Fingers run over the jewel of the necklace she selected earlier in the evening. The fulfilment she once felt when she had established her own jewellery business — the diamond company she was forced to abandon, deemed unfitting for the President’s spouse during his first term, and never permitted to return during this second. By contrast, she had been allowed the documentary. She had been happy about that — quietly, privately — even if it had failed. The performative role she now plays, helping children’s charities once again, replayed for another administration. The glamour of jewels exchanged for dust-ridden dormitories and desolate units of children’s homes. The special attention she has been instructed to give to the harm opioids can do to the foetus. Not her own initiative. Could pregnant women on heroin really not work out for themselves that they were harming their unborn children?
Legs resting on the footstool, she leans back into the softened leather of the settee. Eyes wander around one of the many living rooms of the White House, gazing through the expanse of its newly refitted interior. Beyond the tall windows, scaffolding and floodlights outline the newest indulgence: a vast ballroom rising inside the historic shell of the residence. Gold trims, imported stone, a ceiling engineered for spectacle — a private monument to his second term, built where policy once echoed.
Her memories re-engage with the modest apartment in which she was raised. The entire residence for her parents and their two daughters the same size as the room she is currently occupying. As she sips her gin and tonic, she contemplates the separate bedrooms she and her husband now keep — a quiet, negotiated distance. When their relationship began, they indulged in sex multiple times a day. Now they rarely touch at all. The son they had together — the boy they barely know, sent away to school and managed like a press liability. She is indifferent to his clumsy attempts to hide his latest affair, a brave front rehearsed and ignored.
She has acquired every richness a woman could desire. And yet, tonight, she recognises that she was happier squeezed into the apartment block of her childhood, surrounded by the unremarkable love of her family.
There can be no return. No escape. No way of leaving the most powerful man in the world — again.
Her gaze drifts back towards the mantelpiece. This time it settles not on the photographs, but on the bottle of pills standing beside the framed headlines of his second inauguration. In the reflection of the glass she sees the black-clad staff passing silently behind her, their faces blank, their courtesy mechanical. She knows — or believes she knows — that they despise her. That to them she is only another ornament of the administration, easily removed. No one here would miss her if she were gone.
Her eyes fall to the melting ice in her glass.
No. She will continue to dress for the press, stand by his side, and present herself as The Wife — the role carefully envisaged for her.
For now anyway……
Related reading & viewing
If you’re interested in the themes explored in this story — power, image, public life and media culture — you may enjoy the following:
First Ladies: The Ever-Changing Role, from Martha Washington to Melania Trump offers a clear and balanced look at how the role of the First Lady has evolved over time, tracing the changing expectations and public responsibilities of America’s First Ladies from Martha Washington through to Melania Trump.
Betty Boyd Caroli
Explore acclaimed literary works by Trump’s former Vice President, Hillbilly Elegy, an international bestselling memoir.
J.D. Vance
Interested in exploring the life of another First Lady? Mrs President is a compelling show that delves into themes similar to those in Mrs Trump — power, identity, female agency, and the personal cost of public representation.
The Creative Writing Masterclass is an excellent starting point for anyone looking to develop their skills in flash fiction.
The images included in this article were created using AI-generated imagery and do not depict real people, events, or locations. They are entirely fictional and are intended to complement the story’s imaginative narrative.
This article itself is a work of fiction. Although it references real public figures, all actions, thoughts, dialogues, and events described are purely imagined and are not intended to reflect actual behavior or real-life occurrences.
This article contains affiliate links, which means I may earn a small commission if you click through and make a purchase — at no extra cost to you.
Leave a Reply to February Newsletter – alisonlittleblogCancel reply