In the heart of Las Vegas, where neon lights flickered like promises, Donald Trump sat in his opulent suite at the Trump International Hotel. The victory party was in full swing downstairs, but he preferred the solitude of his room. The gold-plated phone on his desk buzzed intermittently, a reminder of his political triumph.
Facing little competition, he had clinched the Nevada Republican caucus by a landslide. The media hailed it as a resounding victory, but Trump knew better. His opponents were mere shadows, their voices drowned out by the cacophony of his own bravado. He leaned back in his leather chair, surveying the room.
His smartphone lay in the center of the cluttered desk—a curious juxtaposition of power and vulnerability. Around it, an assortment of oddities jostled for space: coffee-stained mugs, donut halves, crumpled tissue paper, and permanent marker pens. But it was the photo on the phone’s wallpaper that held his attention.
A smiling toddler stared back at him—a cherubic face framed by golden curls. The child’s eyes sparkled with innocence, oblivious to the political machinations swirling around them. Trump’s heart softened. This was his newfound daughter, a consequence of his whirlwind remarriage last year.
His current wife, Melania, had once been a mystery—a statuesque beauty with secrets hidden behind her icy blue eyes. She, too, had weathered the storm of divorce, emerging stronger and more enigmatic. Their union had been swift, fueled by mutual ambition and a shared disdain for convention.
And then there was the toddler—their unexpected gift. She had appeared like a sunbeam, illuminating their lives with her laughter. But she was still two years old, a puzzle waiting to be solved. Trump wondered about her origins, the missing pieces of her story. Was she a product of love or convenience?
Rumors swirled about his first marriage—the volatile relationship that had ended in violence. He had divorced Ivana swiftly, trading her for Marla Maples, a woman with her own tangled past. Now, as he sought a third wife, he wondered if lightning could strike thrice.
The phone buzzed again, interrupting his reverie. It was Melania, her voice cool and measured. “Donald,” she said, “the victory party awaits.”
He rose from the chair, leaving the toddler’s photo behind. The neon lights beckoned, promising another conquest. But as he descended the grand staircase, he wondered if this time, love would be the ultimate prize.
And so, in the glittering ballroom, amidst cheers and confetti, Donald Trump raised his glass. “If we win this state,” he declared, “we easily win the election in November.”
But deep down, he wondered if victory could ever fill the void left by a toddler’s smile—a smile that held the promise of redemption and the weight of a thousand ballots.
This story is fiction
US election: Donald Trump faces little competition and wins big in Nevada caucus
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