It was perfect timing...the Whitmores!
Finally, it was time for Martha to join them for the weekend retreat they had been planning on the mountain.
She wore a pair of shorts and a light shirt, packing neatly folded clothes for Saturday and Sunday into her brown bag, along with a few underwears and toiletries.
She also tucked in some cookies and snacks for everyone.
Outside, Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore were already waiting in their SUV in front of her house.
Martha smiled, kissed them both warmly, and joined them.
They were dressed simply...casual shorts, shirts, and cowboy hats to shield them from the sunny day.
The SUV pulled away as Mrs. Whitmore began her usual cheerful chatter, the kind she often had about her quiet weekdays spent at home cooking for her husband.
"I used to be a nurse after my spending my teenage years as a model" she began with a soft laugh. "A very busy one. My husband was a popular surgeon back in the United States. We barely had time for our children while we lived quietly in Atlanta, Georgia. But we promised each other that by fifty, we'd retire and truly rest. Martha, work hard, but make sure what you're doing fulfills you. If you don't start working on your dream now, life might never give you time to do it again. I'm being honest with you. Life is cunning...you won't even realize time is passing because your job pays the bills. But that's how you'll end up postponing your dreams until you can't do them anymore."
Mrs. Whitmore spoke the entire journey, her voice warm and motherly, while Mr. Whitmore remained silent, eyes fixed on the road.
He had always been a man of few words.
When they finally arrived at the mountain, they set up their tent and lay down to rest, sipping coconut water from the shells Mrs. Whitmore had thoughtfully brought along.
Soon after, they dozed off peacefully.
Later, they woke up and began setting the fire for dinner.
Surprisingly, it was Mr. Whitmore who volunteered to light it.
Mrs. Whitmore decided they'd make Italian risotto with steak and vegetables, something simple yet hearty.
As the fire crackled, the two women cooked.
Mrs. Whitmore smiled fondly as she watched Martha turn the sizzling steak.
"You love doing this so much," she observed.
Martha looked up and chuckled, her eyes bright. "I love cooking! I could cook for a crowd for free." She sprinkled some seasoning and stirred the pot beside her.
Mrs. Whitmore noticed her precise movements. "You don't handle a knife like an ordinary person. You handle it like a pro...like you've done this all your life."
Martha smiled, though a trace of sadness lingered. "My parents were chefs before they died. Whenever they were home on their off days, we cooked together. Those were the best moments of my life."
Mr. Whitmore, while tending to the fire and carefully adjusting the logs, looked up briefly to listen.
"You all loved cooking," Mrs. Whitmore said gently. "Why aren't you doing it now?"
"The man I love wants me to be a corporate woman," Martha said quietly. "He wants me to command boardrooms."
Mrs. Whitmore laughed softly. "You can still command boardrooms when your restaurants are built all over the world! You'll have your own board to lead...your recipes will speak for you! You just need the right support."
"That will take too long," Martha sighed.
"Fred wants success now."
"Martha," Mrs. Whitmore said firmly, "a man who wants you to run will never walk beside you during challenges. If he loves you, he will walk with you. When someone pushes you to run too fast, pressure builds up...the pressure not to fail him."
Tears welled in Martha's eyes. "I love him. I can't do without him."
"You can't do without him because you've always told yourself that," Mrs. Whitmore said softly. "But you should start telling yourself something new: I can do without anyone who doesn't align with my dreams. You can do all things, Martha. Philippians 4:13...I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."
Martha nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks.
It was a heart-to-heart moment she would never forget.
When the food was finally ready, they sat together to eat.
Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore exchanged surprised glances after the first bite.
"So perfect!" Mrs. Whitmore exclaimed.
"Well seasoned! Well fried! Well cooked!" Mr. Whitmore added with excitement.
He looked at Martha with admiration. "You will cook for the world, Martha! You will cook for kings, presidents, prime ministers, great men! Be prepared!"
"Amen! Thank you, Mr. Whitmore," Martha replied, smiling through her tears.
As evening fell, they sat around the fire.
Mrs. Whitmore began to sing softly, her voice floating in the night air.
Soon, the others joined in, discovering they all had good voices.
"We used to train our son in music when he was young," Mr. Whitmore said, speaking more than he had all day. "My wife and I both wanted to be musicians, but our parents pushed us into medicine. It was fulfilling...we saved lives...but sometimes we wish we had invested more in music. Our son sings now, even as he continues in the medical field."
Martha smiled thoughtfully. "Mr. Whitmore, what's the most fulfilling thing that ever happened to you?"
He took a deep breath before answering. "When I began to build a real relationship with God. Nothing compares to that. I used to be a Christian like everyone else...attending services, praying for blessings...but I didn't have a relationship with Him. I told God what I wanted but never asked what He wanted. That's not relationship; that's routine. True growth in Christ means letting Him lead...how you speak, what you do, how you handle your emotions. It's surrender."
Tears filled Martha's eyes again.
His words touched something deep within her.
That night, she felt healed...truly healed.
It was just one night with the Whitmores…but what a night it was.
The next morning, after breakfast and a refreshing bath, they had a playful race down the path.
To Martha's shock, the elderly Whitmores outran her easily!
She bent over, panting and laughing at herself.
"I haven't run like this since my parents were alive," she said, tears suddenly spilling again.
Mr. Whitmore placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We never had a daughter...only three sons. Maybe that's because God was preparing us for you. He wants you to let go of the pain and start again."
Martha sobbed. "Are you sure you won't leave me when I make mistakes?"
Mrs. Whitmore came closer, wrapping an arm around her. "Family isn't about perfection. It's a bond that only breaks when life itself ends. Anytime you want, we can even make it official...you can be our daughter."
Martha hugged them both tightly.
In that moment, she felt small again...protected, loved, and guided.
Everything about that weekend felt divine.
The Whitmores.
***
Four long weeks since Gabriella's suspension and Martha's silent rise to the top seat no one wanted, yet everyone secretly watched.
The department had changed.
The early morning hush now carried less tension.
Files moved without whispers.
Even Lizzy, though still distant, had stopped rolling her eyes whenever Martha spoke during briefings.
Martha sat behind her desk, the weight of leadership pressing like invisible armor.
Her coffee was always cold before she remembered to drink it, and the dark circles beneath her eyes told the story of too many overnight shifts spent reconciling figures and cross-checking invoices.
Still, she came early.
She stayed late.
And she made sure nothing left the department unless it was spotless.
At exactly 8:45 a.m., she walked into the main office carrying her laptop and a stack of printouts.
"Good morning, everyone," she said. Her tone was warm but businesslike.
The team responded in uneven echoes, some smiling, some still adjusting to her authority.
"We have two more audit reports to finalize before the chairman's review tomorrow," she began. "I'll handle the final verification, but I need everyone's numbers by 3 p.m. sharp. No excuses."
"Yes, ma'am," Sylvia said quickly, flipping open her folder.
Even Rico nodded, which used to be rare.
Lizzy spoke up, adjusting her glasses. "The reconciliation for Hillsdale is clean now. No discrepancies."
Martha looked up, surprised but pleased. "Good. Make sure the soft copy is sent to my drive before noon."
Lizzy nodded without a word.
There was progress...slow, silent progress...but progress all the same.
By noon, the department had settled into a calm rhythm: papers rustling, calculators clicking, and the low hum of productivity filling the room.
Martha walked between the desks, checking details, signing documents, and occasionally correcting errors.
She stopped behind Victor's desk. "This figure here...vendor 1036...did you verify it against the main ledger?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said. "It matched perfectly."
"Good job." She smiled faintly and moved on.
Hours slipped away.
At 6:00 p.m., most of the team began packing up, but Martha stayed behind as usual.
The office grew quiet again, the kind of silence that made every keystroke echo.
She leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temple.
The glow of her monitor lit up the dark office, reflecting off the glass walls.
Sometimes, when she looked at her reflection, she barely recognized herself...stronger, more focused.
Fred walked into the accounting hall, his footsteps echoing through the quiet space.
Martha was still at her desk, typing something on her laptop when she heard his voice.
"All through the weekend, I was expecting your call," he said sharply.
She didn't look up. "Did you come to apologize?"
"Apologize?" he repeated, scoffing. "You should be the one apologizing to me...for ruining the image I've been trying to build in everyone's mind!"
She finally looked up, her eyes tired but steady. "Look here, Fred! I don't care anymore about whatever image you're trying to build. Slowly, I'm getting numb to everything!"
His jaw tightened.
He stepped closer, grabbed her by the jaw, and hissed, "I'm going to put my life on the line, Martha! You're going to be the woman I want!"
She shoved him away with trembling hands. "No, Fred! I'm going to be the woman I want to be! I'm going to fulfill purpose!"
Fred's eyes burned with anger.
He turned abruptly and stormed out of the hall, the door slamming behind him.
As soon as he was gone, Martha broke down.
Tears streamed down her cheeks uncontrollably.
Her head ached, her body weak.
It was too much.
So frustrating.
So draining.
Was this what love was supposed to feel like...this painful, suffocating ache?
She tried to focus on her screen, determined to finish her work, but her vision blurred.
Her fingers trembled on the keyboard.
She rose slowly from her chair, but her legs gave way beneath her.
Her body refused to cooperate.
She could feel herself falling...but before she hit the ground, a firm, steady arm wrapped around her waist.
She blinked faintly, struggling to see.
It was him.
That same man who had once saved her from Dave Benson…
That peaceful man who looked almost like Jesus in human form...
Dr. Raymond Whitmore.
She let herself fall into his arms, too weak to fight it.
And then...everything went black.
When she opened her eyes again, she was lying in a hospital bed.
A drip was attached to her hand.
She tried to pull it out, but the sharp sting of pain stopped her.
"Anybody there?" she called weakly, craning her neck.
A moment later, he appeared at the door.
That same calm, peaceful man...Raymond Whitmore.
Her heart thudded softly in her chest. "Why do you always show up at the right time?" she asked, her voice faint but sincere.
He stepped closer and checked her chart as if he didn't hear her question.
"Your blood pressure was low," he said in a calm, professional tone. "You've been overworking yourself, haven't you? You're physically and emotionally drained. Your body needed rest, but you didn't give it the chance. What you experienced was an episode of complete exhaustion. It's common when someone's body runs out of energy and stress levels stay high for too long."
She blinked at him in disbelief. "Are you human?" she asked softly.
He opened a small envelope of medication and placed it beside her bed.
"These are the drugs you need to take...vitamins, mild pain relief, and supplements to help your system recover. And please…" he paused, looking straight into her eyes, "rest more often, Martha. Your body is not made of steel."
Her lips trembled as tears filled her eyes. "I'm emotionally drained," she whispered.
For a moment, the doctor's composure slipped.
His eyes softened.
He didn't say a word...but the emotion in his gaze said everything.
Then, silently, he turned and walked out of the ward.
Martha watched him leave, her heart stirring in confusion and gratitude.
A nurse entered after a few minutes to remove the drip and tidy the space.
Once the process was done, Martha gathered her things quietly and stepped out of the room.
"Please," she asked the nurse, "where's Doctor Raymond?"
"He's not in seat, ma," the nurse replied politely. "Any problem?"
"Where's my bill?" Martha asked.
The nurse smiled. "You were treated for free, ma."
She gasped softly. "Can I at least get his phone number?"
"I'm sorry, ma," the nurse replied gently.
"That's against our policy. But you can visit some other time if you wish."
Martha gritted her teeth lightly.
It was the second time she had forgotten to ask for his number.
She glanced around the reception area and carefully noted the name of the clinic displayed on the wall.
She wrote it down in her small notebook before stepping outside to find a taxi.
She might not have his number yet…
But at least now, she knew where to find him.