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Chapter 2 - Birthday

Continuation Of Flashback: Five Years Later

The living room had transformed into something from a fairy tale—all soft golden light and whispered elegance. Cream-colored garlands draped gracefully over mahogany door frames, their silk ribbons catching the amber glow of crystal chandeliers. The air itself seemed to shimmer with anticipation, thick with the intoxicating fragrance of jasmine blossoms and the warm, yeasty comfort of fresh bread wafting from the kitchen.

Maids glided through the space like dancers in an elaborate ballet, their movements synchronized and purposeful. Silver trays gleamed under careful polishing, reflecting fractured rainbows across ivory walls. Every surface sparkled with meticulous attention, as if the house itself had been holding its breath for this moment.

Morgana hesitated at the threshold, her bare feet silent against the cool marble. The pale rose silk of her afternoon dress—a shade that made her skin look luminous—suddenly felt inadequate against the grandeur surrounding her. Something fluttered uneasily in her stomach, a premonition wrapped in silk ribbons and false cheer.

"Papa?" Her voice emerged softer than intended, almost lost among the gentle symphony of preparation. She tucked a wayward strand of dark hair behind her ear, a nervous habit that betrayed her growing anxiety.

Her father looked up from where he'd been arranging delicate pastries on bone china, his weathered hands gentle despite their size. His smile—the same one that had comforted her through countless childhood scraped knees and teenage heartbreaks—deepened the laugh lines around his kind eyes.

"For your birthday, sweetheart," he said, his voice warm with paternal pride. "My little girl is turning eighteen."

The words should have brought joy, but instead they twisted something sharp in her chest. "You're... throwing me a party?" Disbelief colored her tone. Noah Donvel was many things—a loving father, a respected councilman—but spontaneous celebration had never been among his talents.

His chuckle rumbled like distant thunder, comforting and familiar. "A small gathering," he corrected, placing a cherry-crowned tart onto the tray with the precision of a man who understood that details mattered. "Eighteen deserves acknowledgement, don't you think?"

Warmth bloomed in her chest despite her apprehension—a flutter of genuine happiness that felt almost foreign after years of carefully managed expectations. "Thank you, Papa. Really."

His calloused palm found her shoulder, thumb brushing over the silk fabric with unconscious tenderness. "There's something else, actually. Good news that I—"

"Please tell me you're not serious."

Zirelle's voice sliced through the moment like a blade through butterfly wings. Sharp, cold, and devastatingly precise in its ability to drain warmth from any room. Morgana's spine stiffened involuntarily, muscle memory from years of walking on eggshells around her adoptive sister.

Their father's hand fell away from her shoulder as if burned. He straightened his tie—a nervous gesture Morgana recognized—and cleared his throat with the careful diplomacy of a man accustomed to navigating family tensions.

"Both of you will be on your best behavior tonight," he said, his voice carrying the gentle authority that had guided Morgana through childhood. "We have very important guests arriving."

Zirelle's laugh was sharp as a breaking glass. She spun on her stiletto heel, the staccato click of expensive shoes against marble echoing through the foyer like gunshots. Each footfall felt like a countdown to something Morgana couldn't yet name.

*Guests?* The word lodged in her throat like a stone. An icy tendril of dread began unfurling in her stomach, spreading through her veins with each heartbeat.

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**Later That Evening**

Morgana's reflection stared back at her from the full-length mirror, and for once, she barely recognized herself. The midnight blue gown—silk so dark it seemed to absorb light—transformed her from awkward omega into something almost ethereal. The fabric whispered against her skin with each breath, following the newly discovered curves of her eighteen-year-old body like water finding its course.

Gone was the gangly teenager who'd once trembled under cruel laughter. In her place stood someone softer yet stronger, as if the years had both gentled and fortified her spirit. Evening jasmine drifted through her open balcony doors, carrying with it the promise of summer nights and secret dreams. Her hair fell in dark waves over one shoulder, and her eyes—large and expressive—held depths that hadn't existed five years ago.

*You can do this,* she whispered to her reflection, though her hands betrayed her with their subtle trembling. *It's just a dinner party. Nothing more.*

"Morgana!" Zirelle's voice shrilled from the hallway, sharp enough to cut glass. "Father says it's time!"

"Coming!" she called back, injecting false confidence into her tone while her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird.

The grand staircase stretched below her, its polished mahogany banister gleaming under chandelier light. Each step felt momentous, her heels clicking a rhythm that matched her racing pulse. Music floated up from the courtyard—strings and piano weaving together in sophisticated harmony—while the rich aroma of roasted herbs and fine wine created an intoxicating backdrop to the evening's festivities.

Laughter bubbled up from the gathering below, warm and cultured, the sound of people who belonged in spaces like this. Crystal glasses caught the light as they touched in toasts, and the rustle of expensive fabric whispered secrets Morgana couldn't quite decipher.

And then she saw him.

The world tilted dangerously off its axis.

Seated at the head of the dining table with the casual arrogance of someone born to command attention, Majesty Reginald looked like he'd stepped from the pages of a dark fairy tale. Five years had transformed the cruel boy she remembered into something far more dangerous—a man whose very presence seemed to bend reality around him.

His black suit was cut with surgical precision, emphasizing broad shoulders and the lean strength of someone who'd never known physical want. Dark hair fell across his forehead in calculated disorder, and those ice-blue eyes—God, those eyes—swept the room with the lazy confidence of an apex predator surveying his territory.

When his gaze found hers, time crystallized into something sharp and brittle.

Recognition flickered across his features—not surprise, but something infinitely worse. Satisfaction. As if he'd been waiting for this exact moment, this precise configuration of power and vulnerability.

His lips curved into what might have been a smile if not for the arctic chill in his eyes. It was the expression of someone who collected secrets and wielded them like weapons.

Morgana's knees nearly buckled. The polished railing became her lifeline as the room began to spin around its axis. Every carefully constructed wall she'd built over five years crumbled like sand castles before an incoming tide.

"Oh! Here's our birthday girl."

The voice belonged to the elegant woman rising from beside Majesty—tall, refined, with the kind of bone-deep poise that spoke of generations of careful breeding. Her smile was warm but assessing, like a jeweler examining a stone for flaws.

Morgana managed a nod, though her throat felt stuffed with cotton.

Her father stood, a wine glass catching the light like liquid amber. The conversations around the table faded to expectant silence, even the background music seeming to hold its breath.

"Everyone," Noah announced, his voice carrying the warm pride of a man sharing his greatest joy, "I have wonderful news to share."

No. The word formed silently on Morgana's lips, intuition screaming warnings she couldn't yet articulate.

His free hand found the elegant woman's fingers, their intertwining so natural it suggested months of secret practice. "Amara and I are engaged to be married."

The words detonated in Morgana's chest like grenades.

Sound became muffled, as if she were suddenly underwater. The carefully arranged flowers blurred into impressionist smears of color. Her lungs forgot how to process air, each attempted breath feeling thin and insufficient.

*Amara.* The name echoed in her skull with devastating clarity. Not just any Amara—*this* Amara. The mother of the man who'd once destroyed her in front of half their school.

"What?" The word scraped past her lips, barely audible above the sudden roaring in her ears.

Her father's eyes sparkled with the kind of joy she hadn't seen since before her mother's death. "I know it's sudden, sweetheart, but sometimes the heart knows what it wants. We're going to be a real family."

*Family.* The word tasted like ashes.

Majesty raised his glass with deliberate ceremony, the crystal singing softly as his finger traced its rim. "I couldn't be happier," he said, his voice like silk wrapped around steel. "Welcome to the family, Councilman Donvel."

The emphasis on *family* felt like a blade sliding between her ribs.

Zirelle merely shrugged, her expression suggesting this development ranked somewhere between mildly interesting and completely irrelevant. "Congratulations, Father."

All eyes turned to Morgana last—her father's hopeful, Amara's expectant, Zirelle's mockingly amused.

And Majesty's? Majesty's eyes held the patient satisfaction of a spider watching flies walk into its web.

Her lips stretched into something that might have resembled a smile if viewed from sufficient distance. Her jaw ached with the effort of holding her face together while her world shattered like spun glass.

Because the boy who'd once humiliated her—who'd taught her exactly how small and worthless she was—wasn't just returning to her life.

He was about to become her stepbrother.

At eighteen, in what should have been a celebration of new beginnings, Morgana watched her nightmare take permanent residence in her home.

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