It doesn't take much to ruin a perfectly good night.
One woman. One dress. One bracelet that hummed with the patience of something that had been binding souls since before the concept of freedom had a word.
That was all it took.
The laughter died first — sharp, mid-breath, like someone had cut the strings on every smile in the room.
The food went cold next; steam that had curled so invitingly from Melissa's cinnamon-vanilla French toast simply stopped rising, as though the heat itself had decided this table no longer deserved warmth.
The easy, golden atmosphere that had filled the penthouse — the warmth of family, of people who'd chosen each other, of a table long enough for everyone and a boy who'd somehow filled every seat without trying — bled out through invisible cracks the moment Cassiopeia stepped inside.
Dinner ended.
Not with a fight. Not with a scene.
Just — ended.
