Stella's birthday started like a mission and turned into a small festival. Reika had a clipboard, which meant the event was officially serious. Rose filled the penthouse with blue roses that looked like quiet. Rachel walked around with a tiny lantern set to "safe", purifying surfaces that didn't know they needed it. Seraphina chilled the glasses from the inside with a fingertip of ice, because apparently water obeys her moods now. Cecilia inspected the table settings like a Crown Princess on a surprise audit and declared them "acceptable", which is palace for flawless.
I did what fathers do best: moved furniture, carried boxes, and tried not to cry at the photo wall we'd built. Stella at eleven, at twelve, at almost thirteen, taller in each frame, grin steady, eyes brighter.
"Master, confirm cake altitude," Reika said, deadpan, holding a spirit level to the bottom tier of a cake that could legally vote in three provinces.
"We aren't landing a shuttle," I said.
