"Let me go, gremlin!" Vince barked, trying to pry Sonia's arm off his neck.
"Go get changed then, punk," she snapped, finally releasing him with a shove.
"Tsk. Always making me do stuff," he muttered, brushing himself off as he headed back into his room.
He changed into a plain green sweater and white cargo pants, comfortable but clean—just enough to avoid getting a lecture. As he stepped back out, he found Sonia waiting just outside, casually fixing her hair in a small mirror she kept in her pocket like a weapon.
She wore a crisp white blouse tucked into matching cargo pants, with a diamond necklace glittering at her collarbone. As usual, she made simplicity look sharp.
"I'm ready," Vince said, closing his door behind him.
"Finally. We're late because of you," Sonia replied, grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him down the stairs.
⸻
The backyard of their estate opened up like a hidden garden from another world.
A masterpiece of landscaping, it was filled with exotic plants flown in from around the globe. Rare orchids, bonsai trees, lilies the size of plates—all arranged with surgical precision. The entire space looked more like a private botanical park than someone's backyard.
In the center stood a long, gleaming white table draped in a silk floral tablecloth. Fresh-cut flowers and shimmering gemstones were arranged between plates of lavish food.
Twenty family members sat in scattered clusters, a fraction of the full clan
At the far end of the table sat the man of the hour—Vince's grandfather.
Old, stiff, and sharp-eyed, he sat like a king in judgment, silently watching everyone. His expression was sour, unimpressed. He didn't smile, didn't speak—he studied. Every glance seemed to measure ambition, weakness, and loyalty all at once.
"Brother!" a small voice shouted across the garden.
Vince looked up just in time to catch a tiny blur of energy as six-year-old Aiden barreled into him, wrapping his arms around Vince's legs.
"Aiden!" Vince grinned, scooping him up into the air. "You adorable little sucker. You enjoying yourself out here?"
"Yeah!" Aiden said, eyes bright with innocent joy.
"Been reading those books I sent you?"
Aiden nodded proudly.
"Good," Vince said, gently ruffling his hair. "I'll send you more next week, alright?"
"Okay!"
Before he could say more, a commanding voice rang out.
"Everyone, gather around!"
It was Aunt Juli—Vince's mom's younger sister. Dressed in a flowing white dress with subtle green accents, she stood tall and composed. A prominent judge in Manx, some said she didn't just interpret the law—she was the law.
The family slowly took their seats at the long table. Most wore white and soft green—colors their late grandmother loved, a quiet nod to her legacy.
Everyone but one.
"What the hell are you all wearing that sickening color for?" barked the man at the head of the table.
Wesley Balar. The patriarch. Vince's grandfather. And a man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Grace, ever poised, tried to reason. "Dad... it was Mom's favorite. We thought—"
"And?! She's dead! Why are you all dressed like ghosts?!"
"Father!" shouted Uncle Victor from the other side of the table, face flushing red.
"What, you obnoxious bastard?" Wesley snapped. "You finally grew a spine?"
"I can't do this," Victor said, pushing up from his chair.
"Then leave!" Wesley roared. "I didn't invite any of you anyway."
"Dad," Juli cut in sharply. "We're here because we promised Mom. Every year, no matter what. We said we'd come—together."
Wesley's lip curled. He looked over the table with cold, calculating eyes.
"All I see are brats... just waiting for me to drop into a bottomless pit."
A heavy silence fell over the table. The sound of silverware stopped. Even Aiden quieted in Vince's arms.
Vince looked at his grandfather—the man who built an empire, broke his children to fit inside it, and couldn't even fake love for a single day.
Same tradition. Same house. Same poison.
And yet... they kept coming back.
Vince sat quietly, his hand resting on Aiden's shoulder, eyes drifting down the table.
Grandfather wasn't always like this, he thought.
Before the betrayal, before everything fell apart... he believed in this family.
His eldest son—Vince's uncle—had taken half the family's fortune and disappeared. Since that day, Wesley Balar had trusted no one. He'd convinced himself that everyone left in his bloodline was just waiting to take what he had built.
And yet, even with all his bitterness, he still provided. Still gave them everything.
Even if he hated us... he never let us go without.
That, somehow, made it harder.
"Bring in the food, please," Aunt Juli called, breaking the silence.
A team of maids appeared, carrying in plates and platters with clockwork precision. The table was soon buried under a feast of rare delicacies—white truffle pasta, golden wagyu, jewel-toned fruits flown in from other continents, and sauces poured from silver vessels. It was a meal that could feed royalty. Or disguise emptiness.
"Let us pray before we dine," Grace said, folding her hands.
They bowed their heads. A short, quiet prayer. A moment of stillness no one believed in anymore.
Then the knives and forks came out—along with the effort to pretend nothing had happened.
Until Wesley, of course, broke the peace.
"Grace," he said, chewing slowly, "where's that bastard husband of yours? Too proud to show up?"
Grace didn't flinch. "Father, my husband is busy."
"Busy?" Wesley sneered. "Is Roth Steel finally collapsing? Can't find time to visit his father-in-law on his birthday?"
"Of course not," she replied evenly. "He's managing several international projects. His schedule's full."
"Tsk." Wesley clicked his tongue. "At least he works. Unlike my pitiful son..."
His gaze locked onto Victor like a scope.
"...who became a damn painter."
Victor lowered his fork but held his ground. "Father. We've talked about this. I chose my dream."
"Dreams," Wesley spat, "are for the poor. You will achieve nothing chasing a penniless illusion. You are a Balar. Not some street-corner scribbler."
The table went quiet again.
Vince looked down at his plate. The food looked perfect, but it tasted like ash.
For us, birthdays were always the hardest.
They weren't celebrations. They were war zones dressed in flowers.