The Moreau family mansion wasn't a place people walked into casually. You didn't just knock on the front door and expect to be let in — you got announced, escorted, and probably judged by at least three sets of eyes before you reached the first hallway.
But tonight, it wasn't about visitors.
It was about Celestia.
It started in the sitting room, the one with the antique chandelier so big you could probably see your life flash before your eyes if it fell. Her parents were there, waiting for her like a panel of judges.
Apparently, her father didn't even look up from whatever stack of documents he was flipping through. Her mother, though, was staring right at her — that calm, unreadable look she had when she'd already decided your fate.
"You'll be attending the Sinclair's party tonight," her mother said. No preamble, no "how was your day," no softening. Just the sentence, dropped like a stone.
Celestia — being Celestia — didn't even blink at first.
