Chapter 6: 18th birthday party
1623 Words
ENISA’S POV
Moonstone pack ; Two weeks later.
The entire estate thrummed with tension.
Maids hurried from one end of the hall to the other, arms laden with fabrics, flowers, and trays, their movements trenchant with urgency.
To an outsider, it would seem like nothing more than preparations for distinguished guests.
But beneath the surface, the excitement was far more specific.
Prince Zaden of Silverstone Pack would be making an appearance tonight. That alone was enough to set the entire household on edge. Even Vedica had been swept up by it.
She moved through the corridors like a storm, issuing orders without pause, her sharp voice cutting through the air. And, as always, I found myself at the center of her attention.
“Enisa, didn’t I tell you to place those flowers over there?”
Her voice snapped just as I stepped inside, a wicker basket of freshly cut white lilies resting against my hip.
“I was about to,” I replied, steadying my tone despite the exhaustion weighing heavily on me.
She stopped, her gaze sweeping over me with open disdain.
“You’re always ‘about to,’” she said coldly.
“If only you spent as much time working as you do making excuses.”
With that, she turned and walked away, already barking orders at someone else.
My grip tightened around the basket.
Excuses? A bitter laugh rose in my chest but never made it past my lips.
Earlier, she had assigned me to decorate a seven-layer cake alone. Before that, she had me hanging balloons in places no reasonable person could reach without a ladder, stretching my arms until they ached and trembled.
Yet somehow, I was the one “idling.”
The unfairness of it settled unnervingly within me, mixing with the exhaustion that had long since seeped into my bones.
I hadn’t slept properly in days; it showed in every sluggish step I took and every dull ache in my limbs.
Still, I kept going; I always did, not that it mattered.
A small part of me wondered what it would feel like just once to hear something different from her.
A word of appreciation, maybe. Or a simple acknowledgment of a job well done.
But I knew better.
Gratitude, it seemed, was a language that didn't exist in Vedica's dictionary.
I trudged toward the flower decorator just as he placed the final touches on an arrangement perched atop a tall vase stand.
It was beautiful, meticulously crafted, each bloom positioned with care, the white lilies blending seamlessly with softer hues.
“Nice work, sir,” I said, allowing a hint of genuine admiration into my voice.
He didn’t acknowledge me, not even a glance.
But I didn’t mind. I hadn’t spoken for recognition; I had already said what I wanted to.
Lifting my tired gaze, I continued on toward the kitchen. The rich aroma of exotic dishes drifted through the air, wrapping around me like an irresistible invitation.
My stomach responded instantly, a low, betraying rumble that made me swallow hard.
For a brief moment, I slowed.
The sight of steaming pots lined over the fire was almost too much to bear. Sauces simmered, meats sizzled, spices filled the air with a warmth that made my mouth water. I found myself lingering, tempted to ask for just a small taste, even if I had to beg for it.
But the thought barely had time to settle before I pushed it away.
I knew my place.
Lowering my head, I slipped past the chefs unnoticed and made my way to the kitchen sink, where heaps of dirty dishes awaited me, stacked high, smeared with grease, and already beginning to crust over.
A sigh of quiet protest rose within me, but I gulped it down and got to work.
By the time I finished, the sky had deepened into dusk. From beyond the kitchen walls, the estate had come alive, voices mingling in lively conversation, laughter spilling into the halls, and the sharp, rhythmic clink of wine glasses meeting in cheerful toasts.
The celebration had begun.
I didn’t need anyone to tell me I didn’t belong out there.
Drying my hands on the edge of my worn dress, I slipped away unnoticed, retreating down the quieter corridors until I reached my room.
“A short break," I told myself.
Just enough time to catch my breath and gather my thoughts.
Once I stepped into my room, it was as though my body responded instinctively to the sight of the bed.
Well, I had brought this upon myself—coming to my room in the first place. What had I been thinking?
But there was no time to dwell on regret; before I could even gather my thoughts, I found myself drawn toward it, my feet carrying me across the room of their own accord.
"Resist it," a voice in my mind urged, firm, but the warning came too late, or perhaps I was simply too enervated to heed it.
I let myself fall onto the bed, surrendering completely. My eyelids grew heavy, lowering slowly until the world narrowed to a faint blur… and then, at last, everything faded into darkness.
“Enisa! Enisa!”
I had barely slipped into sleep when a sharp voice tore through the fragile calmness of my dream world.
At first, I thought I was imagining it—some lingering echo of a restless mind—but the illusion shattered as my door flew open with a resounding bang.
I jolted upright instantly, as if pulled by an invisible string, my heart slamming violently against my ribs.
“What’s happening?” I asked, my voice rough with sleep as I rubbed at my eyes.
My vision blurred before slowly clearing, and then I saw her. Madam Ginger.
The expression on her face made something sour rise in my throat.
.
“Silly girl,” she snapped. “Sleeping while there’s a party underway and work left undone?”
She didn’t wait for a response, already turning toward the door.
“Come along. There’s no time to waste.”
My eyes burned, likely bloodshot from exhaustion, and a dull headache throbbed at my temples from the force of her voice alone. By the time I fully registered her words, I grumbled inwardly.
And as if to punctuate her displeasure, she slammed the door behind her as she left.
I pressed my fingers against my temples, kneading them as I pushed to my feet.
My legs wobbled beneath me, weak and unreliable, and for a moment I nearly collapsed. Somehow, I caught myself.
A low groan escaped me as I drifted past the long hallways, making my way to the kitchen.
The moment I stepped inside, my heart sank. More dishes, stacked even higher than before.
I stared at them, my face deepened into a frown, and I felt a lump drag down my sore throat.
Before I could even brace myself, a maid brushed past me. She stopped abruptly, then stepped back, fixing me with a hurried look.
“Serve the drinks to the guests. I have my hands full.”
I blinked, frustration stinging behind my eyes.
“I also have my hands full,” I muttered, but she was already gone, vanished before the words could truly land.
My shoulders sagged. Dragging a hand through my loose, disheveled ponytail, I turned away from the sink and made my way toward the main hall.
The moment I stepped into the party, the contrast was suffocating.
Light. Laughter. Music.
And at the center of it all, Iris.
She was radiant in a soft pink gown, the fabric flowing elegantly around her frame, expensive jewelry catching the light with every movement. Father had even brought in a renowned stylist from the capital just for her.
She looked… perfect.
I tried not to feel it, that unwelcoming pang in my chest, but she made it difficult.
Every now and then, her gaze would flick toward me, just long enough to ensure I was exactly where I belonged.
Working.
Guests continued to arrive in clusters, their presence commanding attention. Gifts piled high, each more extravagant than the last.
These were not ordinary visitors; only prominent packs had been invited. Every face carried influence, every name, power.
This was not a place for someone like me to exist beyond the shadows.
Swallowing the thought, I focused on my task, balancing a tray of drinks as I moved carefully through the crowd, offering polite, practiced service.
Soon I began to feel the aftermath of not having good sleep for days. My head grew unbearably heavy, my vision blurring as though the world itself was slipping out of focus, my lucid vision dimming with passing time.
The music blaring from the speakers pounded relentlessly in my ears, each beat worsening the headache already building behind my eyes.
Still, I endured.
Weaving my way back through the crowd, I began collecting the empty wine glasses, my movements mechanical, almost detached.
Just as I turned to take my leave, I moved too quickly and collided with someone.
“Oh!”
The word slipped out as the tray in my hands tilted dangerously, the glasses clinking together as they threatened to spill.
For a brief, heart-stopping second, I thought it would all come crashing down, but I caught it.
My pulse raced as I steadied the tray, fingers tightening around its edge as I forced myself back into control.
With a breath, then another, I calmed my racing heart.
My eyes rolled upwards and stilled when they locked into the eyes of someone.
He stood before me, eyes fixed on mine, and at that moment I felt my grip on the tray stiffen.
- Writer
