My cream allergy had stolen every birthday from me for as long as I could remember. But since I would be leaving soon, I wanted at least one celebration—one final memory with him before I walked away forever.
My simple request seemed to catch him off guard. He nodded, but before he could elaborate, his phone pierced the silence. He glanced at the screen, and his expression shifted—urgent, eager.
"It's business. An emergency at the club." He was already backing away. "Don't wait up for me tonight. I promise I'll make it up to you."
By the time he finished speaking, he was already several meters away, disappearing into the shadows of the estate.
I knew that ringtone. It was Celina Vitale's—her personal summons. But I didn't call out his lie. What would be the point?
The next morning, workers arrived to prepare the party venue. Among them was Celina herself, claiming she'd come to oversee the arrangements since she had designed the layout.
By evening, I understood the truth: the decorations were nothing more than a stripped-down version of her own birthday celebration from months prior.
After the workers departed, she approached with measured steps, a satisfied smile playing at her lips.