As the murmurs thickened, the feast unfolded like an insultingly perfect painting.
Platters upon platters lined the table—roasted meats glazed in sauces that shimmered under chandelier light, jewel-toned fruits I didn't recognize arranged like offerings to spoiled gods, crystal bowls of steaming soups, breads braided and dusted with gold flakes because of course they were. Everything screamed Maden wealth, the kind that didn't ask permission to exist.
Meanwhile, at the corner table, Coffi and Latte had already abandoned decorum entirely. Joff and Henry ate like men who had survived war, famine, and my cooking experiments—and now feared nothing. Meat vanished. Plates stacked. Latte whispered commentary between bites. Coffi looked up once, met my eyes, and gave me a thumbs-up like we're good, boss, intimidate away.
Behind me, Raya and Chubby were locked in a whispered argument.
"I eat the cookies first," Raya hissed, tails twitching.
