The dinner party was held at the Vane Estate, a cathedral of marble and glass that smelled of expensive lilies and chilled champagne. Mr. Vane, the man who owned the firm, the city, and—effectively—Dafne's father's career, stood at the top of a sweeping staircase.
Dafne stood in the foyer, her dress a pale, suffocating silk. Her parents hovered nearby, their expressions a fragile mixture of pride and a deep, aching concern.
"Dafne," her father whispered, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. He felt her flinch, and his eyes softened with a look of profound pity. "Just try to breathe, sweetheart. This is important for our future, but we're right here. Be charming tonight. Do whatever is asked of you."
The Echo vibrated through her like a tuning fork. Do whatever is asked. Her body went rigid, her face settling into the hauntingly perfect smile that was becoming her only armor. Her mother reached out, smoothing a strand of Dafne's hair with a hand that trembled slightly. They looked at her like she was a piece of precious, shattered porcelain they were desperate to glue back together.
As they moved into the dining hall, Mr. Vane approached them. Beside him stood a boy who looked like a sharper, colder version of the man himself. He had dark, messy hair and eyes that seemed to be constantly calculating the value of everything in the room.
"Welcome, welcome!" Mr. Vane boomed. "And this is my younger brother, Raphael. He's starting at the Academy this week as well. I thought it would be good for him to meet some 'friendly' faces."
Raphael didn't smile. He looked at Dafne, his gaze lingering on the way she stood—completely still, hands folded perfectly, eyes fixed just an inch past his shoulder. Unlike Maya, who was currently at the far end of the long table laughing at a joke made by her parents, Raphael was focused entirely on the girl who looked like she was holding her breath.
"Dafne Sterling, isn't it?" Raphael asked. His voice was low, carrying a strange, velvet edge.
"Yes," Dafne said.
"Raphael, show Dafne to her seat," Mr. Vane commanded.
Raphael pulled out a chair for Dafne. "Sit," he said. It wasn't a request; it was a bored observation.
Dafne's knees hit the chair instantly. She didn't adjust her dress or tuck her hair back. She simply sat, her back perfectly straight. Raphael paused, his hand still on the back of the chair, watching the mechanical precision of her movement with a sudden, sharp interest.
The Dinner and the TriggerThe dinner was a slow torture. Maya was seated far away, separated by a massive centerpiece of white hydrangeas that blocked her view of Dafne entirely.
The "incident" happened during the main course.
A waiter, nervous in the presence of the Vanes, tripped slightly while refilling a water goblet. A spray of ice-cold water splashed across the table, soaking Dafne's silk sleeve and the sleeve of Mr. Vane's expensive suit.
"Fool!" Mr. Vane snapped, his face reddening. "Look what you've done. Dafne, clean this up immediately."
He didn't mean for her to actually do it; it was a lash of temper, a way to humiliate the waiter by suggesting a guest should do his job. But the Echo didn't understand social nuances. It only heard the command.
Dafne stood up so fast her chair screeched.
Before anyone could react, she grabbed her own expensive linen napkin and began scrubbing the spilled water off the table. Then, she reached over and started scrubbing the sleeve of Mr. Vane's suit. Her movements were frantic, jerky, and terrifyingly efficient.
"Dafne, honey, no—" her mother whispered, her voice thick with pity. She reached out to stop her daughter's hand, but she didn't give a command. She just watched, her eyes filling with tears at the sight of her daughter acting like a servant.
Dafne didn't stop. She was leaning over the table, her eyes wide and glassy, her hand moving in a blurred rhythm as she tried to "clean" the fabric. The room went silent.
"Dafne, sweetheart, you don't have to," her father said, his voice cracking with a helpless, mournful pity. He looked at Mr. Vane as if to say, Please, she's not well, don't look at her like that.
Raphael, however, was leaning forward. He saw the way her hand was trembling even as it moved with iron strength.
"Dafne," Raphael said, his voice cutting through the tension. "Drop the napkin and sit back down."
The napkin hit the floor before he had even finished the sentence. Dafne dropped back into her chair, her chest heaving. She stared at her plate, her face turning a deep, shameful red.
The RealizationMaya was still talking at the other end of the table, oblivious. But Raphael didn't laugh. He leaned back, crossing his arms, his eyes never leaving Dafne's face. He had just discovered that the quiet girl from the Academy had a "Yes" that could be triggered by anyone with a loud enough voice.
Dafne's parents reached for her hands under the table, squeezing them tight. "It's okay," her mother whispered, leaning in. "We know you couldn't help it. We're so sorry, baby." Their pity felt heavier than the glass. They treated her like she was dying, and in a way, she was.
As the dinner continued, Raphael leaned toward her, his voice a whisper that only she could hear.
"That was quite a performance, Dafne. Tell me... does it hurt when you have to obey?"
Dafne's jaw locked. Because he had asked a question, the Echo forced the truth out of her.
"Yes," she whispered, a single tear finally escaping. "It hurts every time."
Raphael's eyes darkened. For the first time, he didn't look bored. He looked like a boy who had just found a very dangerous, very beautiful secret.