The long oak table gleamed beneath the golden chandelier, each plate arranged with precision and elegance. Laughter and footsteps echoed across the wide dining hall, as warmth filled the air, tangling with the scent of rosemary-roasted potatoes and honey-glazed carrots.
"Leina," Samantha whispered across the table, eyeing her cautiously. "Do you think I should tell Lester he has sauce on his face?"
Leina tilted her head. "No. It's funnier if you don't."
The girls burst into giggles as Lester—utterly unaware—continued arguing with Michelle's head chef, who had wandered in to clarify a point Lester made about truffle oil.
"I'm just saying," Lester was insisting, "it's overrated unless it's white truffle. There's a reason it's more expensive."
The chef's brow twitched. "And I'm just saying you've been reading too many culinary magazines."
"That's not a denial," Lester quipped, and Samantha nearly choked on her juice.
Across the table, Logan had just arrived—coat dusted in snow, scarf pulled loosely around his neck. "Sorry I'm late," he said, pressing a kiss to Giselle's cheek as she rose slightly from her seat.
"You're exactly on time," she said, her eyes bright. "They just started devouring everything."
"Perfect," Logan grinned, making his way over to shake Michelle's hand. "Congratulations. This is a big win."
Michelle exhaled deeply, the weight of the past few years briefly flashing in her expression. "Thank you, Logan. I wasn't sure I'd make it this far."
"You did," Logan said, voice low. "And you've earned every bit of it."
The twins—Liam and Louis—had discovered a stack of warm cheddar rolls and were now in a heated debate over who had eaten more.
"Let's settle this scientifically," Liam said, pointing his butter knife at Louis. "Count the crumbs on your plate."
"That proves nothing!" Louis protested. "I'm just a cleaner eater."
"Lies," Levy muttered nearby, not even looking up from the herb book he was flipping through. "You eat like a beaver."
James, the Reinhardt family butler who had accompanied them, was standing to the side, sipping a glass of sparkling water and discreetly checking his watch.
"Master Liam," he finally said, "If you continue like this, I will be forced to report your carb intake to your nutritionist."
Liam froze. "...You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
At the corner of the table, Leina and Alexander sat side by side in a quiet bubble of their own.
"You know," Alexander murmured, nudging his glass toward hers, "people usually toast with fancy drinks."
Leina eyed the lemon spritzer in her glass. "This is lemon water."
"Well, it's sparkling. Sort of fancy."
She lifted her glass to clink with his. "To lemon water, then."
"To lemon water," he echoed with a small grin.
"I overheard my mom talking about your mom's catering contract," Leina added after a pause. "She seemed really proud."
Alexander's expression shifted, touched with something softer. "Yeah... Mom's been working like crazy. I think she cried this morning, actually. Happy tears. Not the usual tired ones."
"Does she know you noticed?"
"Nope," he said. "And she won't."
Leina leaned back in her chair. "You're a good son."
He blinked. "You're weird."
She nodded. "I know."
The chatter around the table had reached a pleasant hum. Plates passed from hand to hand, stories exchanged, giggles trailing between bites. Samantha leaned across to pluck a tart from Louis's plate while he was distracted, and Michelle snuck a piece of roast chicken from Levy's dish in mock stealth.
"Excuse me," she said with a grin when he caught her. "Chef's privilege."
"You're not the chef today," he pointed out.
"Mother's privilege, then."
Samantha raised her glass high. "To Mom's big day!"
Everyone—majestically and messily—followed suit.
"To Michelle!"
"To the pie crust!"
"To petit fours!"
"To lemon water!"
Giselle leaned toward Michelle as the laughter swelled. "You're not just building a career anymore," she said. "You're building a legacy."
Michelle swallowed, eyes shimmering again. "One I hope my daughter remembers."
In the kitchen, a pair of maids peered out from the doorway, watching the celebration unfold.
"Think they'll leave us any of the tarts?" one asked, hopeful.
The other smirked. "Not a chance."
Behind them, the head chef barked playfully, "Back to work, you two! We still have a dinner shift!"
Laughter followed them down the hall as the scene inside the dining room pulsed with warmth, rich with the kind of joy that comes only after enduring a long storm.