Monday, May 20 – Midtown / Late Afternoon
The Summer Slows
Jay stood outside a small vending machine at the edge of the park, flipping a coin in his hand like it was a decision he didn't want to make.
Behind him, kids chased a frisbee. Somewhere farther off, a speaker blasted old pop music. The sun hit the trees in that perfect angle that made everything feel distant and golden.
The vending machine clicked.
The drink dropped.
Jay caught it with one hand and didn't open it.
He just stood there.
Two weeks of vacation… and it already feels like it's disappearing.
It wasn't boring.
It wasn't empty.
It just felt… paused.
Like something was coming.
And for the first time in days, that feeling sat heavy in his chest.
The group chat buzzed every now and then — summer trip ideas, dumb memes, updates on who was tanning too hard or getting sunburned at the beach. Sofia said she was planning a "Movie Gauntlet" soon. Tyler sent twenty voice notes no one listened to.
Jay answered when he felt like it.
But his replies had gotten shorter.
It wasn't because he didn't care.
It was because something had changed in the air.
Like he was hearing a familiar tune drift in from somewhere far away — a song he didn't want to remember but couldn't ignore.
He hadn't heard from the estate.
No calls. No messages. No visits.
And that made him more anxious than if they had
Jay sat on the rooftop of his apartment, drink unopened beside him, watching clouds drift lazily by.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small sticky note Sofia had once written:
"Owe you 1 lemonade. Don't collect it all at once."
It was folded now, edges soft from being handled too many times.
He didn't know why he kept it.
But he did.
The sky was clear.
No reason to worry.
No reason to think too far ahead.
But still…
Jay exhaled slowly.
I feel it. Something's changing.
The Call
He was halfway down the stairs when his phone rang.
Private number. No ID.
Jay stopped.
Stared at it.
Let it ring once.
Twice.
Three times.
He answered on the fourth.
"…Hello?"
There was silence on the other end.
Then a voice — cool, calm, familiar in the worst way.
"Jay. I'll be in the city tomorrow."
Jay didn't reply.
The voice continued.
"Let's not waste time pretending you're surprised."
Clara Markov.
She sounded like she was already standing at his door.
Jay stayed there, still holding the phone. He didn't glance at the screen. Didn't speak.
He knew she was coming.
He just didn't know why now.
Back inside, Jay stepped over the threshold like something sacred had just been interrupted.
The apartment was still clean. The laundry done. The dishes dried and shelved.
But everything felt like it had been touched.
Not by hands.
By the idea of her.
He glanced out the window. Midtown moved as always — streetlights switching early, commuters walking too fast, a food truck parking with a hiss and thud.
The city didn't know anything had changed.
But Jay did.
Flashback – The Last Time They Spoke
It had been in the estate's redwood corridor — one of those places no one walked unless they were lost or looking for silence. Clara stood with her arms crossed, expression unreadable. Her back was to the stained glass.
"They're watching you, you know," she said. "Even when you pretend to vanish."
"Let them," Jay replied, walking past.
Clara didn't stop him. But she kept speaking.
"You're not Elias. You don't wear the cage like a crown."
Jay had paused.
"And you do?"
"No," she said. "But I know how to make it beautiful."
He hadn't answered.
He hadn't needed to.
His phone buzzed again. A message.
CLARA [Unknown Number]:
Lunch tomorrow. Bring that sharp tongue of yours. We have business.
—C.
No location. No time.
She expected him to figure it out.
Of course she did.
That night, Jay lay on his back staring at the ceiling. One leg over the edge of the bed, his arm curled over his eyes.
No one knew Clara was coming.
He wouldn't tell anyone.
Not Amaya. Not Tyler. Not Emma. Not even Sofia.
Because this—
This was part of that world.
The one that waited in silence until it needed something.
The one where birthdays didn't mean cake.
Only leverage.
Tuesday, May 21 – Late Morning / Bellune Bistro, Midtown
Bellune Bistro was the kind of place that pretended not to be expensive.
Its storefront was glass and gold-trimmed wood, modest. Hidden between a bookstore and a flower shop. But inside — quiet jazz, gold-rimmed glasses, minimalist lighting, waiters in tailored uniforms who never spoke unless you asked them to.
Jay had only been here twice. Both times, someone else had picked the location.
This was Clara's kind of place.
He arrived exactly on time.
Not early.
Not late.
Exactly 11:00 AM.
Because being early was eager.
And being late was a message.
Jay wasn't here to send messages.
He was here to read them.
The Arrival
She was already seated.
Clara Markov always was.
Black blazer, no jewellery. Her hair in a loose, effortless twist. A notebook opens beside her espresso cup. She looked like someone doing light paperwork — not someone who could destabilize an entire political bloc with a single phone call.
Jay approached without hesitating.
"Clara," he said, voice calm, posture loose but upright.
She glanced up — smiled, cool and unreadable.
"Jay."
He sat opposite her. The waiter appeared instantly. Clara didn't even look at him.
"His usual," she said softly.
The man nodded and left without a word.
Jay raised an eyebrow. "I don't have a usual here."
"You do now."
She sipped her espresso. "I see Midtown hasn't changed you."
Jay leaned back slightly. "I see the estate hasn't changed you either."
"Should it have?"
"Most people soften in spring."
Clara smiled faintly. "And yet you still wear winter like Armor."
Jay didn't answer. She didn't expect him to.
The Real Reason
Clara flipped a page in her notebook — blank. It was for show.
"Let's skip the performance," Jay said.
"Oh?" Her eyes flicked up. "I thought you liked performances."
"I prefer knowing when I'm in one."
She smiled wider now — amused, never flustered.
"Very well," she said. "The family is planning something. You know that, even if no one has said it out loud."
Jay's fingers tapped the edge of his water glass. "The throne doesn't move unless something threatens it."
"It's not the throne we're worried about."
Jay met her eyes. "Then what?"
She held his gaze. Unblinking.
"You."
She reached into her blazer pocket and slid something across the table — a small black envelope, unmarked.
Jay didn't touch it.
"What is it?"
"An invitation."
"For what?"
She tilted her head. "Your birthday, of course."
He stared at her. "Since when do we celebrate those?"
Clara's voice dipped slightly. "Since your name started showing up in the wrong people's conversations."
Jay's jaw tightened.
She noticed. Filed it away.
"I thought I was being good," he said. "Low profile. Clean grades. No scandals."
"Exactly." She sipped her espresso again. "That's what scares them."
"You're being summoned, Jay," she said quietly. "Politely, for now. The estate expects you to return before your seventeenth birthday."
"And if I don't?"
Clara leaned forward slightly, her tone still gentle.
"Then someone else will come. Less polite. Less fond of you."
A pause.
Jay took the envelope, but didn't open it.
"Is this from him?" he asked. "Or just you?"
Clara's expression didn't shift.
"Does it matter?"
As the waiter brought Jay's drink, Clara closed her notebook and stood.
"Come home, Jay," she said. "At least for the birthday. After that, you can run back to your quiet rooftop and your bakery girl."
Jay didn't move.
But his eyes flicked up, sharp.
Clara's smile deepened.
"Relax," she said. "She's sweet. Not a threat. Yet."
She turned, coat sliding over her shoulders like a curtain falling at the end of a play.
Before leaving, she added:
"You've gotten very good at pretending to be someone else."
"I wonder how much longer that will hold."
And then she was gone.
Jay sat there for a while after.
He didn't open the envelope.
Didn't drink the coffee.
Didn't move at all.
He just watched the reflection of himself in the polished spoon beside the cup — blurred, curved, unfamiliar.