Chapter 962: A Table With Two Agendas
The penthouse was quiet in the way I like best—no pings, no runners, just the city breathing far below and the rooms holding their shape.
Rose’s laugh from the kitchen drifted down the hall, threaded with Stella’s quick questions and Reika’s steady answers. I stood in the doorway a moment and let the scene fix itself in my head: Stella on a stool arranging plates by size because "order improves flavor," Rose stealing a chocolate chip "for science," Reika moving like a metronome—pan, rack, board—never wasting a step. The photo we’d printed that morning—Stella mid-tongue, Rose laughing, Reika surprised into a smile—sat in a frame on the console.
Two "Moms" in one day. Said out loud. Claimed.
I hadn’t realized how carefully we’d all been moving until that carefulness broke. For months the five of us balanced like diplomats—House names on one side, Guild ranks on the other, feelings carefully wrapped in politeness. Everyone loved Stella. Everyone wanted to be the person she reached for in the dark. No one asked first. Not because of fear, not really, but because kindness made them cautious. They gave each other space so generously that no one stepped into it.
Rose did. She asked. Reika followed. The air got easier to breathe.
I’m not interested in letting ceremony govern our house anymore. If a small thing is right, we do it now. That’s why I thumbed open my private channel after lunch and sent three messages, each a version of the same line: Dinner here at seven. Not a briefing. Family. Dress code: socks.
They all said yes.
I watched Stella align the water glasses to her invisible grid and felt the brace I’d been wearing in my chest loosen another notch. I wanted the others here to see what today had already made true. And—because I like doing hard things while the room is kind—I wanted all of us at the table when I said there were two important agendas for the week ahead. Not for debate yet. Just to set the ground.
The elevator chimed.
Rachel came first, hair up, jacket off, an unmarked paper bag under one arm. She kicked off her boots at the door, wiggled socked toes at Stella, and hugged me—soap and lantern cedar and the calm that follows hard work.
"Bread," she said, lifting the bag. "And an opinion."
"We have room for both," I said.
Cecilia followed in a sweater instead of a suit, ten years younger for it. She set down a wide glass bowl like she was laying a foundation. "Under-salted," she announced. "Because this house over-salts."
"Fair," Reika said, sliding it into the line without losing pace.
Seraphina slipped in last, a box of cut fruit in one hand and a shy spray of winter flowers in the other. "Unnecessary," she said, then found the one clear spot that made the room feel finished and placed the flowers there anyway. She looked at me and didn’t say it’s good to see you. She doesn’t have to for me to hear it.
We ate standing for a few minutes—the kitchen counter, first slices of bread, Stella stealing olives with criminal efficiency. Then we sat. Round table. No place cards. The room made its own map.
Stella wedged herself between Rose and Reika and glowed like a small sun. Rachel took the chair nearest the sink because she always cleans as she goes. Cecilia sat where the light was best, notes or no notes. Seraphina chose the seat with a clean line to the door, then turned it one deliberate inch away from tactical and smirked at herself. I took the spot where I could see everyone.
The first ten minutes were purposefully about nothing. The workshop cart no longer squeaked. The lamp now dimmed without "being rude." Redeemers were quietly copying Stella’s color-coded checklists and pretending it wasn’t adorable. A "very boring" budget run would welcome heckling (Stella volunteered). Seraphina peeled an orange with surgical precision and passed the segments like tokens.
We looked like a family because we are one.
I set my palms on the table. I didn’t stand. "Thank you for coming," I said, and the circle settled the way it does when it’s time to listen. "Two important agendas tonight."
I got exactly one heartbeat of clean silence.
Then they pounced.
Rachel leaned in, eyes bright with fond exasperation. "All right, which dignitary did you charm this time and why are we adopting their problems?"
Cecilia lifted a finger like she was about to cross-examine me. "If this is a ’mutually beneficial alliance’ with a House that offended three courts and two guilds, I refuse to bring out the nice plates."
Seraphina slouched like a cat and arched an eyebrow. "If he says ’it just happened while we were discussing logistics,’ I’m taking the fruit and leaving."
"Wait—what?" Stella began, delighted.
Reika moved like lightning, one hand coming up to cover Stella’s ears. "Adult gossip," she announced, deadpan. "Protected class."
"Hey!" Stella protested, trying to pry a hand away. "I’m twelve, not two!"
Rose set her glass down carefully, mouth doing the kind of smile that tries not to show teeth. She did not save me.
Rachel pointed her bread at me like a witness statement. "Fine. If it’s not a dignitary, it’s Lyra."
Cecilia’s eyes sharpened. "Envoy of the Seven, crown princess of her kind. Of course."
Seraphina flicked a peel into the bowl with surgical precision. "He said ’two agendas’ like someone who has already written himself into a balcony at midnight."
I held up both palms. "It isn’t Lyra."
Three skeptical faces. One twelve-year-old trying to bite Reika’s hand.
"It could be Lyra," Rachel said, delighted with herself.
"It is not Lyra," I repeated, which only convinced them more.
"Why would it be Lyra?" Stella demanded into Reika’s palm. "And why is Daddy—mmph!"
Reika widened her eyes at me over Stella’s head: fix this, or I escalate to two hands.
I could have pushed the table into seriousness. I didn’t want to. The teasing meant the room was safe enough to be ridiculous. That matters more than getting through an outline.
"No dignitaries," I said, keeping my voice easy. "Agenda One is about this house—names, habits, how we do things so no one has to guess. We’re not a court. No ranks at this table."
Cecilia relaxed a notch. Seraphina rotated her chair another fraction away from the door, which is her version of I’m listening.
"Agenda Two," I said, and stopped there. The second is real and important, but it can wait until after dessert; that’s the rule I set for myself when I invited them. Family first. Then the world.
"LA LA LA," Rachel sang cheerfully, because she’s a menace. "Translation: he is meeting a princess and he’s trying to bury it under salad."
Cecilia smoothed her sweater like she was smoothing a deposition page. "If a princess appears after the salad, I reserve the right to say I told you so."
Seraphina raised a slice of orange like a toast. "If a princess appears at all, I am taking the fruit."
"Someone tell me why there would be a princess," Stella said, wrestling Reika’s hand down a heroic half inch. "What do you people know that I don’t know? Why am I the only person in this house who never gets clear answers?"
"Because you are twelve and we are chaotic," Rose said, doing nothing to help, eyes bright.
"Correct," Rachel added, unrepentant.
Reika, still covering Stella’s ears with one hand, pointed at me with the other like I was a suspect in a lineup. "Say your next sentence in G-rated terms."
I looked around my round table—two women who had let a twelve-year-old put a new name on them today; three who would find their way to that word when and how they wanted; a child fighting a dignified hand for the right to hear scandal; and me, a man who finally understood that the only politics that matter at home are the ones that make it easier to love each other.
"Two agendas," I said again, steady. "Both good. Both ours."
Rachel rolled her eyes and grinned. "Coward."
Cecilia’s mouth tilted. "Prudent."
Seraphina’s smirk deepened. "Cornered."
Stella huffed. "Conspiracy."
Reika calmly clamped her second hand over Stella’s other ear.
"Protected class," she said, deadpan.
Stella’s outraged "MOM!" was extremely clear anyway.