—      Wherever they are, the first born will always be the first —

***

       Back to the quiet office.

       Two hours. That was how long their business discussion had lasted. Now, finally, it was over.

       Seranna picked up her expensive handbag, standing as the two men beside her did the same. Lorcan and Jason. The names felt almost surreal now, considering their history.

       Handshakes were exchanged, formal and practiced, before they all moved toward the exit.

       “Care to grab some coffee in your leisure time, Madame?” Jason asked, smoothing down his grey tuxedo before casually unbuttoning it. He stretched slightly, waiting for her response with that ever-present smirk.

       Seranna barely glanced at him. “I’m busy this week. Maybe this whole month.”

       Jason raised a brow. “Hm? Why?”

       Lorcan was already inside the elevator, standing with his hands in his pockets, waiting. His sharp gaze flickered toward Seranna as she adjusted her dress and shrugged her tailored tuxedo higher onto her shoulders.

       Jason stepped into the elevator first, and she followed right after. Just as the doors began to slide shut, she finally answered—“Divorce.”

       A single word. Jason froze.

       His expression shifted from mild curiosity to full-blown shock—eyes widening, mouth parting slightly in disbelief. And maybe something else.

       “What?” His voice cracked slightly. “Divorce? But you just got married three months ago, for God’s sake!” His reaction was so exaggerated that Seranna almost rolled her eyes.

       Lorcan, standing beside him, exhaled through his nose—whether in amusement or boredom, it was hard to tell. He pressed the button. Seranna hummed slightly, a slow, almost detached sound before she finally spoke.

       "Can you stand a husband who’s never even touched you?" Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—sharp, unforgiving. "To him, our marriage was just a business deal. A transaction. No love, no affection. Just business. But to me? It was real. And I was willing to learn to love him."

       She let out a breath, tilting her head slightly as if the memory itself disgusted her. "And you know what?" A mirthless smile touched her lips. "He cheated on me."

Jason stilled.

       "Still in love with his former girlfriend. That son of a bitch..." she sighed, shaking her head.

       Silence. A heavy, suffocating silence.

       Jason hesitated, then—"You… okay?" His voice was softer now, lacking its usual teasing lilt.

       Seranna didn’t answer right away. Instead, she smoothed the fabric of her dress, adjusting the fit before meeting his gaze. "I'll be okay," she said, steady and sure. "I'm planning a revenge."

       Jason blinked.

       Seranna lifted her chin, her confidence unwavering. "I'll make him regret every decision he’s ever made—especially the part where he thought he could cheat on me. I’ll make sure he regrets everything."

       Jason watched her for a moment, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. Then, slowly, he nodded.

       "What a great idea," he mused, a smirk curling on his lips. "Good luck, Madame."

***

      The black sedan rolled to a stop in the garage.

       The chauffeur stepped out, swiftly opening the door for his employer. Seranna emerged with a measured grace, her heels clicking softly against the tiled floor as she entered the house.

       Inside, two maids were already at work, meticulously cleaning as they did every day. They straightened at her arrival, bowing respectfully. She merely nodded, acknowledging them before making her way to the kitchen.

       She sank into a chair, her fingers tracing mindless patterns on the cool marble surface of the counter.

       "Isaak..."

       She murmured his name, the syllables heavy on her tongue. He had left yesterday, storming out after their heated argument. She had stood her ground—she had to. But a part of her regretted it. Damn it, she loved him, even if only a little.      

       Yet, she couldn’t let herself break. She needed to prove that a woman didn’t always need protection, that she didn’t need a man to rely on. She needed to prove that she was independent, strong, capable. That she was Seranna Geraski.

       But still, Isaak Losif’s name refused to leave her mind.

       Three months. Three months of a marriage that was never truly a marriage.

       At first, she had accepted it—the way he never touched her, the way their relationship remained cold and unconsummated. It didn’t bother her then. After all, he had been gentle in other ways. He had spoken to her softly, always asking if she was tired, if she needed something. When work overwhelmed her, he helped without complaint. And when he looked at her—really looked at her—his gaze softened just enough to make her heart waver.

       That was how love had crept in. But then, she found out.

       He was still in love with his ex. Still meeting her. Still longing for her. And after that, everything changed. His voice turned cold, his words sharper than a blade. His eyes no longer held warmth—only resentment, only hatred.

       "We got married three months ago, Isaak, and you haven’t even touched me!” she had screamed at him, desperation bleeding into her voice.

       His reply had been cruel. "I haven’t touched you because I don’t love you. Because you disgust me. Because I love her—I love her so damn much, and then you came into my life and ruined everything! Do you know that?!"

       Seranna squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling sharply.

       "Damn..." Enough.

       She pushed herself up from the chair and strode to her bedroom. She needed to clear her mind, to breathe.

       Slipping into a silk nightgown, she let the cool fabric drape over her body, its softness a stark contrast to the turmoil in her chest. She climbed onto the king-sized bed—empty, always empty—and stared at the ceiling.

       What if she had married someone else? Would she have been happier? Married to Jason maybe. A bitter chuckle escaped her lips. If it had been Jason, she would have laughed every day.

       She closed her eyes, "God..." She didn’t know if she was praying for strength, or for something else entirely.

***

       Everything in life has its blessings and burdens, and being the eldest is no exception. As the firstborn, we are the pioneers, the ones who carve the path. We endure the pain, shoulder the weight of expectations, and take the brunt of reprimands. More often than not, we swallow the blame, whether deserved or not.

       From the moment we take our first breath, we are unknowingly assigned a role that shapes us for the rest of our lives. We are not just children—we are leaders, caretakers, protectors. The ones who must be strong, the ones who must always know what to do. But no one asks if we are ready for it. No one asks if we want this responsibility. It is simply given to us, and we bear it because we must.

       Do not judge our demeanor, our guarded expressions, or the walls we have built around ourselves. It is this role that has hardened our hearts, that has taught us to perfect our smiles—hiding everything beneath the surface. It is this role that has forced us to master self-control, even when, at times, we struggle to hold back the outburst threatening to escape.

       We have learned that crying feels like a forbidden act, that voicing our pain seems like a betrayal of the image we have carefully cultivated. We fear that once we let the floodgates open, we may never be able to close them again. So we hold it all in. Because we are the eldest. The strong ones. The ones who must not break.

       We have obligations. Responsibilities. We are expected to be the best, to be perfect in every way. Why? Because we are the first barricade, the shield that carries the family name forward. Behind us, the younger ones wait, looking to us for guidance. They rely on us to make their journey easier, to lead them down a path less treacherous than the one we had to endure.

       But no one prepared us for this journey. No one handed us a map, no one showed us the safest route. If life were an untamed forest, we would be the ones sent in first. We would be the ones to wander, lost and afraid, searching desperately for the clearest way forward. We would be the ones to stumble, to bleed, to bear the scars that remain hidden beneath our practiced smiles.

      Some of us were thrust into this wilderness unprepared, given no guidance, no supplies to survive. Some of us had to learn the hard way—through trial and error, through pain and failure. Others were luckier, gifted with wisdom and reassurance from those before them. But no matter the circumstances, we all had to survive.

       And we did.

      Every tree that grows in this forest has been watered by our tears, and sometimes, by the sheer determination that burns in our eyes.

       At times, we envy the younger ones. Their freedom. Their leniency. The way they are coddled, protected, spared from the strictness that shaped us. People say they are too fragile to be raised the way we were—too delicate for the discipline that hardened us into who we are today.

       But being the eldest does not mean we are unbreakable. Do you not see it? Does being the eldest mean we are forbidden from asking for help, from seeking comfort? We are not superheroes. We are not Iron Man or Black Widow. Not Superman or Wonder Woman. Not Vision or Wanda.

       You may see us as Merida or Raya, fearless and strong, but inside, we are just Rapunzel, longing for warmth. You may think we are Maui, powerful and unwavering, but inside, we are just Olaf, longing for an embrace.

       We need rest, too.

       We need a warm hug.

       We are the third parents, expected to guide our younger siblings through the safest road we have found. To clear the way, to spare them the hardships we endured. We do not claim that being the younger sibling is easy, but we want the world to know that being the eldest is the hardest role of all. And yet, despite everything, it is a blessing.

       Perhaps we were chosen for this role because the universe knew we were strong enough to bear it.

       And if life were a staircase—steep, slippery, and cruel—we would be the ones to climb it first. We would fight against the howling wind, struggling to keep our footing, because we know that behind us, our younger siblings are waiting. When the time comes, they will follow. We will hold their hands, we will lift them up, and we will throw them higher than we ever reached ourselves.

       Because that is what the eldest do.

       Always.

       And to our younger siblings—if we have ever raised our voices, if we have ever seemed harsh, please forgive us. It was never you. It was the weight we carried, the exhaustion we could not shake.

       But no matter what, we will always lead you down the best path we can.

       That is our promise to you.

***

       Lorcan let out a slow, weary sigh, his parents’ words still echoing in his mind. He leaned back in his chair, the weight of their expectations pressing heavily on his shoulders. His study was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of old books in the shelfs. Stacks of documents lay untouched on his desk, waiting for his signature, his attention. Yet, he hadn't even changed out of his formal attire.

       They wanted him to marry. They insisted, as if time were slipping through their fingers like sand. He was in his early thirties, sure—but was that truly a reason to rush? Marriage was not just an obligation; it was a commitment, a responsibility. And he wasn’t sure he could balance both business and a wife without failing one of them. Without hurting her. Without becoming the kind of husband he feared to be.

       His gaze drifted to the large framed photograph on the wall—a perfect image of a perfect family. He studied each face carefully, tracing the familiar features with his eyes. His father, stern yet proud. His mother, always composed, always elegant. Jason, with that ever-present mischievous smirk. And then, the twins—Celyst and Celyth—identical in looks, opposite in temperament.

       For a moment, he allowed himself to wonder—was perfection truly attainable, or was it just an illusion carefully maintained for the world to see?

       Lorcan wasn’t ready. Not for marriage, not for the expectations that came with it. The weight of responsibility already felt suffocating—handling the business, protecting his family, living up to the legacy his father had built. Adding a wife to the mix? It felt impossible.

       Finding a woman who could match his pace, his priorities, and his temperament was no easy task. He barely had time to meet women, let alone entertain the thought of commitment. Sure, he knew a few—colleagues, acquaintances, the daughters of business partners—but none seemed like they could truly fit into his world. His life was a constant storm of meetings, deadlines, and strategies. How could he ask someone to step into that chaos? How could he promise her happiness when he wasn’t even sure if he had space for love?

       He drummed his fingers against the desk, his mind restless. He hated this feeling—this uncertainty, this doubt gnawing at the edges of his resolve. With a heavy sigh, he reached up and loosened his tie, as if it could somehow release the invisible pressure weighing on him.

       And then, without meaning to, his mind drifted.

       Through the faces he knew, through the women he had crossed paths with. And then, there she was—Elanere. Seranna’s best friend.

       The thought of her lingered, uninvited. He could see her clearly, as if she were standing right in front of him. The sharp intelligence in her turquoise eyes, the way her brows furrowed when she was deep in thought, the subtle strength in her stance.

       Yet—

       “Fuck…” he muttered, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

       He wasn’t even sure why she had entered his thoughts. He barely knew her. But something about her presence had always unsettled him, made him feel like he was standing on unsteady ground.

       A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

       “Come in,” he called out, shaking off his distraction.

       The door creaked open, revealing Celyst. His little sister stepped inside, carefully balancing a tray in her hands. A warm mug of milk and a plate of cookies sat neatly on it. The sight made something in his chest tighten. She had always been the considerate one, the one who noticed when he was exhausted even when he said nothing.

       Without a word, he gestured for her to come closer.

       “Can’t sleep, pink bunny?” he asked softly.

      ***