The previous night, Maria reminded Aunt Kate, "Tomorrow is the birthday of Director Johnson's daughter. Alex and I won't be home, so you can skip making lunch for us."

Upstairs, Karen was diligently prepping for school in her room. Having already climbed the stairs, Maria knocked on her door. "Do you have a break tomorrow?" she inquired.

Karen set down her pen. "Yes, I do. A three-day one," she answered, pausing in her studies.

Maria asked about her progress in ballet, and Karen rubbed her leg sheepishly. She could manage most moves, but the splits left her wincing in pain. At this, Maria furrowed her brow. "Then you can join me at the party tomorrow."

Mingling with other promising girls her age and widening her horizons could only be beneficial.

Karen had no objection. The following day, she donned a white princess dress Maria had prepared, cascading curls naturally around her shoulders, and joined Maria's parents for the party.

Industry titans rarely held back on opulence; this gathering was no exception, attended by all the notable figures. While the adults mingled over clinking glasses and hushed conversations, the children found their own company.

At the center of a cluster of girls was undoubtedly the star of the event—Emily, the only daughter of Johnson Group. With height and grace, she stood in a backless, cerulean gown, adorned with a jeweled tiara on her sleek hair. Compliments showered her sophisticated style, and she haughtily lifted her chin. "I'll have another gown for the cake cutting," she bragged. "My father commissioned it from a famed designer who only creates a handful of dresses a year."

The girls gasped in anticipation, but Karen remained on the outskirts, not knowing them well enough to join in. She was content unwrapping chocolates at her seat, allowing the imported truffles to melt luxuriously on her tongue.

When Blake arrived, the buzz around Emily's attire ebbed, all eyes shifting towards him with unwavering attention. He entered alongside his grandfather, who donned a tailor-made, vintage-style suit. The elder's presence commanded respect, drawing adults toward him for greetings and conversation, leaving Blake momentarily isolated.

"Have you noticed? Blake's looking more striking than ever," one of the girls observed, gaze lingering on him.

"Bet he has admirers back at school," mused another.

Chatter bubbled up:

"Think he’s seeing someone?"

"Longwhite High bans relationships, though."

"Teachers can't catch every secret crush."

One girl's attention sparked as she nudged Karen. "You said you're from Longwhite. Do you know if Blake is dating anyone?"

Karen, still naïve in affairs of the heart, mused aloud, "A girl who sticks around him, maybe?"

Hopeful glances fixed on her, but Karen shook her head—Blake seemed distant with everyone, regardless of gender.

These hints spurred the girls into action, crowding around Blake, clamoring for him to join them. Blake remained stoic, though annoyance simmered beneath the surface. Before he could settle in, Emily spat her venom, "Blake's just a pitiable wretch with a mother who didn't care enough to stay."

The playful atmosphere froze, and Karen's eyes traveled between Blake and Emily, unmoved chocolate melting on her fingers unnoticed.

Emily pressed on arrogantly, "His mom left him behind—really, you ought to pity this motherless boy?"

Several girls shared disapproval in furtive glances, restrained by their families' directives to keep Emily amicable.

Encircled, Blake sported a pristine white suit, impeccable against his ink-black hair, his demeanor unruffled except for the chill in his eyes pinning Emily into discomfort.

Recalling Blake’s expression when longingly looking at the sweets lady, Karen dropped the sticky chocolate back onto her napkin. She pushed through the indeterminate throng, reaching Blake’s side. "Let’s leave," she suggested simply, slipping her hand onto his sleeve without hesitation.

Maria’s instructions were clear—making friends wasn’t necessary, but crossing Emily could prove troublesome, given her father's singular indulgence. Nevertheless, Karen couldn’t leave Blake to fend for himself in such disdain.

She led him away, upstairs to the suites. She expected his pride to be bruised from such a public lashing, keenly aware of the personal jab. Once Blake was settled on the plush couch, Karen offered him a diamond-shaped chocolate wrapped in metallic gold foil, catching the light between his fingers.

With her own childhood spent without parents, mocked mercilessly as a 'wild child,' Karen knew the sting of belittlement amidst the sparkling eyes of unearned privilege. She patted Blake’s shoulder gently. “Don’t take her words to heart,” she consoled.

Blake remained silent, inscrutably quieter than usual as he followed her upstairs. Karen sighed, assuming he needed solitude; some souls withdrew to mask vulnerable emotions.

Exiting, Karen closed the door halfway, sneaking a glance at him stretched on the couch, an arm shielding his eyes. 

The suite was eerily silent, isolating them from the bustling ambience below. Its calm intensified the steady throb of his heartbeat, each beat echoing louder in the stillness. The corner of Blake’s mouth twitched into a reluctant smile—the fragility that captivates daring souls to venture beyond anticipation.

He rolled the chocolate in his palm, its smooth shell reluctantly yielding under pressure like a certain someone’s pale, slender nape. Contentment betrayed his cloyed demeanor as he thumbed the foil’s gleaming ridges idly.

Meanwhile, Karen took the elevator downstairs, passing an empty changing room. There, under the bright lights, stood a mannequin draped in a white gown, its surface glittering with crystals. Drawn in, she noted its solitary display—expectantly, Emily's cake-cutting attire.

Casually swallowing the once-melted, now solidified chocolate from her fingertips, she approached and decisively pressed her chocolate-marked hand on the dress's center stage.

Her mischief complete, she returned quietly to their table, finding Blake seated by his grandfather. She sidled up to him and leaned in to whisper, "I avenged you."

Warm laughter fizzed against Blake's ear like champagne bubbles, prompting him to turn and meet Karen’s sparkling eyes. “Watch the show,” she winked.

Squaring herself back with Maria, who cautioned her to behave, Karen feigned agreement, surreptitiously wiping stained fingers with a damp napkin. 

Twinged with no moral regret for her whim, especially when Emily took the stage with puffy eyes in an unremarkable lilac dress for cake cutting. 

The proud girl’s defiance had vanished, leaving her teetering on tears amid her father’s gentle soothing, "Don’t cry, Emily. Next year, you'll have an even grander gown."

The crowd’s applause rippled politely as cake cutting concluded. Karen glanced at Blake, their eyes catching; she winked coyly.

Blake chuckled softly, Karen seemingly unconcerned by potential surveillance.

To merely prank Emily—was that enough?

His eyes fell contemplatively before he let out a deep, wistful sigh.

Blake’s grandfather overheard, his tone brimming with admonishment. “What now? You protest every time I ask you to leave the room.”

The next instant, his steadfastly reticent grandson’s tears spilled unbidden.

The old man was taken aback; defiant reactions he could handle, but compliance meant something was amiss. Tears from Blake, however, were unprecedented since assuming custody.

After all, he was still a child, and his grandfather’s heart ached for many reasons: his fondness for Blake, alongside the boy’s soulful, tear-sparkling gaze which held not a whisper of weakness.

“Seeing Emily’s father doting on her reminded me of her accusing me of being a motherless child. She’s right—I lack that warmth,” Blake confessed quietly.

“Rubbish!” His grandfather banged the table, drawing startled glances around.

Those nearby couldn’t catch Blake’s soft words, left mystified about provoking such fury from the elder.

“My grandson, the Blake legacy, trifled with by a mere wisp of a girl!” the old warrior rose, striding away. “Back home; this meal’s ruined.”

Blake trailed his grandfather into the military vehicle awaiting them. Director Johnson hurried after, his face plastered with perfunctory charm. “General Blake, leaving so soon?”

Blake’s grandfather ignored him, ordering the driver to depart, leaving the director in a plume of exhaust.

Later, from his room, Blake overheard his grandfather’s emphatic phone conversation. Stealthily, he stood at the top of the stairs, eavesdropping. The old man’s voice buzzed with authority, “If Director Johnson can’t instill manners in his daughter, his venture’s no beacon of good practice. Time for reflection!”

Even a capitalist as keen as Johnson couldn’t breach the unyielding bastion of power. Blake suppressed a derisive laugh, unwilling to forgive Emily's patronizing slight.

Feeling buoyant, Blake rose early the next day, stirred by intentions to find Karen.

Was it for leisure or study? He hadn’t decided.

Maria’s Aunt Kate recognized Blake immediately, offering refreshments. Blake declined politely, “I’m just here for Karen.”

Aunt Kate pointed upstairs. “She’s been studying; hasn’t come down all afternoon.”

She offered guidance upstairs, but Blake refused.

Maria’s home boasted an expansive hallway of rooms on the second floor, with three studies alone. Blake located Karen’s room easily, its position mirroring his own. The door was ajar, the room empty.

Books piled on each other atop the desk. He idly flipped through one, discovering a doodle on the cover—a pig’s head, bordered with Blake’s full name.

It must have been scribbled when he annoyed her, he reasoned, then cheekily crossed out his name, writing Karen’s in its place before placing down the pen.

His own propensity for pettiness amused him; pushing the door exit open, he heard a faint noise, leading him to investigate the source.

A door, slightly ajar, admitted a sliver of light.

“Shift a bit more, yes, like that,” Maria’s voice instructed within.

Sketching, presumably? His artistic curiosity piqued, Blake nudged the door for a peek, soundless and discreet.

Light poured in, revealing a vacant room save for a cloth-covered dais, upon which a girl sat as if sculpted—Karen, draped in verdant fabric, her legs poised aslant, back unzipped, baring pale skin. Her hair flowed over a shoulder half-concealing its delicate hue.

Her features, gently inclined to the sun's touch, transformed into Maria’s artistry under Blake’s spellbound vigilance.

Although his will dictated departure, his feet betrayed him, rooted. He observed Maria's hastening strokes journeying across the exquisite surface, rendering an ethereal form from shadowy depth.

An unbidden rush of heat overwhelmed him, his mind's calm surface bubbled with tumultuous emotions, yet his visage remained inscrutable. Detached, he descended the staircase, coolly dismissing Aunt Kate’s inquiry, sat through dinner with his grandfather, and prepared for bed serenely.

Alone in sleep their boundaries dissolved, saturating his dreams with swathes of pink-fleshed warmth and tender sighs.

Awakening midst midnight’s stillness, he found the sheets damp, consciousness stark and unyielding behind covered eyes. 

He whispered her name softly into the darkness, "Karen."

How had it been her?