His Favorite Color

Katia

I woke up to the sound of people singing badly.

"Happy birthday to you..." I blinked hard against the sunlight filtering through the curtains, my brain slow to reboot. The voices were getting louder, and for a second, I thought I was dreaming. A really weird, off-key dream.

"Happy birthday, dear Katia..."

My bedroom door flung open. I sat up so fast the blanket tangled around my legs like a trap. My vision adjusted just in time to see a small parade entering my room, Delia leading the way with a cupcake on a tray; Dad trailing behind her, holding a phone like he was filming a hostage video; and then, my mother, smiling. I nearly choked because my mom has never smiled at me.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," she said; her voice was smooth and artificial, like she'd sprayed it with perfume before letting it out of her mouth.

I stared at her like she'd grown a second head. Because here's the thing: Martha didn't do birthdays. Not mine, anyway. Delia got birthdays. Princess themes, balloons, new dresses, and a chorus of relatives pretending they liked each other. I got awkward silences and last-minute gas station cards. I once got a vacuum cleaner. I was twelve.

So this? This felt like a setup.

"Um... thanks?" I said, my voice rough from sleep and suspicion.

Delia plopped the tray down in my lap like she was presenting a peace offering. "I made the cupcake myself," she said sweetly, which meant the maid probably did it while Delia supervised with a glass of wine.

I looked down at it. Vanilla with white frosting and one lonely candle jammed in the center like a warning flare.

"Blow it out," my dad said cheerfully, but his eyes were doing that thing they always did when he was nervous, darting around like they were looking for an exit.

I narrowed my eyes. "Okay, seriously. What's going on?"

My mom gave a soft laugh, as if I was being silly for having the correct instincts. She sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing the comforter as if she'd ever touched it before.

"You're twenty now," she said gently. "That's a very important age."

"Cool," I said, unimpressed. "Should I be bracing for a tax seminar or something?"

Delia giggled. Dad coughed.

Mom kept going, undeterred. "You're a woman now, Katia. And your father and I have something very exciting and important to tell you."

There it was. The sting in the frosting. The trap under the ribbon.

I sat up straighter. "Okay..."

She looked at me like she was about to hand me a tiara. "You've been chosen to marry Julian Windsor."

The room didn't go quiet; it went hollow.

For a second, I couldn't even process the words. I stared at her, waiting for a punchline, a camera crew, or something.

"Who?" I asked, even though I'd heard her perfectly.

"Julian Windsor," she repeated, like I was the dumb one. "The Windsor heir. Their family has been interested in an alliance for years. You were betrothed when you were sixteen."

I blinked. "What?!"

Dad gave me a sheepish look. "We didn't want to overwhelm you at the time."

"At the time? You mean when I was sixteen?!"

Mom's smile never wavered. "It was a strategic match. His family is very private. Very powerful. This is a good thing, Katia. You're incredibly lucky."