The chandeliers of Edevora's royal palace glittered like a thousand tiny stars, suspended above a ballroom soaked in gold and grandeur. Music floated through the air—violins singing in harmony with murmured conversation and the gentle clink of champagne glasses. It was the 60th birthday celebration of His Majesty, King Robbert Theodore Volemont, and only the most elite from across the globe had received the golden-embossed invitation.
Among them stood the Martin Adekule family—Nigerian billionaires known for their vast international conglomerates.
Jahzara Martin Adekule, draped in a deep emerald gown that complimented her caramel-toned skin, stood beside her mother, silently surveying the room. Her brothers, Toby and Isreal, had already disappeared into the crowd—Toby laughing with a Danish princess, Isreal locked in conversation with a Scottish heiress.
Her mother, tall and regal in posture but cold in affection, sipped her wine slowly. She barely spoke, and Jahzara knew better than to break the silence.
The atmosphere was suffocating in its perfection.
Then her father—Chief Elias Adekule—cut through the crowd with the practiced charm of a man used to power. His eyes, usually sharp with calculation, now shimmered with something else: pride.
"Jahzara," he said smoothly, extending a hand toward her. "Come with me."
She blinked, startled. Her father never summoned her in public—never looked at her like that. With quiet grace, she followed him across the ballroom.
They approached a cluster of royal guards standing in a half-circle. Inside it was the king himself, laughing heartily with a Spanish duke. King Robbert Theodore Volemont—tall, silver-haired, and lionlike in presence—looked every bit the monarch the world had come to respect.
"Your Majesty," Elias began, bowing slightly. "May I introduce my daughter—Jahzara Martin Adekule. A brilliant young woman. Graduated top of her class at Cambridge. Speaks four languages. A rare jewel, even among the finest."
Jahzara froze, the words like a strange perfume in the air—sweet, foreign, and cloying.
The king smiled warmly and extended a hand. "A pleasure, Miss Adekule. Your father speaks highly of you."
She curtsied with practiced elegance. "Thank you, Your Majesty."
But inside, her thoughts spiraled. Why is he praising me now? When has he ever spoken of me with pride? When has he ever truly seen me—not just as a daughter, but as a person?
She smiled politely as the king chuckled and continued his conversation. Her father stood tall beside her, his arm on her back like a man who had finally discovered his daughter's worth—but only now that it served a purpose.
Yes, they had wealth. She had designer clothes, the best schools, the world at her feet. But never a father's love. Never a mother's warmth. Her life was all silver spoons and silence.
Tonight, she thought, watching her father grin like a fox beside the king, something is being arranged. And whatever it is, it's not about me. I'm just a piece on the board.
The music swelled. The party sparkled. And behind her smile, Jahzara felt the walls closing in.