Nia's Birthday – Part Three: Partytime

After breakfast, the house shifted into its second rhythm.

Fairy lights were strung, balloons knotted to chair backs, and a photo wall went up beside the piano. Place cards in looping gold script marked a long brunch table with cupcakes and a mocktail bar. Garrett’s household and Lexi’s attendants moved like clockwork—quiet, competent, invisible until needed. Nia—nineteen today—floated between stations, crown tilted just so, cueing playlists, signing off on the cake, and approving the photobooth props. She tried on what it felt like to host, to be adored, to make quick calls others rushed to fulfill. And the house obliged.

By evening, the estate bloomed with warm light and soft scent.

First came students—some known, others new, all curious. Then the mothers arrived, a trailing line of polished authority and subtle discomfort. And finally, the professors. Their presence was the most curious of all. Many had no wish to attend. But Octavia’s discreet information bounty—favors promised for whispers—had proven too tempting. Curiosity came dressed as duty.

Throughout the house a low, almost imperceptible music played. Not melody—atmosphere. Bass and breath. Frequencies meant to coax and cradle, soften thought, slow reflex. Faces eased. Voices mellowed. Even suspicion wore silk by nightfall.

At nine, Garrett raised a glass. The room settled into a hush.

"Before anything else," he said, "thank you for coming. And thank you, Nia, for taking me in—not just as a stepfather, but as your father. I love you, babygirl."

Nia blinked fast; a single tear flashed, then vanished behind her grin.

Garrett cleared his throat, smile tilting. "And because being a father means I’m required to be embarrassing at least once tonight, I brought a tiny video." He gestured toward the side door. "We’ve prepared headphones so it’s a little more immersive—humor me and put them on, please."

Lexi entered then, pushing a sleek cart stacked with matte black headsets—nested like luxury tech or sacred objects. Her expression was unreadable, her timing flawless.

"A short film," Garrett added lightly, lifting his glass again. "From the lab—with love. Please put these on."

They obeyed. They always did.

The lights dimmed. Shadows stretched.

For twelve minutes, the world shifted.

The film was visual poetry—symmetry, contrast, rhythm. Abstract but purposeful. Designed not to instruct, but to reshape. Garrett’s voice threaded through it like a current: calm, constant, intimate. There were no commands—only frictionless paths. People didn’t feel changed. They felt understood.

When the lights returned, the silence was reverent; a soft, collective exhale—as if waking from a nap that had somehow made everything better.

Garrett, Lexi, Simone, Nia, Farida, Maria, Ji, Zuleika, Professor Park and Professor Mahfouz stood apart—untouched. Observing.

"Daddy," Nia said, bright with inclusion. "What was that?"

Garrett smiled. "The result of my research, babygirl—and a promise. We’ll need allies everywhere: agents, capital, cover. Some we’ll cultivate for presence; a few we’ll shape for more." He smoothed a curl beneath her crown. "Choose two—your new best friends. I’ll see that they become everything you need when you join us at the university."

Nia took her time. She liked being watched while she chose. Her gaze settled on two: a petite Latina near the back with bright, uncertain eyes; a tall girl in a dark silk hijab standing by the door with careful hands folded.

"Those two," she said.

"Ji," Garrett said evenly. "Parlor. And please run the BFF-slut program we discussed."

“Yes, Master,” Ji said, inclining her head. She went to the young women and guided them toward the parlor; the chosen girls followed—shoulders loose, steps unhurried, as if the path had always been theirs.

"They’ll adore you," Garrett murmured to Nia. "You’ll be my little queen bee at the university." "Can I see them after?" she asked. "Yes," he said, kissing her forehead. "After cake and dancing—you may play with them the whole evening before we send them home. Enjoy your party. I’ll tend to our guests."

The room resumed its rhythm. Conversations reattached to their previous threads. Someone admired the smokeless candles. Someone promised to send an email on Monday. It was as if nothing had happened.

The playlist slid into an after-hours mix; the laughter thinned to clusters. A chauffeur text thread blinked on and off across the driveway. Somewhere in the hall, the old clock cleared its throat and chimed midnight, once for each month that had led here.

When the two new friends returned, they were different. Still themselves—same dresses, same hair—but softened. Wrapped in pale throws, their expressions serene. Their phones blinked on a side table with messages they wouldn’t open until morning. Nia beckoned them closer; they slipped to either side of her chair, leaning in—laughing a beat too quickly at her jokes, firing off eager questions (favorite class, favorite color, favorite place), and telling her how stunning she looked and how lucky they felt to be chosen. Every nod, every smile, came half a second after Nia’s, like a duet she was leading.

Plates returned half-full, candles guttered and steadied, and heels were carried instead of worn. Two mothers checked their phones the same way—screen up, quick grimace at the hour—then kissed Nia’s cheek and slipped into the night air.

Nia rose, fingers dusted with frosting. "Shoes," she said to her new friends—a single word, a single measure.

The Latina sank to one knee first, the hijabi followed. They fastened Nia’s heels with careful hands and grateful attention. Nia let them. She liked being obeyed without question.

Nearby, a once-defiant student approached with a drink. "For you," she offered, eyes softened.

"You’re learning," Nia said, taking the glass and turning away.

Down the corridor, staff ghosted through with silent trays and the soft clink of glass. The mocktail bar had gone sticky with sugar; the photo wall was a drift of prints pegged in neat rows—Nia at the center of nearly all of them.

Two professors lingered half-hidden by the alcove.

"Have you ever watched Prof. Hale take apart a problem? He’s the sharpest mind we have," one murmured. "This university is drifting—budgets, morale, standards. He should be dean."

"He should have been made dean years ago," the other replied. "If he ran the faculty, half our chaos would vanish overnight."

Across the room, a pair of IT staffers traded low comments:

"Hale’s the only one who sends clear briefs," one said. "The systems are on life support; leadership is the problem."

"Then give the job to the adult in the room," the other said softly. "Make him dean."

Simone watched, then leaned to Garrett: "You're almost there, babe." "Yes," he murmured. "Only three left."

The grandfather clock in the foyer struck one. Outside, the last rideshare idled with its blinker ticking like a metronome. Inside, conversation settled to velvet—names, promises, Mondays.

By now the house wore its late face—lights softened to gold, music barely breath and bass. Nia looked untouchable and nineteen and perfectly awake.

The music breathed on.

Nia approached with her two new friends at her heels. She rose on her toes to give Garrett a deep, grateful kiss. "May I take them to my room?" she asked, bright with mischief. "I want to end the night with a bang."

"Of course, baby," he said gently. "I’ll send everyone home right away."

Doors thudded softly in sequence; a cool thread of night moved through the foyer and vanished. The driveway emptied to dark stone and a scatter of confetti. Somewhere upstairs, a room light clicked off, then on again.

"You’re the best, Daddy," Nia said, beaming. She turned to her two new friends. "Come on, girls—let me show you my room." They laughed, delighted, and fell in happily at her heels.

Lexi arrived next with Anjila and Priya in tow. "Dad, may we have the basement to ourselves? I’d like to give them a proper introduction to Worthless."

"But of course," he replied.

"Thank you, Dad," Lexi said, and she, Anjila, and Priya slipped away toward the basement.

The clock struck two. Only house sounds remained—the long breath of vents, a far hinge, the faint electric hum that meant systems were listening.

Simone caught his sharp exhale and stepped closer, fingertips at his collar. "Long, tiring day?" she asked softly. "Shall I cheer you up a little?"

"I’m not tired," Garrett said, the humor gone. "I’m focused. Tense. We’re close." It felt like holding a note too long. "Everything has to work—the reckoning, the end of hiding, and the future we’re building."

Simone’s hands slid to his shoulders, kneading. "Once you have it all in hand—once my mother and Amita are out of the way—we’ll rally the like‑minded and bring Calvessia back to strength." She leaned in, voice low. "You should—tonight—clear your head. A little release. Shall I send Zuleika up and have her prepared for you?" "Mmh. Prepare her," Garrett said. "I’ll see our guests off and come after."

By the time the last taillights dissolved at the gate, the house had exhaled into its bones. 02:18 glowed on a forgotten phone. Upstairs, Nia’s door closed on a hush of laughter; down below, the basement door closed on nothing at all.