Birthday Surprise

Growing up, you planned to move out of your parent's house and never look back. You only succeeded at the first part. Over the years, you've managed to reduce your contact with your father to a few days a year. Your Birthday being one of them.

It's more or less the same every year: you go to his mansion and eat a five hundred dollar meal while he picks apart every single decision you've ever made to tell you how disappointing you are. You keep your mouth shut and let him go until the meal ends and he gives you a "present" to help you achieve your "potential." You usually drink yourself into a blackout once you leave and lose his gift along the way.

You hear the limo following you. You've long since learned to get in while it's easy. When you arrive at the mansion, servants usher you inside. You go through the process with memorized precision, removing your shabby clothes, washing the smell of city life from your skin, redressing into suitable attire.

Once you're presentable, you're seated at the dinner table. It's meant for negotiations, so the mere three seats leave the majority of the table disused. The seat obviously belonging to your father is positioned at the head while you sit to his left halfway down the table staring across at the other chair. You're not sure why it's there. The only reason you can imagine is that his eyes are going bad and he wants someone closer to watch you because one time you thought it'd be a good idea to listen to an ipod instead of his rant.

You wait for your father. You don't know how long it takes. Checking your watch wont make him show up any faster, and complaining about it is only so much wasted effort. He does come, as always, taking long strides up to your seat. He rests his hand on your shoulder and stares into your eyes. The table is set and the appetizers are served by the time your father breaks eye contact and finishes his trek to his seat.

"You haven't declared a major yet." You try to concentrate on the food. You don't normally consider shrimp with fruit. Maybe a handy lemon or lime, but it seems other citrus fruits work too.

"Why are you drawing this out? You already know your major; is it really so hard for you to schedule a meeting with your councilor? Do you need me to do that for you as well?" You really have to be careful with these. They're so juicy, you have to be mindful of drips and squirts. Of course, Dad will know if you stain the suit, and you wouldn't want to disappoint Dad with poor table manners on top of everything else, right?

"You know, I've always done my best for you. I got you in the right schools, I kept you nose clean, even when you decided to rub it in the dirt. I showed you your place in the world. I think I did a good job at parenting. Tell me, John, do you think you're justifying to all the effort that went into raising you? Do you think your living up to our name? I don't think so." Cloth napkins aren't great for getting grease off your fingers; you can still feel the grime even after scrubbing under the table.

"Apparently, I am unable to motivate you to use what I've given you, so this year I've decided to enlist some help." With that, the doors at the end of the dining room open wide. Rather than servants with the main course in hand, a brunette in a suit stands in the breach. she quickly moves to a side and presents a raven-haired girl in a bright red dress. She walk with confidence and grace as she moves to the seat across from you. The attending brunette swiftly rounds the girl and prepares the seat for her lady. Once she's in position, staring across with an oddly familiar predatory grin. the brunette takes her place behind her mistress' seat.