Birthday Candles

Elena pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes until sparks of static exploded behind her eyelids. She needed to stop shaking. She needed to walk down the stairs, smile at her mother-in-law, and blow out thirty-eight candles without vomiting.

*Active since 1996.*

The glowing numbers from the screen were burned into her retinas. Every step down the grand staircase felt like descending into deep water. The pressure grew with the noise. The clink of silverware, the murmur of polite conversation, the sudden, sharp laugh of Victoria St. Clair holding court.

Elena paused at the entrance to the dining room. She smoothed the skirt of her dress, her fingers brushing the fabric where a pocket should be. She wanted her phone. She wanted to take a picture of the screen upstairs, to prove she hadn't hallucinated. But she had left it on the desk, afraid that if she held it, she would throw it at Julian.

"There she is!" Julian’s voice was too loud, too cheerful. He detached himself from a group of local investors and crossed the room to her. "The birthday girl finally clocks out."

He slipped an arm around her waist. His hand was warm, familiar. Usually, this touch grounded her. Tonight, it felt like an accomplice’s hand.

"Did you finish?" he whispered against her ear, kissing her cheek. "Is the migration done?"

"It's processing," Elena lied. Her voice held steady. "It just needs time to upload."

"Wonderful." He steered her toward the head of the table. "Mother was just saying we should send a search party."

Victoria sat at the opposite end of the long mahogany table, a queen on her throne. She wore black, as she often did, diamonds glittering at her throat like shards of ice.

"Elena, dear," Victoria said, not rising. "We were about to start the soufflé without you. I told them you wouldn't mind. You've always preferred spreadsheets to socialising, haven't you?"

A ripple of polite laughter went around the table.

"I apologize, Victoria," Elena said, taking her seat. "I wanted to make sure the Trust's accounts were... perfect."

Victoria’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. "Perfection is a noble pursuit, Elena. Though some might call it an obsession." She raised her glass. "To Elena. Our tireless administrator. The woman who keeps our lives in such tidy little rows."

"To Elena," the room echoed.

Elena drank. The vintage Pinot Noir, usually her favorite, tasted like iron. She looked around the room, really looking at them. The banker who handled their loans. The family doctor who had delivered her own children. Did they know? Were they part of it?

Her gaze drifted to the gallery wall behind Victoria. It was the St. Clair legacy in monochrome and sepia. Julian’s great-grandfather in the vineyards. Victoria and her late husband on their wedding day in 1990.

Elena’s eyes moved down the timeline.

1994: Victoria pregnant with Julian.
1995: Julian’s christening. A solo baby in a christening gown that looked like a wedding dress.
1997: Julian’s first pony.

Elena blinked. She leaned forward slightly.

She scanned the row again. 1994. 1995. 1997.

There were no photographs from 1996.

It wasn't just that there were no photos of the twins. There were no photos of *Victoria* in 1996. No pregnancy shots from the second trimester. No hospital bracelet close-ups. No tragic, black-bordered portrait of the surviving twin alone in a crib meant for two.

The year had been surgically excised from the wall.

"Is something wrong, dear?" Victoria asked. "You look pale."

Elena tore her eyes away from the gap in the frames. "I'm fine. Just... tired."

"Of course you are." Victoria stood up, moving to stand behind Julian. "You work too hard. Julian, you really must take better care of your wife. She’s looking fragile."

She placed her hand on Julian’s shoulder. It was a possessive gesture, a mother claiming her son. But from this angle, Elena saw the tension in Victoria’s fingers. The knuckles were white. The nails dug into the fabric of Julian's suit jacket, pinching the muscle beneath.

Victoria's hand rested on Julian's shoulder, a grip that looked more like a claw than a comfort.