Gathering of Glamour and Chaos

Fifty stood just outside the gate of their house, phone pressed to his ear.

“You want me to come as your… partner?” Stella asked, voice level but teasing.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, my mom insists. She says you have to experience what the gypsies are really about.”

A pause. Then she sighed. “I wish I could. But I believe that being with one of the finalists on the camera like this would breach the contract…”

“Really? What does the contract say?”

“That in such cases I would be fined in the amount of 100,000 crowns, haha.”

“Are you serious?!”

“Technically, I’m only eighty-five percent serious. The rest is just a nervous laughter.”

Fifty stopped pacing and leaned against the gate, frowning. “Where would you even get that kind of money?”

“From my dad, of cou—” She caught herself mid-sentence. “You know what? Let’s go.”

“What…?”

“Yeah, I wanna come to the celebration party! Is there anything I can help with?”

Preparations for the grand event at the Mirga household didn’t just occupy their schedule—they consumed the next six days entirely.

At the very last minute, Madona managed to secure a smaller House of Culture in the village of Shoporunya, just a ten-minute ride from Shintawa.

Invitations were sent—even to the relatives they’d sworn never to speak to again. Hectoliters of alcohol were transported with military precision. Madona haggled fiercely with the gypsy band (“What do you mean 18,000 crowns a night?! Are your violins gold?”), while cakes were ordered, snacks bulk-bought, and the men dusted off suits reserved for Christmas, funerals, and vaguely-defined “important occasions.”

The women, of course, were smarter. No one was caught dead in the same dress they’d worn five years ago in Rewutsa. A gypsy memory is long, and gypsy gossip is longer.

The big day arrived.

If you didn’t know it was Emynem’s 50th birthday, the shiny white suit did all the talking.

Madona, in a rare show of humility, wore a tasteful blue dress—only because she’d promised not to outshine her husband again.

The event officially began at 5 PM, but the Mirgas were at the venue by 3:30—because of course they were. They needed time to panic before pretending they were calm.

Fifty, looking surprisingly grown-up in a dark blue suit and wine-red tie, stood outside the House of Culture like a nervous best man.

He was waiting for her.

A taxi pulled up. He straightened his posture.

The door opened.

And out stepped... Marshall Fate?

He wore jeans, sneakers, and a rumpled button-up shirt that looked like it had been ironed by a toddler with arthritis.

“What are you doing here?” Fifty frowned, genuinely offended.

“I’m here to make sure the footage from this thing is actually usable. The rest of the contestants were boring like elementary school drama. Even Khan. The most famous rapper? Oh please.That guy’s career must’ve been a fluke.”

Fifty’s jaw clenched. “Look, I don’t like Khan much either, especially after our last encounter. But his career, achievement and success in not only music industry inspired a generation of Romani boys to feel proud of who they are. So don’t laugh at other people’s dreams, Fate.”

“Big words from someone whose dream is literally to sit.”

“Go inside. Have some vodka. You’re lucky my parents raised me right—otherwise, I’d punch you in that face of yours.”

Marshall gave a dry chuckle and disappeared inside.

Then—a voice behind him.

Gentle, playful, utterly disarming.

“How do I look?”

He turned.

There she was.

Stella.

Her wine-red dress matched his tie. Her heels clicked softly against the pavement. Her hair curled just slightly at the ends, and her smile... didn’t belong on a reality show. It belonged on a mural.

“You look...” he swallowed. “Epic.”

She laughed softly, touched his arm, and let him lead her inside.

When Stella stepped into the hall and saw the full setup—tables arranged in a U, pristine white tablecloths, a forest of candles, the golden 5 and 0 balloons bouncing gently in the breeze—her jaw dropped.

“Whoa. I didn’t know this was a wedding.”

Each table had four bottles of soda, four different brands of alcohol, miniature cakes, salty snacks, and enough lace napkins to upholster a limousine.

“It’s not,” Fifty said with a shrug. “This is just how we do it.”

“Isn’t this... a little overkill?”

Cue Marshall Fate, now armed with a glass of pink wine and unsolicited opinions. “By the looks of it, this setup must’ve cost at least 150,000 crowns. Personally, I’d rather spend that on an exotic vacation with my whole family.”

“Nobody asked you,” Stella shot back, channeling her inner razor.

At that moment, Emynem stepped in, white suit catching the light like a disco ball. “See, that’s the difference between us gypsies and you white people. You think about money. We think about people. We throw parties so that family, friends—even enemies—come together. You never know which celebration might be your last. So we live, we dance, and we remember.”

“Dad,” Fifty said cautiously, “I kind of agree with this sorry excuse of a producer.”

“Yeah, yeah, we know your viewpoint.” Emynem waved him off, then handed him a large bottle of vodka. “Here. Go stand at the front and welcome our guests like a proper host.”

“Can I come too?” Stella raised her hand like a schoolgirl asking to go to the bathroom.

Emynem gave her a wink and a nod.

The two of them took their place by the entrance, manning a tall table stacked with dozens of clean glasses.

“I feel a little embarrassed,” Stella admitted, lowering her voice. “Just putting money in an envelope... it feels lazy. Like I didn’t put any thought into a gift for your dad.”

“And what else would you give him? Another toaster?” Fifty smirked, arms crossed.

“No, I just—”

“Look, it’s fine.” He waved a hand, voice dropping into reassurance. “Everybody calls it a ‘present,’ but really, it’s just a contribution. Think of it like a ticket fee. You’re covering your seat at a very loud, very sparkly, slightly chaotic five-course family opera.”

“Ohhh, that actually makes sense,” she said, visibly relieved. “So even if the whole thing is expensive, the guests help soften the blow a bit?”

“You’re a clever one,” he winked.

The first guests to arrive were Elvys Vajda Eilish and his family. Dressed sharp, respectful nods all around, a polite surprise flickered across his face at seeing Stella standing beside Fifty. But he didn't comment. Just shook hands, accepted the welcome shot of vodka, and continued inside with his calm dignity.

Guests kept arriving. Some familiar, others forgettable. Fifty juggled between greeting people, clearing used glasses, and asking the waiters for more.

Then, to his surprise, Billie Timberfake entered with her two boys in tow. She looked stunning in a neatly pressed floral dress—modest, graceful, the kind of look that said “mother” more than “contestant.”

Turned out she was family—distantly. Madona’s cousin’s daughter. She just hadn’t recognized her before; the last time they’d seen Billie, she was twelve and mostly knees and sass.

Fifty offered her a shot of vodka.

“Oh no, I’m driving later,” she said with a kind smile.

Next came the ever-conflicted Jastin Presley, walking in like he’d made peace with being miserable about it.

“I’m not even surprised,” Fifty muttered. “But still, what are you doing here?”

“I don’t know why I’m here.” Jastin looked genuinely exasperated. “My mom got the invite but she’s sick, so she sent me. I don’t belong here. I like techno. I hate dancing. And I’m not even a gypsy!”

“Oh, here’s the čhávo!” Madona beamed as she hugged him and kissed both his cheeks. “How’s your mother?”

“Fine, thanks.”

Fifty stared daggers at his mom. “Mom?”

“What?” she shrugged. “We were invited to his late grandfather’s 70th birthday ten years ago. We had to return the favor.”

“This is bullshit.”

“Well,” Jastin sighed, reaching for the welcome vodka, “might as well make the most of it.”

He downed two shots in a row.

“Sokeres, more? Don’t faint on me,” Madona laughed, giving him a hearty slap on the back.

“I’m good.” He coughed. “I’m bokhalo, though.”

“Wait for the food, boy.”

As he wandered off, Stella blinked. “He… spoke Romani?”

“That’s a ‘white’ gypsy for you,” Fifty said with a smirk.

Just as they settled back at their welcome station, Stella jinxed it.

“Alright, only one missing now—Michael Merkury. Then we’ll be complete.”

“Don’t summon him—”

“Drop dead!” an irritatingly high-pitched voice boomed from the entrance. “Sorry I’m late. My expensive luxurious car was too fast, so the phandle pulled me over!”

Fifty turned, bracing himself. “What family ties do I have with you now?”

“None, you dickhead,” Khan grinned, striding in like he owned the place. “Your mom called me ‘cause she couldn’t get any other band. So I brought mine.”

“Oh, so the others were busy or expensive, and you were free and cheap?” Stella teased, lips twitching.

“I just came to s-scout the competition! Temeraf!”

He stomped past them with chin high, but the moment the mic was on, he was all smiles again, testing the sound with his band.

“The more Romani words you use in sentence, the more Romani you are, eh?” Fifty whispered to Stella with a giggle.

And just like that, the stage was set.

The guests had arrived. The drinks were flowing. The music was warming up.

Now, the party could begin.

Chapter 15: END