Envelopes, Dance and…

Jastin Presley was clutching his phone like it was about to explode. He stood just outside the main hall, hunched over and shaking, whisper-yelling into the receiver.

“I didn’t want to do this!”

His voice echoed a little too loudly. He clearly thought no one could hear him.

“Hey, you good?” came a voice from behind.

Jastin jolted. He spun around to find Fifty staring at him with mild concern and a cup of grape soda.

“Gotta go!” Jastin blurted into the phone and hung up like it was radioactive.

Fifty squinted. “Why do you look so spooked?”

Jastin rubbed his face. “My mom. She asked how things are here...”

“Oh, right. Moms.” Fifty gave him a knowing nod. “They love harder than anyone and terrorize better than half the military. Come on. The congratulations are starting.”

Back inside, the lights had dimmed slightly, and the band had shifted into a soft, nostalgic ballad. Something slow.

Emynem stood at the opposite side of the stage within the House of Culture, his white suit practically glowing, his shoulders held proud—but his eyes already swimming. The tears weren’t dramatic, just... honest. A man looking back on a life still being lived.

First to approach him, as tradition dictated, was Madona. She moved slowly but firmly, like someone who knew she wasn’t just fulfilling a custom—she was offering a lifetime of everything. When they embraced, neither tried to hold the tears back. They weren’t crying for attention. They were crying for the parents who couldn’t be there. For the past fights. For the way they had still made it, somehow.

She gifted him a thick gold necklace, a heavy pendant hanging from it like a medal of survival. Emynem didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Next came Fifty.

He stepped up, cleared his throat once, then handed his father a gold bracelet—the perfect match to his mother’s gift. Emynem took it with reverence. The hug they shared was tighter than most. Longer, too.

After him – as a partner of the son - came Stella.

Though she wasn’t Romani, wasn’t part of the tradition, she moved with quiet grace. Just a small envelope and a respectful bow of the head and a few kisses on both cheeks.

The whispers started.

“Who’s that šhukár čhajori?”

“Do you mean that gádži?”

“That’s Stella Kralová. The Kralová. Apparently, she’s dating Fifty now.”

Then came the rest—one by one, people lined up to shake Emynem’s hand, kiss his cheeks, offer envelope presumably with money. Since there was almost a hundred of people, it took a while.

When the music gently faded, Emynem made his way to his designated throne at the top of the U-shaped table.

To his left sat his son. Beside Fifty, Stella. And to his right, the indomitable Madona, watching the room like a hawk in heels.

Fifty remained standing.

He raised his glass—sparkling wine catching the glow of chandeliers—and tapped his fork gently against it. A soft chime made the crowd go quiet.

“I’ll keep this short,” he said. “Mostly because I’ve been on my feet for six days straight and my knees are now older than my dad.” Laughter.

He paused, looked toward Emynem and then delivered his heartfelt speech about how proud he was and how he wished his dad at least another 50 years of happy and healthy life.

He lifted his glass.

“Happy fiftieth!”

The hall clinked in response, everyone raising their glasses and murmuring ‘Cheers!’ in unison.

Once the applause faded and everyone resumed their seats, the waiters came bustling out like clockwork. Bowls of hot chicken-vegetable soup appeared first—steamy and full of floating carrots and soft noodles.

Then came the main course: pork wrapped in bacon, served with half rice, half potatoes (because why choose?), and a crunchy salad full of cabbage and vinegar bite.

“Looks like we’re getting fed for the next three hours,” Stella whispered to Fifty as she took a bite.

“Yup,” he whispered back, already digging into the pork. “Welcome to Romani time.”

And somewhere in the middle of it all, the cameras kept rolling, but for once... nobody seemed to care.

After dinner plates were cleared and the murmurs of full-bellied guests faded into laughter and anticipation, Madona gave a sharp nod toward Gypsy Khan and his band.

A slow, romantic ballad drifted into the air. Emynem’s favorite.

To everyone’s mild shock, Michael Merkury could sing as well as he could rap. And not just decently—his voice was smooth, textured with soul, and touched with a showman’s finesse.

“Alright,” Fifty whispered, leaning close to Stella’s ear as the music filled the hall, “now they’ll do the traditional birthday solo dance, and then... it’s our turn.”

Stella blinked. “W-w-what do you mean ‘our turn’? I didn’t subscribe for this!”

“Do you regret coming already?”

The married couple—Emynem and Madona—stepped onto the floor, hands clasped, hearts in rhythm. Their dance wasn’t flashy or rehearsed. It was honest. Familiar steps guided by decades of ups and downs, of arguments turned into laughter, of bills paid late but love always showing up on time.

Guests gathered into a wide circle, surrounding them, slowly dancing along as they moved step by step one-way.

Fifty took his place beside Stella, holding her hand on one side and Billie’s on the other.

“So are we going to switch in and have our own solo?” Stella leaned in and shouted over the music.

“Nope,” he grinned. “In about ten seconds, I’m going to ask my mom to dance. While I’m dancing with her… you’ll be dancing with my dad.”

Her face drained of color. “What?!”

“Now!”

“That wasn’t ten seconds!”

Without another word, Fifty darted forward, took his mother’s hand, and began dancing with an enthusiasm that barely made up for his lack of rhythm.

Stella, frozen, glanced helplessly toward the circle—only to find Emynem already offering his hand with a charming smile.

“Good thing the TV’s here,” Fifty muttered to Madona. “This way we could cut on cameraman costs.”

“Shut up and focus,” she said firmly but couldn’t resist the laughter.

Meanwhile, Stella followed Emynem’s lead, letting herself move through the steps despite the awkwardness. She whispered, “I hope I’m not embarrassing myself too much.”

“You’re not,” Emynem said, voice low and warm. “You’re doing great. You’re amazing. And gorgeous.”

That earned him a blush and a shy smile.

Then Billie arrived, asking for a dance with Emynem. At the same time, Victor—who appeared literally out of nowhere—offered his hand to Madona.

“Can I?” he asked, voice smooth like he was already part of the family. She raised a brow but accepted with grace.

Everyone—cousins, friends, even neighbors who didn’t know whose side they were on—got a turn dancing with either Emynem or Madona.

Then Gypsy Khan grabbed the mic.

“Happy Birthday to you, Mr. Mirga! And this one’s for you!” He grinned and barked an order to his band, who launched into a wild, roaring csárdás. The formalities were over.

The real party had begun.

Fifty decided it was the perfect time to grab the chilled bottle of pink wine for him and Stella he'd stashed earlier in the storage room, where his mother left Emynem’s birthday gifts along with the envelopes.

But just as he pushed open the side door, he stopped.

Jastin Presley stood there, half-crouched like a guilty cat.

His hands were full.

Full of envelopes.

And the envelopes were full of money.

Fifty’s voice was calm, too calm. But his eyes were furious. “What the hell are you doing?”

Jastin froze. A drop of sweat trickled down his temple.

Then a new voice cut through the moment.

“Oh, this... this is finally the sauce we need to show the world!” Producer Marshall Fate stood there with a camera, gleaming like a vulture who’d found fresh roadkill. He was recording.

Meanwhile, Stella scanned the dance floor with increasing impatience. Fifty had vanished too long. Where was he? Maybe he got caught in conversation. Or spilled something.

But before she could even think of searching for him, her phone buzzed inside of her purse.

“D…Dad?” Her mouth opened slightly. Her thumb hovered. She picked it up. “What does a loving father who technically left his daughter run away from home, then sign a stupid contract and then-“

A deep, calm voice crawled into her ear.

“That red dress suits you well.”

Her breath caught. Her spine stiffened.

Her eyes slowly scanned the crowd.

“H-how... do you know what I’m wearing?”

Chapter 16: END