Who Belongs to a King

The glass scattered like diamonds, glimmering under the lights.

The music stopped.

Conversations halted. Heads turned. Every camera lens in the room swung toward Stella, the bright red lights blinking like tiny eyes.

Even his eyes.

Stella strode to the center of the room, her heels clicking in the new silence. She stopped in front of Gypsy Khan, who raised an eyebrow and pulled the mic to his lips.

“Are you drunk, čhaje?” His voice echoed through the speakers, drawing scattered laughter from the crowd.

“Technically,” she replied, brushing shards of glass from her dress, “I’m only twelve percent drunk. The other ninety-eight percent… is my honest, true feelings. The math is probably wrong, but whatever.”

“Don’t do this, Stella.” Her father’s voice hissed from her phone, still clenched in her hand.

She raised the device, eyes locked on Fifty across the room, who stood frozen, confused. Her voice grew louder, dramatic—almost theatrical. “I don’t know how this came to be…” she began, “But a mere coincidence… a silent chance encounter… led me where I am now. And I couldn’t be more grateful.”

Fifty blinked, mouth slightly open.

“This coincidence that happened at a certain fair,” she continued, pacing now, the heels of her shoes marking the beat, “when I decided to hide in a cardboard box… bloomed unexpectedly… into love.”

“What are you planning, Stella?” her father’s voice came through the speaker, low and dangerous.

Stella finally reached Fifty, who looked at her like she’d just walked out of the sky. His confusion was almost endearing.

“Screw the reality show!” She declared, tossing the phone behind her.

“Stella! This isn’t over yet!” his voice screeched from the device one last time before it hit the floor. The display cracked right in the middle, splitting right through the caller ID: Father.

The line went dead.

She turned back to Fifty, who still hadn’t moved. “You, Fifty Mirga, already are a Gypsy King. My Gypsy King,” she said, voice firm and unshakable. “Because I, Stella ‘who belongs to a king’, love you.”

Before he could respond, she grabbed him by his wine-red tie, pulled him closer, and kissed him.

It wasn’t the nervous, fumbling brush of lips exchanged behind school lockers or the peck of two kids testing the waters. This was deliberate—a statement written in fire and stolen breath.

Gasps rippled through the crowd like birds startled from a treetop. Madona slapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide as if she’d just witnessed a public execution. Emynem, never one to waste a dramatic moment, raised his glass in mock salute, eyebrows almost hitting his hairline.

Fifty blinked, dazed and wide-eyed, like someone had just pulled his soul out through his mouth. Around him, heads turned, whispers flared, and for the first time, he realized just how many people were watching.

“Uh…” His eyes darted around, cheeks flushing. “I… smell a candle...”

Stella pulled back, her cheeks flushed but her expression triumphant. “Is that the new ‘I love you too’?”

Mesmerized by the moment, it took Fifty a few seconds to realize that Vajda Elvys was out cold, sleeping at the edge of the table. Alone.

“Crap!” He blurted. “Where’s Fate?!”

Before Stella could respond, Marshall’s voice erupted from the far side of the room, booming over the noise. “Woah, look here, people!” His tone carried the dramatic weight of a man auditioning for his own ego. He strode out of the storage room, hands thrown wide. “This boy… This Romani boy is…”

THUD!

The lights went out, plunging the whole House of Culture into darkness. Gasps flared up again—sharper this time, mixed with the clatter of chairs and hurried whispers.

“…stealing your money!” Marshall’s voice roared from somewhere in the shadows, like he was staging a radio drama.

“What the hell happened?” he hissed as only the emergency lights remained on. “The footage… the cameras won’t be able to record it now!”

Recorded or not, he had shouted it loud enough for everyone to hear. The guests surged towards the hallway like water through a broken dam, voices rising in confusion and accusation.

Fifty moved with them, eyes scanning the chaos. He pushed through the crowd until he found Jastin, just sitting there, his head in his hands, surrounded by the envelopes of money—right where they were supposed to be.

“Hehehe.” The laugh floated down from above, echoing off the walls. Heavy footsteps descended the stairs, slow and deliberate, each step creaking like it might snap.

Fifty squinted into the darkness. A flicker of light bobbed into view—a candle flame, dancing through the shadows, casting wild shapes against the walls. The figure stepped forward, holding the candle high in one hand, a familiar crystal ball in the other.

“You…” Marshall’s voice cracked with rage, and even his spit seemed to sizzle. “You tripped the circuit breakers?!”

Stella stared, eyes wide. “Madam of Maybes?!”

With a flourish that belonged in an opera house—or maybe a bad soap opera—Madam of Maybes emerged from the shadows, her shawl trailing behind her like the train of a wedding gown. She paused at the bottom of the stairs, the candlelight flickering across her face. “The fate… is not on your side, Marshall,” she intoned dramatically.

Marshall’s eyes bulged. “You people piss me off so much!” He whipped out his phone, thumbs fumbling over the screen. He pointed the camera at the crowd, his eyes wild. “Do something! Do something stupid or funny, damn it! I need footage!”

The crowd only stared back, unamused and slightly confused. Even Elvys had stirred awake, blinking groggily and squinting at the chaos. He raised one hand lazily. “I was already waking up,” he mumbled.

Through the murmurs and shifting bodies, Victor stepped forward, hands stuffed in his pockets like he was just out for a stroll. “Boss,” he started calmly. “I quit.” He swung a fist with the kind of confidence only born from pent-up frustration, cracking it squarely against Marshall’s jaw. The producer dropped like a marionette with its strings cut, phone skidding across the floor.

“What are you doing, Victor?!” Stella gasped, both hands clapping over her mouth.

“I’m choosing the side,” he said, his gaze drifting to Madam of Maybes. “If I wanted, I could’ve done this a lot sooner.”

Stella’s brow furrowed. “But I saw you slipping money to Khan!” she shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

Victor blinked, his expression flat. “So? I wanted him to play a ballad for Billie. Heard you slip a little lóve to the singer if you want a ‘live jukebox’ at a Romani celebration. But 500 crowns for one song? That’s borderline robbery!”

Madam of Maybes cackled, tucking the crystal ball under her arm. “Well, I don’t know what kind of circus you people were running, but it’s a good thing I came.”

“Mom?” Fifty’s eyes narrowed. He knew better than to think fate just aligned like this.

Madona pushed through the crowd, arms crossed. “I called her,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Since I do everything myself around here, I figured I’d handle the video too. Found out she does weddings and celebrations now.”

“Don’t show off,” Emynem muttered, slightly tipsy as he swirled the drink in his hand. “I told you we should’ve hired a second cameraman. We didn’t even know how long the TV guys would stick around!”

Fifty rubbed his eyes, half-laughing. “Of course you did.”

Chapter 18: END