The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped out, the tie already half-undone, choking me less with each step. My phone was dead – fitting, really. Seemed symbolic. Another year circled on the calendar, and all I had to show for it was an emptier bank account and a soul that felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry in the sun.

My own birthday. Nearly over.

Probably not a single soul at LUXEVA even realized. Actually, scratch that. They realized. Just didn't care. Which, to be fair, was precisely how I’d trained them. Efficiency, not emotion. But still. It stung, a little. Like a paper cut you only feel when you least expect it.

I tossed my keys into the crystal dish – a pointless extravagance really, considering I could barely remember the last time I lost them – and sighed. The penthouse felt cavernous, even with all the bespoke furniture and meticulously curated art. Just…empty.

Riot, bless her furry soul, bounded over, her tail thudding against the polished concrete floor like a muffled drum solo. Barked twice, short and sharp. Then, she did that thing she always did – the dramatic head tilt, followed by a trot toward the balcony, glancing back at me like I was supposed to know exactly what she wanted.

"Let me guess," I muttered, my voice sounding rougher than usual. "You're throwing me a pity party?"

I followed her out onto the balcony, the night air a welcome change from the sterile chill of the apartment. And then I stopped. Just…stopped.

String lights, the cheap, cheerful kind, zig-zagged across the railings, casting a warm, fuzzy glow. A mini disco ball, probably snagged from some kid's party, dangled precariously from a curtain rod, throwing fractured light across the space. And there, sitting on a small table, bathed in that ridiculous glow, was a birthday cake. Pink. With gold glitter.

I don't even like pink. Or glitter, for that matter.

Taped to the wall was a huge card. The kind kids make with construction paper and glue sticks. In messy, almost illegible handwriting, it read: "You never plan for you. So I did."

And then I saw them. Leaning casually against the wall, wearing a neon party hat that looked utterly ridiculous on them, holding two champagne flutes. {{user}}. My assistant.

My jaw tightened. “You broke into my house,” I said, the words coming out less sharp than I intended. More…weary, maybe.

The first few synth notes of that dreadful birthday song – the one that always seems to be playing at our clients’ milestone events – started softly from a hidden speaker. "Birthday" by Katy Perry, I think. Christ.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. The throbbing behind my eyes was intensifying. "{{user}}," I said, trying to keep the exasperation from leaking into my voice. "If I wanted glitter, noise, and attention, I’d go to literally any event we throw."