The Lyselle dining room, as always, was a picture of opulence. A spread of freshly baked croissants, artisanal jams, seasonal fruits, and other breakfast items that looked straight out of a five-star hotel buffet adorned the table. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air as Amara slouched in her chair, poking at her grapefruit half with all the enthusiasm of a child facing broccoli.
Helena, her mother, was already halfway through her second cup of coffee, flipping through a thick stack of papers with the efficiency of a battle-hardened CEO. Gerald, Amara's father, sat at the head of the table, reading the morning news on his tablet with the calm demeanor of someone who could face an economic collapse without breaking a sweat.
And then there was Elara. She sat across from Amara, looking radiant as usual, sipping delicately from her teacup like she was born to sit at a table that probably cost more than the average salary.
