Champagne Without Sparkle

The Schmidt residence had never been quiet during a celebration. It hummed. Crystal glasses chimed against one another. Polished floors reflected chandeliers like captured constellations. The house did not throw parties. It staged declarations.

Tonight was the engagement celebration of Gerlach Schmidt and Fenja Vogel.

And one door upstairs remained closed.

...UPSTAIRS...

Aloisia Schmidt sat at the desk in her childhood bedroom, the window slightly open to let in February air that bit at the curtains. Her posture was perfect. Her expression unreadable. On the desk lay a patient file from Munich University Hospital, recently transferred to her supervision for consultation.

Lumbar spinal cord trauma.

Chronic neuropathic pain.

Rehabilitation resistance.

Her pen moved in neat, decisive strokes.

Pain required structure. Rehabilitation required discipline. Emotions required neither.

Below, laughter erupted.

Aloisia did not look up.

Her phone vibrated.

She ignored it.

It vibrated again.

A third time.

Annoyance flickered across her face. She picked it up.

💬 Fen: Why aren't you here?

Aloisia stared at the message for a full ten seconds before typing.

💬 Aloi: I'm busy.

The reply came almost instantly.

💬 Fen: An excuse? Why? Are you jealous?

Aloisia’s jaw tightened.

Jealous.

An adolescent word.

She typed slowly.

💬 Aloi: Jealous of a cheater?

She pressed send.

Then placed her phone face down on the desk and returned to the patient file.

Her lips did not curve.

Her eyes did not soften.

She did not need to smirk.

She had delivered what she believed was a fact.

...DOWNSTAIRS...

Fenja stood in the center of the living room, surrounded by Gerlach’s colleagues and distant relatives. The champagne flute in her hand trembled almost imperceptibly.

Her phone screen glowed with Aloisia’s last message.

Jealous of a cheater?

For a split second, the noise around her dulled.

A cheater.

Seven years.

Seven years, and that was what Aloisia had reduced her to.

Fenja’s throat tightened. She locked her phone and placed it face down on the table.

She could picture Aloisia upstairs. Leaning back in her chair. Cold eyes glinting. Believing she had landed a precise strike.

Yes, it hit.

But not the way Aloisia imagined.

It didn’t wound Fenja’s pride.

It reopened something older.

Something that had never healed.

“Fenja?” Gerlach’s voice pulled her back. “Are you alright?”

She smiled immediately. Perfect. Bright. Controlled.

“Of course.”

He kissed her temple gently. She forced herself not to flinch.

Applause filled the room as Gerlach raised his glass to make a speech.

“My sister returned from Russia just in time for this,” he announced proudly. “It feels like the family is complete again.”

Fenja’s smile did not falter.

Complete.

If only he knew.

Throughout the evening, Fenja leaned into her role.

She adjusted Gerlach’s cufflinks.

She laughed at his jokes.

She let him hold her waist a little longer than necessary.

Every movement calculated.

If Aloisia would not come down to witness it, then the house would carry the sound upstairs.

Let her hear.

Let her imagine.

Let her think Fenja had moved on perfectly.

But the truth pulsed beneath Fenja’s skin.

She had not agreed to marry Gerlach purely out of revenge.

Revenge had been the spark.

But abandonment had been the fuel.

When Aloisia disappeared without a word, Fenja had searched. Called. Texted. Visited the Schmidt house only to be told Aloisia had left for “opportunities abroad.”

No explanation.

No confrontation.

No goodbye.

Just absence.

Eventually, anger replaced confusion.

And when Gerlach reappeared two years later with steady affection and a patient persistence, she had convinced herself of something dangerous:

If Aloisia could leave without explanation, then perhaps she had never truly loved.

That thought had hurt more than betrayal ever could.

So when Gerlach proposed again last year, Fenja said yes.

Not because she loved him the way she once loved Aloisia.

But because she was tired of being the one left behind.

...UPSTAIRS AGAIN...

Aloisia closed the patient file.

The noise from downstairs had intensified.

She walked toward the window.

From here, she could see part of the garden where guests spilled out with drinks.

She spotted Fenja instantly.

Of course she did.

Cream dress catching the light. Hair moving in the wind. Gerlach’s hand resting comfortably at her lower back.

It should have felt like something.

Instead, it felt like confirmation.

Aloisia turned away from the window.

She did not want to analyze why her chest felt tight.

The party ended near midnight.

Guests left in waves of perfume and laughter.

Doors shut. Engines faded.

Silence reclaimed the house.

Fenja climbed the stairs slowly, heels in hand. She paused outside Aloisia’s door.

A thin strip of light glowed beneath it.

She almost knocked.

Almost.

Instead, she whispered softly, though she knew Aloisia could not hear.

“You didn’t even ask.”

Then she walked to the guest room prepared for her and Gerlach.

...THE NEXT MORNING...

The Schmidt breakfast table was always formal. Even on ordinary days.

Porcelain cups. Silver cutlery. Fresh bread arranged like an art installation.

Aloisia entered precisely at eight.

Hair tied back. Phone already in her hand.

She sat without greeting anyone.

Moments later, Fenja entered with Gerlach.

She looked composed.

Too composed.

“Good morning,” Gerlach said cheerfully.

Aloisia nodded once without lifting her eyes from the screen.

Fenja watched her carefully.

No eye contact.

No acknowledgement.

As if Fenja were invisible.

Aloisia’s mother cleared her throat delicately.

“Aloisia,” she began, “now that you’re back… we’ve been thinking.”

Aloisia took a sip of coffee.

“Yes?”

“You’re twenty-eight,” her father added. “It may be time to consider your own future as well.”

Silence.

Gerlach chuckled. “They’re planning your wedding already.”

Aloisia scrolled through her phone.

“My schedule is demanding.”

“That is not an answer,” her mother insisted gently.

“We would love to see both our children settled,” her father continued. “After Gerlach’s wedding, perhaps we can arrange meetings. There are suitable families.”

Fenja’s grip tightened around her teacup.

Suitable families.

Arranged meetings.

The thought of Aloisia marrying someone else twisted unexpectedly inside her.

Ridiculous.

She was the one getting married.

She was the one wearing the ring.

So why did the idea feel like suffocation?

Aloisia finally looked up.

Her expression was unreadable.

“I am not interested.”

“You will not stay alone forever,” her mother pressed.

“That is a medical improbability,” Aloisia replied calmly.

Gerlach laughed.

Fenja did not.

She kept her eyes lowered, pretending to butter her bread.

Her mind, however, was spiraling.

What if Aloisia agreed?

What if she found someone colder? More polished? Someone who did not argue or demand explanations?

Would that erase everything they had been?

Aloisia’s phone buzzed again.

She answered an email mid-conversation.

Her detachment was surgical.

Fenja felt it like a blade.

“Fenja,” Aloisia’s mother said warmly, “perhaps you can help us find someone suitable for Aloisia. You understand her generation better.”

Fenja looked up slowly.

Help find her a bride or a groom?

Her lips curved into a polite smile.

“Of course,” she said sweetly.

Under the table, her fingers dug into her palm.

Aloisia did not react.

Did not look.

Did not care.

Or at least, that was the performance she maintained flawlessly.

...AFTER BREAKFAST...

As chairs scraped back and conversations dispersed, Fenja lingered.

Aloisia stood, slipping her phone into her coat pocket.

“For someone so busy,” Fenja said quietly, “you seem to have time for breakfast.”

Aloisia glanced at her.

“This is my parents’ house.”

“So you can attend meals but not your brother’s engagement party?”

“Yes.”

Fenja stepped closer.

“You really believe I cheated.”

“Yes.”

“Even after what I said yesterday?”

“Yes.”

The repetition felt like slaps.

Fenja’s composure cracked slightly.

“You didn’t even wait that day,” she whispered. “You saw one second of something and built a lifetime out of it.”

Aloisia’s eyes darkened.

“And you are marrying him.”

“You left me!” Fenja’s voice trembled despite her effort to control it. “What was I supposed to do? Wait forever?”

“I did not ask you to wait.”

“That’s the problem,” Fenja said bitterly. “You didn’t ask anything.”

For a moment, silence pressed between them.

Heavy.

Unresolved.

Then Aloisia spoke, her tone glacial.

“Your choices are yours. Do not attribute them to me.”

Fenja swallowed.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I am consistent.”

And with that, Aloisia walked past her.

Cold.

Untouched.

Untouchable.

But as she reached the staircase, her steps slowed.

Just slightly.

Because somewhere deep beneath layers of discipline and ego, a question had begun to form.

What if she had left too quickly?

She crushed the thought instantly.

Certainty was safer than doubt.

Downstairs, Fenja stood alone in the dining room, staring at the untouched bread on her plate.

Revenge was supposed to taste satisfying.

Instead, it tasted like regret.

The war had not begun loudly.

It had begun with silence.

And silence, when stretched long enough, becomes unbearable.

Winter had returned to Germany.

But beneath the frost, something restless was shifting.

Not love.

Not yet.

But something that refused to die.

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