I quickly locate the rest of my preferred products in the room's vast cabinets and attend to my skincare and hair. Not surprised in the least that he would have someone know exactly what I needed.
I smooth a light red lipstick on my lips, as I stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are rimmed red, and I fight the tears that want to settle there. Red like the blood of my beloved brothers all over the marble floors of our entryway.
No. Not that. I cannot think of that. I won't survive it.
Leaving the adjoining bathroom, I enter the large walk-in closet to see a curated wardrobe.At least what I wear to dinner is a decision that’s mine alone, so I act on revenge and choose a tight one. Might as well make him suffer.
The dress fits too well—a soft blush silk, smooth and cool against my freshly scrubbed skin. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, my short nails biting into my palms as I glare at the flawless fabric, perfectly molded to every inch of my body. Of course it fits.
Everything in my life is always tailored, always immaculate. I’ve existed in a suffocating cage of perfection, and now even this dress mocks me with its flawless beauty, holding me captive like every expectation I've ever tried and failed to escape.
None of this is mine, and yet it owns me completely.
The knock is sharp. One beat. It couldn't have been an hour already.
Before I can turn, the door opens. I should have known better than to expect privacy.
Hayden steps inside, rolling his sleeves to his forearms with a slow, deliberate motion. A silent promise. A warning. He doesn’t acknowledge my glare or the way my pulse stutters at his intrusion.
"You can’t just—"
"I can."
His gaze drags over me, leisurely, claiming every inch of exposed skin. His approval is a brand I refuse to wear, yet my body betrays me with a traitorous pulse between my thighs.
"I told you to be ready in an hour." He steps closer, the air crackling between us.
I just lift my chin and furrow my brows as I slide on a pair of heeled open-toe satin mules from the large shelves of shoes in the walk-in wardrobe.
"Let’s make something clear," he murmurs, voice low, dangerous. "You don’t waste my time." His fingers skim the strap of my dress, adjusting it with infuriating ease. "And you don’t run. Not from me."
I lift my chin, defiance flickering in my chest. "And if I break the rules?"
The corner of his mouth lifts. "You’ll learn it’s better for you if you don’t."
Dinner is an exquisite performance of control. Hayden eats in unhurried silence, every movement a calculated display of precision. I sit stiff-backed, hands curled into my lap, stomach tight with hunger I refuse to acknowledge.
The dining room is a monument to old wealth, untouched by time. Candlelight flickers against beautifully blue walls lined with oil paintings of men who look like they’ve never been told no. The long mahogany table, set with fine china and polished silver, could host twenty. Only two places are set.
Hayden eats his roast chicken as if he were born at this table, every movement measured and effortless. He doesn’t need to remind me who holds the power; everything about this place makes it clear to him. The heavy chandelier overhead, the marble floors, the way the butler—a man in his sixties with an expression carved from stone—appears only when needed and never meets my gaze.
“You will eat.”
It isn’t a question.
I don’t move. “No, I will not.”
His fork pauses midair before he sets it down with deliberate ease, his gaze locking onto mine. He stares, silent and unwavering. My pulse flutters under the weight of it, traitorous and unsteady. Slowly and purposefully, his eyes drop, lingering on my breasts before flicking back up; his expression is knowing.
“You may want to break me,” I murmur, voice steady despite the tension thrumming beneath my skin, “but I won’t make it easy.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. His ever-present smirk flickers at the edges, as if considering whether to be amused or annoyed.
“Good,” he says after a beat, leaning back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against the rim of his glass.
He sips his tumbler of vodka, eyes never leaving mine, waiting for the moment I fold. But I don’t.
Instead, I pick up the knife beside my plate, holding it delicately, like it’s simply part of the setting. Letting the candlelight catch the blade just enough to make a point.
