Chapter 4
Everly
Even as Connie bit into her cake, I could feel his eyes on me. The temptation was too much—I lifted my gaze.
There he was.
Silas Voss.
The industrialist. The man who controlled a hefty chunk of the global market. Multiple factories, international operations, a reputation for being ruthless. For a man only forty-three, that was impressive.
I almost pitied him for marrying my mother.
My gaze slid over his suit. Tailored. Designer. No doubt the entire ensemble cost more than some people’s annual rent. He looked every inch the cold executive: sharp suit, sharper jaw. His tie—deep blue—pulled attention back to his eyes. Icy. Calculating. The kind of eyes that didn’t miss much.
There was stubble on his jaw, just enough to make him look less polished. More dangerous.
Such a pity he wasted it all on her.
I smiled. His face didn’t change.
“Oh—you’re home early, sir,” Connie said, straightening as her fork clattered against the plate. “What time would you like dinner?”
His eyes shifted to Connie. Not to me.
“Six p.m. Make sure Everly joins me,” he said flatly. Like I wasn’t in the room. “In appropriate clothing.”
His gaze dragged over me like a cold scan, from the hoodie to my boots.
I let out a soft gasp. Then narrowed my eyes at him.
So. He was still a prick.
?? ?? ??
The room had a balcony and screamed designer excess.
But instead of admiring the surroundings, I sat on the edge of the bed, holding the only photo I had of myself and my dad. It had been restored and digitised, but touching the creased old paper always made me feel closer to him. Tangible. Real.
Every time I looked in the mirror, I thanked God I didn’t take after her.
She knew I’d graduated. She knew I was coming here.
It didn’t hurt anymore.
It stopped a long time ago.
I kissed my fingertips and pressed them to the photo, then tucked it carefully into the drawer.
Everything I’d done—everything I’d achieved—was for him.
If it weren’t, I would’ve gone off the rails years ago.
I glanced in the mirror and stood.
The dress was simple. Black. ￡12.99 on sale. The neckline sat high, the hem just above my knees. It hugged my waist and gave me a clean hourglass silhouette. Nothing flashy. Just enough.
I wore only gloss and mascara. My hair left down. Natural.
He’d asked me to dress appropriately at his dinner table.
So be it.
I slipped on my black ballet flats and checked the time.
Three minutes to spare.
As I made my way downstairs, I realised I was glad my mother wasn’t home.
She never needed to work. She could’ve kept me close. But she always made it clear—I was a hindrance. An inconvenience.
I reached the dining room and stepped inside.
He stood near the window, back turned, lifting a glass to his lips.
I hadn’t made a sound, yet he turned around—glass in hand, eyes dragging over me with slow intent.
My heart thudded a little faster.
Still, I moved closer when I saw the table set for two.
One place at the head.
The other beside him. Like a minion.
“Drink?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” I replied coolly.
“You don’t drink?”
“It’s very rare that I feel the need to.”
He grunted and placed his glass on the table.
1–0.
He pulled the chair out for me, and I sat. Instead of pushing it in like a normal person, he lifted the whole thing and shifted me closer.
His chin brushed my shoulder for a second.
Then—
He inhaled. Deeply.
He was sniffing my damn hair.
Before I could react, Connie swept in with a broad smile and our starters.
“You look beautiful, Miss Everly,” she said warmly.
“I made your favourite,” Connie whispered as she placed my plate down.
“Thanks, Connie,” I murmured, unfolding the thick napkin across my lap.
I smiled broadly. Connie was a gem. She never brushed me aside. More often than not, she let me tag along with whatever she was doing—baking, polishing silver, even folding laundry.
She and Mr. Caplan had given me more happy memories than I could count.
I lifted the pretentious silver cloche, and the scent hit me—
Homemade chicken soup.
Kale, carrots, and shredded chicken in a thick, rich broth, finished with finely chopped parsley.
I didn’t wait for Silas. I lifted my spoon and took the first mouthful.
Oh yeah. Connie had added red lentils to the soup.
Warm, rich, comforting. It tasted like childhood.
I was halfway through the bowl before I realised something.
Silas hadn’t moved.
His spoon sat untouched. His expression unreadable.
“Is everything okay?” I asked hesitantly, glancing up at him.
He didn’t answer right away. Just kept watching me.
Something about him felt… off.
I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
He lifted his spoon, dipping it into the soup. Not an ordinary spoon, of course—real silver, carved into a perfect circle.
“Now that you’ve graduated, what’s your plan?”
“I start my job in two weeks’ time.”
He swallowed his soup, but his eyes stayed wide. Like the idea of me having a job was somehow shocking.
Did he think I was lazy?
I focused on my bowl, letting the silence stretch.
“Where?” he demanded.
“BLM Tech.”
His spoon paused mid-air.
“You got into BLM Technologies?” he asked, incredulous.
“Yes. Would you like to see the offer letter?”
“The international company?”
My eyes flicked up to meet his. His tone was bordering on insulting.
“Do you have a problem with my new position of employment?”
“You’ve just come out of university. You have no experience,” he said with a shrug, like it was obvious.
“Actually, I’ve been consulting with them on a neural interface project through one of my professors,” I said evenly. “She introduced me, and the rest was history.”
His face went still. Blank. Like I’d just started speaking in code.
I almost laughed—but something about the way he stared at me, all coiled tension and calculation, made me hold it back.
“They must’ve offered you a good salary,” he said finally.
“It’s generous,” I replied with a shrug. “And I get to work from home.”
“Is that right?” he drawled, lips curling—half-smirk, half-snarl.
I didn’t answer. My chicken soup was getting cold, and frankly, his questioning was getting old.
He’d never given a damn before—so why start now?
The soup was still warm. We both ate in silence, and I made a conscious effort not to slurp. Voss was all about prim and proper, I remembered that much.
I tilted the bowl slightly to catch the last few spoonfuls.
“Would you like some more?” he asked.
“No, this was perfect.”
He grunted in response.
“When’s my mother due back?” I asked as he set his spoon down.
His face twitched—a scowl, quickly masked.
“In a couple of days’ time,” he said, dabbing at his lips with a napkin. Delicate. Mechanical. But he still wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Before I could press him further, Connie swept back in with the next course, and I shifted my focus to the food.