CHAPTER SIX
Time since morning had dissolved into a haze of sameness. Around me, the household staff moved with their familiar caution, eyes darting away from mine whenever our gazes threatened to connect, as if sustained contact might shatter some unspoken rule.
It was all monotonous.
I wasn’t permitted to leave the house, and I had no desire to watch movies or surf the web when I grew tired of reading.
I showered early and longer than necessary.
It wasn’t about cleansing. It was about control—one of the only things I still had.
Afterward, I sat at my vanity, wet brushing my hair until it gleamed.
I couldn't decide which bothered me more, anticipating Alaric Kostas's presence again, or recognizing my own anticipation.
By that evening, the house had transformed into a living thing. Staff adjusted already-perfect place settings, wine decanted on the table exhaled its promises. Down the hall, my father's voice flowed with practiced warmth, testing his charm like a counterfeiter testing his bills before transaction.
A soft knock at the door. "Come in," I said, and Pedro appeared in the doorway. "He's arrived," he murmured.
The question of when he'd returned from leave hovered on my lips, but I swallowed it. Pedro and Dion remained the only untainted elements in this house.
With his barrel chest, broad shoulders, and that salt-and-pepper mustache that quivered whenever he suppressed a smile, Pedro resembled a retired enforcer who still commanded respect.
Silver threaded his once-dark hair, and though his beard never quite achieved neatness, his warm brown eyes held both kindness and sorrow.
Age had slowed his movements, yet when he folded those thick arms across his chest, my father's men straightened their spines.
I rose abruptly, hands smoothing imaginary wrinkles from my dress as if perfecting my appearance might somehow complete me. Outside my room, everything reeked of furniture polish mingling with the food—expensive and suffocating.
Pedro shadowed me, keeping a few respectful paces behind that never changed. The weight of his concern pressed against my spine without him saying a word but just like everyone else, he could never do anything to help me, and I wouldn’t ever ask him to.
I stopped before crossing into the dining room.
The archway framed him like a portrait.
Alaric stood at the edge of the table, one hand tucked casually in his pocket, the other hanging loose at his side.
Behind him, night pressed against the windows.
At the sound of my approach, he half-turned.
What crossed his face wasn't interest or assessment.
It was acknowledgment, as though he'd been waiting, expecting me all along.
My father occupied the head of the table like a throne, lips curved in anticipation of the meal to come, both food and whatever game he'd orchestrated tonight.
"Selene," he gestured toward me. "I believe you're acquainted with Mr. Kostas."
"Yes," I said, the single syllable carefully neutral.
Alaric closed the distance between us with deliberate steps, his frame eclipsing mine as he bent toward me. His lips grazed my cheek—not quite a kiss, more like a brand—while his hand found the small of my back, fingers pressing just hard enough to make my breath catch
“I’ve been thinking of you since last night. You look beautiful.”
The words sent a shiver down my spine, his breath warm against my skin. My father's attention darted between us, his satisfaction almost palpable, a businessman witnessing the successful execution of terms rather than two people exchanging names.
"Please," my father said, gesturing to the seat opposite Alaric. "Let's eat."
I moved to my chair, aware of Alaric's eyes following me. My navy silk dress rustled against the seat. Alaric remained standing until I settled, then lowered himself into the seat beside mine.
Pedro lingered near the doorway until my father flicked his wrist in dismissal. The servers he always hired for meals like this materialized moments later, placing the food down.
The meal progressed with my father dominating the conversation, discussing territorial expansions and shipping routes while I pushed food around my plate. Alaric responded with appropriate interest, but his attention kept returning to me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
My father suddenly laughed, pulling my attention from my plate. "I mentioned to Selene how someone in your position must appreciate order. You've maintained remarkable control in these uncertain times."
That was a bold-faced lie. He'd said nothing of the sort to me.
Alaric shook his head. "People confuse stability with control. They build walls of fear, call it loyalty, and wonder why their empires crumble beneath them like sandcastles at high tide."
The silence that followed felt physical, a third presence at our table. My father's jaw flexed once, a tiny earthquake beneath his skin, before settling back into his practiced smile that never reached his coal-dark eyes. "Is that so?"
A flicker of pale eyes in my direction. "I prefer foundations that remain standing even when no one's there to take orders or by threat."
It was clear they were now talking about me. I maintained my mask despite the heat crawling up my neck. His words resonated in places I hadn't expected them to reach, like echoes in rooms I'd locked years ago.
My father's lips tightened into something resembling amusement. "A novel perspective. Though without rigid hierarchy, the family unit collapses."
"And what’s your perspective, Selene?" Alaric turned and asked me directly.
My father cleared his throat. "What my daughter thinks—"
"I believe," Alaric interrupted smoothly, "your daughter can speak for herself."
I set down my fork and took a sip of water. Both men stared at me, waiting. My father's expression had hardened; he hadn't anticipated Alaric directing questions to me rather than through him. A tactical error in my father's carefully orchestrated dinner.
"I think," I said carefully, measuring each word as if it might be my last, "that loyalty born from fear isn't loyalty at all. It's survival." I met Alaric's gaze directly. "And people who are merely surviving will leave the moment they have a viable alternative."
My father's grp tightened around his knife. I would pay for that later. "My daughter reads too many philosophy books."
"I find her perspective refreshing," Alaric countered, his eyes never leaving mine. "Most people regurgitate what they've been taught without questioning whether it still serves them."
The tension crackled between them like static electricity before a storm. I took another sip of water, grateful for something to do with my hands.
When my father's phone suddenly started ringing, he excused himself with obvious reluctance. The moment his footsteps faded as he left the room, Alaric inclined toward me, his voice barely above a whisper. "Is this his standard performance?"
"Without variation."
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth as he studied me. "Perfect. I'll encourage it. Men who love their own voice eventually speak truths they never intended to share."
I nodded, winding pasta around my fork without lifting it to my mouth.
"You haven't said much," Alaric observed, tracking the movement of my fork. "Does he always monopolize the conversation?"
My hand stilled mid-twist. "It's simpler that way."
"I didn't ask what was simpler."
Nothing in his voice changed, yet something cinched tight beneath my ribs.
"I choose my moments," I said, almost adding I’d just shown that.
"Based on what?" he pressed.
The question floated between us, deceptively light, but with barbs hidden underneath. My father's commandments whispered through my memory as did me being forced to the floor on countless occasions. “Stay small, stay silent, stay useful. I know my place, never forget yours.”
I manufactured a polite smile. "In this house? The criteria are set by whoever holds the keys."
His probing gaze dissected me, peeling back layers I'd spent years perfecting.
"Practical," he finally said. "But practicality is often what we call fear when we want to sleep at night."
I met his gaze directly. "Are these little insights something you rehearse, or do they just occur to you in the moment?"
He grinned fully, and I noticed he had a dimple. "Neither. They're earned."
My father's voice and footsteps echoed down the back hallway.
Alaric leaned closer. "I find very few things genuinely repulsive in this world, Selene," he murmured, voice dropping to a dangerous register that vibrated through my bones, "but people who refuse to stand their ground rank highest among the damned."
"You sit there dissecting me with your little bullshit observations, but you practically said it yourself that silence isn’t always surrender. Some of us learned that keeping quiet was the only weapon we were ever allowed to sharpen,” I countered quietly.
Something electric ignited in the space between us. His expression stayed rigid as sculpture, except for those eyes that burned with recognition.
"There you are," he murmured, causing me to frown at him.
The heavy tread of my father's returning footsteps put an end to whatever might have followed.
In one fluid motion, Alaric sat taller in his chair, his features rearranging into perfect, polite interest. My father bustled through the doorway mid-sentence, his voice immediately filling every corner of the room like smoke, radiating self-satisfaction.
"Finding everything agreeable?" he asked, straightening his cuffs.
Alaric nodded. "I am, unsurprisingly.”
The meal stretched endlessly on, each course marking another round in this veiled combat.
My father commandeered the conversation like territory, laying claim to partnerships and resources I knew weren't truly his.
Across the table, Alaric listened with the patient stillness of a hunter who knows his quarry will eventually make a fatal mistake, just like said he would.
It quickly became clear he was heading my father off anytime he tried to drag me into the conversation and use me to show his authority.
I performed my role flawlessly after that. A demure nod, the practiced smile—while counting heartbeats until release. which came what felt like hours later.
"Selene, I believe Mr. Kostas and I require privacy. Keep yourself available. When we’re done you two might enjoy some time on the terrace."
Translation: He wanted us alone together, wanted Alaric to see the merchandise up close before finalizing the deal.
"I'd like that," Alaric agreed, his voice revealing nothing of what he might actually want.
"I’ll be close," I murmured, folding my napkin as I’d been taught to.
As I rose, Alaric's gaze tracked me with something else beneath the surface I couldn't afford to analyze.
I glided away, each step carrying me further from their suffocating power play until the dining room's oppressive heat gave way to cooler air.
The glass doors to the enclosed rear porch sealed behind me with a whisper of finality.
I'd once loved this space, the arched windows framing the night sky, stone floors cool against my bare feet, heavy curtains carrying whispers of sea salt from beyond our walls. Now I could barely breathe here. Not since he'd destroyed her roses.
My mother's garden had flourished just beyond that glass, a labyrinth of white and crimson blooms, each one touched by her hands alone.
The only corner of our estate where anything truly lived.
My father had excavated it before the funeral flowers wilted, installing geometric hedges and hideous statues imported from countries he'd never visited.
I pressed my fingers against the cold glass, marking the surface with temporary evidence of my existence.
Through the doors came the low rumble of their conversation—my father's voice swelling with practiced authority, then receding, while Alaric's remained steady.
The outcome of all this posturing was already written.
I was going to marry this man, a stranger with far more standing than my father who clearly had his own motives for choosing me of all people to be his wife.
But that had to be better than remaining trapped here.
Right?