CHAPTER 33 ROMAN #2
I hear footsteps approaching. Mum appears first before escorting Quinn inside like a reluctant ma?tre d’. We exchange a look across the table as my gaze turns to Quinn.
She looks like a Stepford wife tonight. A soft cream dress clings to her body with minimal jewellery, and her shoes are flat, ballerina I think, while her platinum blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail.
Keeping my face neutral is harder than I anticipated, especially when an overly bright smile crosses her face as she looks at me lounging in my chair.
“Roman,” she says in a bright, happy voice.
“Quinn,” I deadpan, watching as she makes her way towards the table to sit next to me.
Quinn looks down at the chair as Mum takes her place next to Dad. An awkward silence falls across the room as I frown at her. I can’t help the curl of my lip when she makes no move to sit. I lean forward and snag the decanter of whiskey. Dad clears his throat lightly.
“Aren’t you going to get her seat, son?”
Grinding my teeth, I stand and shoot a glare towards my dad. I pull the chair out as Quinn glides into it like she has rehearsed the motion her whole life.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, her fingers brush mine as she settles and I retract my hand immediately.
Tonight, Dad has his staff serving us, which isn’t an everyday occurrence.
It’s something I respect about him. Most of the time, we just pitch in.
Mum cooks as we take it to the table and serve ourselves, and then we clean.
On more formal evenings like this, the staff we keep on retainer come in and do everything for us.
As soon as we are all sat, our starters are served.
Seared scallops with cauliflower purée and crispy pancetta are placed in front of everyone.
The smell hits first. The sweet shellfish and burnt fat, along with the earthy heaviness of the cauliflower, are overpowering.
The textures alone make my teeth itch. Before one of the servers can place a plate in front of me, I put my hand down on my place setting.
“I’ll take the bread,” I say evenly.
The staff switch plates without pause, replacing the porcelain with a small side dish and a silver butter knife.
Dad tucks into the shellfish as Mum takes a spoonful of the cauliflower.
I notice as Quinn looks down at my plate, then at hers, and then back at mine.
Her forehead creases slightly as she picks up her cutlery.
“You’re not having the scallops?” she asks lightly.
“I’m not.”
“They’re very good,” she says, tilting her head as she pops one into her mouth.
“I’m sure they are.”
She studies me for a second longer, clearly trying to decode whether this is preference or protest as I tear a piece of bread slowly. The crust gives a quiet crack as the butter melts cleanly in my mouth.
Between the light conversation, I can see Quinn’s gaze lingering on my plate. I can’t help but think about how many times Fae has seen me eat something different yet not once has she lingered on it like Quinn is now.
The funny thing is that if Fae were acting like this, I would probably give her an explanation. With Quinn, I refuse to entertain it, let alone explain why I would rather swallow glass than put that slop in my mouth.
Light conversation fills the space between us.
It’s polite and measured, the kind that glides over the surface.
Dad asks about the Harlow’s European projections and Quinn responds smoothly with rehearsed optimism.
Mum hums thoughtfully and offers a gentle counterpoint about staffing and sustainability.
Meanwhile, I contribute where necessary, with short answers delivered between the quiet tear of bread and the controlled sip of water.
Cutlery clinks against porcelain in an almost rhythmic cadence as the staff move in silent coordination around us.
After what feels like a lifetime the mains finally arrive, and I mentally tick the first hour off.
A herb-crusted rack of lamb rests on a bed of dauphinoise for everyone else.
For me, I’m served plain lamb with roast potatoes and a side of tender-stem broccoli.
A few moments into the main course, Quinn’s knee brushes against mine under the table. Gritting my teeth, I shift my leg slightly away without looking at her as I shovel a piece of lamb into my mouth, chewing aggressively.
Throughout the dinner, I am force-fed pointless information.
Quinn’s favourite colour, her favourite dinner, her favourite style of clothes.
She laughs at the right times and answers in this overly bright tone.
Not once does she ask me about myself, not that I would tell her anything, but it still reminds me exactly who Quinn is.
A self-absorbed robot.
The idea that I even thought I could feel guilt over her is laughable.
Dad says something that isn’t even remotely funny but Quinn throws her head back with an exaggerated laugh, her shoulder brushes mine and my cutlery clatters. Mum’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth as she quietly takes in what she just saw.
I can feel my anger rising and my patience running thin.
Quinn better lap it up, because I refuse to do this again.
I feel like ants are crawling over every place she has touched me.
Her skin infects mine with her filth and I start to itch at the contact points.
My heart thumps as I think about showing this weakness, especially in front of someone like her.
I never care about my autism for 97.8% of the time, but that 2.
2%? It kills me. It strips me of my control.
My fingers twitch against the stem of my glass as I try to force them still. Do not react. That is the rule, because reacting gives people leverage and, in this world, leverage can get you killed.
Dessert arrives in much the same fashion as dinner and I silently count down the last hour in my head.
Dark chocolate fondant with vanilla bean ice cream is placed in front of all of us.
This time, mine is no different. I offer a smile to my mum as she watches with eager eyes as I take my first bite. Groaning, I nod.
“This is good, Mum.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” she beams.
“Yes, it’s delicious, Fiona. I can call you Fiona, can’t I?” Quinn simpers.
“Oh,” Mum chuckles, “it is probably best if we stick to formalities for a while, don’t you think?” Mum offers a polite smile.
“Of course,” Quinn retorts, before looking back at my dad. “It won’t be long until I call you Mum and Dad anyway.”
My spoon clatters against the bowl as a deathly silence falls across the room.
I glance at my dad, he can’t honestly believe someone like this is suitable for our family, can he?
I can tell he’s uncomfortable, which is a small win as my blood pressure rises.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He has never bought into anyone calling him anything but his titles. To him, it’s a sign of respect.