Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Dove
After playing Peep Wars, it’s finally time for dinner.
I won and took great pleasure in knocking Shane’s final chick off the ledge. The adrenaline of the game still hums in my veins, making me feel bolder than usual. I take my seat with a little less hesitation than last year.
The Archer patriarch sits at the head, with Melanie to his right.
The rest of the seats are a free for all, though the arrangement feels strategic.
Shane is to my right. Cordia to my left.
Theo and Marabella sit across from me, while Emily has claimed the spot to Shane’s right, effectively boxing him in.
I’ve always been close to all the Archers, but with Emily here, the dynamic is off-balance. She sits like a queen holding court, while I feel like the court jester who just got lucky with a hard-boiled egg.
“Try a tart, Dove,” Melanie says, offering me a warm smile. “They’re passionfruit. I remembered you liked them last year.”
“Thank you, Melanie.” I reach for one, but the movement draws Emily’s eye.
I stare at the pastries—jeweled fruits on beds of cream—but my stomach gives a tight, cold warning. Beside me, I feel a radiating heat.
Shane.
He is sitting close. Too close. His knee brushes mine under the table—a fleeting, accidental contact that sends a jolt straight up my spine. He doesn’t pull away immediately.
“Water?” he asks, his voice low, vibrating right next to my ear.
I look up. He isn’t looking at the table; he’s looking at me, pitcher in hand. “Please.”
He pours for me, his movements deliberate, creating a small, private bubble of domesticity that ignores the woman sitting on his other side.
“So,” Theo says, leaning forward and breaking the silence, ignoring the water pitcher entirely. “Are we going to talk about the hustle? Because I feel hustled. I didn’t know second-grade teachers were trained in tactical warfare.”
I relax into the banter, the familiarity of it settling my nerves. “It’s not warfare, Theo. It’s classroom management. If I can stop a glue-stick riot before recess, I can handle a hard-boiled egg.”
“She has you there, son,” Henry chuckles from the head of the table, offering me an approving nod. “Dove has always had a steady hand. I still remember when she helped you paint that model airplane without getting a drop on the carpet.”
“And a killer instinct,” Shane adds softly.
He isn’t looking at his brother. He’s looking at my hands, which are currently resting on the white tablecloth. He picks up the bread basket—the one Emily was reaching for—and offers it to me instead.
“Sourdough,” he murmurs, bypassing the rolls on top. “Not the multigrain. I know you hate the seeds getting stuck in your teeth.”
He places a piece on my bread plate, his arm brushing mine, effectively blocking Emily’s access to the butter. It’s a small, petty, wonderful gesture. He knows my preferences better than I know them myself sometimes.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling a flush rise that has nothing to do with the room temperature.
“You’re welcome.” The way he says it, low and rough, makes it sound like you’re mine.
Henry rubs his hands together, oblivious or perhaps just ignoring the tension. “I’ve been waiting for this wine for weeks. It is a 1985 Sassicaia.”
“Waiting is too subtle of a term, darling,” Melanie says with a chuckle. “I caught him trying to sniff the wine through the cork at least a dozen times.”
Theo playfully hits his hands on the table, rattling the plates. “He gets to sniff the wine but I can’t taste the pie? This is a dictatorship.”
Henry rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not nearly the same.”
“Is too!”
Noting a bit of whipped cream on his chin from a pre-dinner snack, I point it out. “Missed a spot, Theo.”
He dabs it with a napkin, grinning at me. The meal is served, and the heavy, rich scent of roast lamb fills the air. Shane immediately reaches for the platter of roasted potatoes. He serves me a generous portion, acting like my provider before he even thinks about serving himself or his girlfriend.
Once my glass is filled with wine, I swirl it around, mimicking Henry. I suppose it is nice; it brings the scent of earth and berries floating in the air.
I’m enjoying the exchange, feeling the warmth of the family I love, when Emily takes a sip of her wine and stares at me. The silence she creates is loud.
“Oh. Dove,” she says, her voice pitching up in a way that sounds helpful but feels like a knife. “How exciting to get some real wine today. With your salary, I bet all you can afford are the kinds from the gas station.”
The table freezes. Theo stops chewing. Melanie’s smile falters.
Not this again.
In the past, I would have looked down. I would have let the shame burn my cheeks. But today, I beat Shane Archer at his own game. Now, I am feeling brave.
I take a slow sip of the wine, holding her gaze over the rim of the glass. “Actually, Emily, I prefer coffee. It fuels the patience required to deal with... difficult behaviors.”
Theo chokes on his water, turning it into a cough. Marabella’s fork clatters against her plate as she hides a smirk.
“Gas station wine has a certain rustic charm,” Marabella says dryly, coming to my aid. “Don’t be a snob, Em.”
“I’m not being a snob,” Emily says, widening her eyes in mock innocence, though her grip on her glass tightens. “I’m being realistic. Budgets are budgets. It’s not Dove’s fault she chose a path with a ceiling.”
I feel Shane stiffen beside me. His hand, resting on the tablecloth, curls into a fist. The knuckles turn white.
Honestly not knowing, and wanting to shift the focus off my bank account before Shane snaps, I ask, “What do you do again?”
Her cheeks practically puff in pride. She sits up straighter, preening. “Philanthropy. I personally raise millions for children each year.”
“Oh, that sounds noble,” I say, genuinely trying to find common ground. “What does that entail?”
“Every year, we hold a fundraiser for Chilton Academy.”
I blink. Chilton is the most expensive private school in the state. The tuition alone costs more than my annual rent.
“That’s great,” I say, forcing a smile. “I bet lots of scholarship children benefit from it.”
Emily laughs, a tinny, hollow sound that grates on my nerves.
“Scholarships? Absolutely not. We focus on infrastructure. Last year, we added ten lanes to the pool and a state-of-the-art conservatory. It’s a great tax write-off for the donors.
” She looks around the table, expecting applause.
“I don’t mean to brag, but Chilton raises geniuses.
Our next generation of revolutionaries and millionaires.
Guess that makes me one of the most impactful women in today’s age. ”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Then, Shane moves.
He turns his entire body toward me, putting his shoulder to Emily, effectively cutting her out of his line of sight.
“Teaching children is one of the most impactful professions there is, Emily,” he says. His voice is calm, but it has a jagged edge to it, like a blade wrapped in silk.
My heart stutters. I look up to see his eyes—steel gray and burning—not fixed on Emily, but checking me. Checking to see if I’m bleeding.
“But really,” Emily says, her voice rising, desperate to reclaim the attention. She reaches out, running her manicured fingernails down Shane’s forearm. It’s a possessive, clawing gesture.
Shane flinches. He pulls his arm away, placing it on the table closer to mine.
“Not everyone gets to choose a career as... adorable as teaching,” Emily continues, her smile turning brittle. “Some of us have to work.”
“It’s not adorable,” Shane snaps. He doesn’t look at her. He looks at his father, then at me. “It’s vital.”
“It’s construction paper and glitter, Shane,” Emily laughs, throwing her head back. “Let’s be honest.”
I freeze. The insult hangs in the air, gross and heavy. I want to disappear. I want to run.
“Actually,” Henry Archer says, his voice low and commanding. He sets his knife down with a definitive click. The table falls silent. “I’d venture to say none of us would be sitting here without a teacher who guided us.”
He raises his glass to me. A silent salute.
“Here, here,” Theo murmurs, raising his water glass.
Something inside me shifts.
I look at Emily, preening in her expensive dress, thinking she’s won because she’s the loudest. I look at Shane, who is vibrating with a suppressed rage, his focus entirely on protecting me.
And I realize I am done cowering. Whether I belong or not, the Archers love me. And right now, that is enough.
“We’re making a butterfly garden,” I say clearly, cutting through the tension. “My class. For spring.”
Emily smirks, picking at her salad. “How sweet.”
“It is,” I say, meeting her eyes. I don’t blink. “It’s about growth and change. It’s about things that start small and humble and become beautiful.”
I feel Shane’s gaze on the side of my face. It’s heavy. Tangible. I glance at him. His eyes soften, the hard lines of his face relaxing into something that looks painfully like pride.
“To teachers,” Cordia announces, raising her glass high. “The unsung heroes.”
“Here, here,” the table murmurs.
Everyone drinks. Everyone except Emily.
“Dove.”
The whisper comes from Cordia leaning in, her expression fierce.
“They’re not serious, you know,” she murmurs, passing me the breadbasket with a little more force than necessary. “I’ve never seen two people less compatible. It’s painful.”
But Emily must have heard her, because she interjects, her voice sharp as broken glass. “And how many successful relationships have you maintained, Cordia?”
The table goes quiet. The tension is sudden and sharp, a wire pulled to the breaking point. Even Melanie freezes, her wine glass halfway to her mouth.
But Cordia doesn’t flinch. She rips a piece of bread in half. “Enough to recognize when someone is settling.”
At the head of the table, Henry Archer hides a smile behind his wine glass.
Emily’s grip on Shane’s arm tightens again. I see her nails dig in, probably leaving white crescents on his skin through his suit jacket. It’s not affection; it’s control. It’s a leash.
Surprised at Cordia’s bluntness, my napkin slips from my numb fingers, fluttering to the floor.
I reach for it. Shane reaches for it.
Our hands collide under the table.
The contact is electric. A shock wave jolts up my arm, seizing my breath. For a second, time stops. His skin is warm, rough, and real. His fingers brush mine, and instead of pulling back, he lingers. His pinky hooks around mine—a secret, desperate tether in the dark.
He squeezes my finger, once, hard.
Then he jerks back as if burned.
“Sorry,” I stammer, sitting up too fast, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
He doesn’t look at me. He stares at the wall with a terrifying, absolute stillness, a vein throbbing violently at his temple. He looks like a man who is one second away from overturning the table.