5. Sienna #3
Harrison looked at me more than once, his expression hard in a way I had never seen directed anywhere near me. Marcel barely spoke to Jamison. Emmie kept watching my plate.
The second course came.
I barely touched it.
Chicken or maybe pheasant. Something with a dark sauce and vegetables. It smelled rich and probably tasted lovely.
I could not make myself eat.
Every time Jamison moved, my body prepared for something. He hadn’t hit me, just said one horrible thing. But fear did not care about technicalities.
Fear had heard the threat and believed him.
Jamison reached for his water.
I flinched.
His fingers stopped around the glass. The tendons in his forearm tightened. He set the glass down without drinking.
I looked away, toward the dance floor.
A couple spun beneath the lanterns. The woman laughed as her partner guided her through a turn, and the crystals on her dress scattered light over the floor.
This was my favourite event.
I kept thinking that, as if repetition could save it.
Jamison leaned back in his chair, but he did not relax. His thigh shifted once beneath the table, and I felt the movement near mine. My hands tightened in my lap.
“Sienna,” he said again, quieter.
I looked at my plate.
“Eat.” He added softly.
I picked up my fork.
A small bite. That was all I needed. One bite, and Jamison might stop sounding like that. The food touched my tongue and nearly came back up. I swallowed with effort.
“Good,” he said.
Good. Like I was a dog. He had trained badly and frightened worse. My fork lowered. I did not pick it up again.
Dessert came later.
I didn’t eat that either.
I loved the Starlight Ball dessert. Every year they made sugar-glass swans filled with cream and berries, ridiculous delicate and too pretty to break. I used to tap the spoon against mine as gently as possible and feel guilty when the wings cracked.
Tonight, the swan sat untouched in front of me.
Its tiny spun-sugar neck curved gracefully.
Fragile thing, I thought.
Everyone always admired fragile things right before they broke them.
Jamison looked at the dessert, then at me.
“Do you want something else?”
The question startled me so badly I finally looked at him.
I shook my head. I wanted to tell him he had ruined the event. The whole foolish little belief that there were parts of him I could safely ask for.
Instead, I folded my napkin in my lap.
The speeches began after dessert.
A woman talked about family donations, legacy. Words floated through the room, meaningless and occasionally sincere. People clapped softly at the right places.
Jamison did not take another call.
That was new.
His phone buzzed several times. He looked at it once, then turned it face down on the table.
I noticed because noticing him was a habit I had not yet learned how to stop.
He kept his hands away from me.
I noticed that too.
When the auction started, he bid on something without looking at the stage. A private garden commission, I thought. Or maybe a hospital wing installation. The number was absurd. People clapped when the Crow table won.
Jamison’s face did not change.
The night stretched.
I wanted to leave.
The thought became the only clear thing in my head.
I want to leave.
When the final music began and guests drifted toward the floor again, I stayed seated.
Jamison remained beside me.
A year ago, I would have asked him to dance.
Two years ago, maybe.
I never asked expecting him to say yes. No. I did it, because asking was part of my ritual. My sunshine role, beside Harlan’s monster.
Jamison stared toward the floor, his profile carved in cold lines.
“You always wanted to dance at this one.” he said, after a while.
I turned my head slightly. Why was he talking to me. His eyes stayed on the couples.
I remained silent.
Near midnight, guests began leaving. Women kissed cheeks. Men promised meetings.
Jamison stood.
So did I. Too quickly. My ankle gave a small pulse of pain, and my body tipped before I caught myself on the chair.
Jamison moved.
I recoiled before he could reach me. His hand froze in the air. Everything inside him seemed to lock. I stared at his hand.
He lowered it slowly.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
I nodded.
We walked toward the exit side by side, not touching. The crowd parted for him, as always. People smiled at me, but their eyes were curious. They knew something. Maybe not the words. Harlan always knew when a woman had been humiliated beside a powerful man.
At the entrance, cold air rushed through the open doors.
Jamison’s car waited at the curb.
His guards moved ahead.
For one wild second, I thought about asking for my own car. Then I remembered that leaving separately would be noticed.
Jamison paused beside the open door and looked at me.
I stepped toward it. Got in alone. He followed after a moment, sitting on the far side, leaving more space between us than usual. The door shut, and the car pulled away.
The drive felt longer.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, we reached my house.
I did not ask for a hug when he walked me to the door.
He stopped at the bottom of the steps, looking up at me with that unreadable. He briefly said goodnight and I nodded in return.