Chapter Five Under the Table
Chapter Five: Under the Table
Dinner started like a performance.
Everyone played their part.
No one missed a line.
---
Plates were set.
Wine was poured.
Chairs scraped softly against the floor as they all took their seats.
Camille sat at the head of the table.
Adrian to her right.
Elara across from her.
And Mikhail—
To her left.
---
Close enough that she could feel him.
Not touching.
Not yet.
But present in a way that made her hyper-aware of every movement, every breath.
---
“So,” Adrian started, forcing a polite smile. “This is… unexpected.”
---
Mikhail didn’t look at him.
His attention was still on Camille.
It hadn’t moved since he sat down.
---
“It was a last-minute invitation,” Camille said smoothly, reaching for her glass. “I ran into him earlier.”
A lie.
Effortless.
---
Elara’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You ran into him?”
---
Camille took a slow sip of wine before answering.
“Yes.”
She set the glass down carefully.
“We talked.”
---
Mikhail’s gaze flickered—just for a second.
He understood.
He was already playing along.
---
“And you thought inviting him to dinner was appropriate?” Elara asked, her tone light but edged.
---
Camille tilted her head slightly.
“I didn’t realize I needed permission.”
---
Silence.
---
Adrian shifted in his seat. “No one said that. It’s just… you two haven’t exactly been close.”
---
That word.
Close.
---
Camille almost smiled.
---
“We used to be,” she said quietly.
---
Mikhail’s fingers moved slightly against the table.
A subtle reaction.
But she noticed.
---
Elara let out a small laugh. “Used to.”
Her gaze slid to Mikhail. “And now?”
---
Finally—
He looked away from Camille.
---
His expression was unreadable as he met Elara’s eyes.
“Now,” he said calmly, “I’m here for dinner.”
---
The message was clear.
He wasn’t explaining anything.
---
Elara leaned back slightly, crossing her arms.
Uncomfortable.
Suspicious.
---
Good.
---
Camille reached for her fork.
“Eat before it gets cold.”
---
They did.
Or at least—
They pretended to.
---
The conversation stayed surface-level.
Safe topics.
Work.
News.
Anything but what was sitting right beneath all of it.
---
But Camille felt it.
The tension.
The cracks forming.
---
Adrian kept glancing at her.
At her hair.
At her dress.
At the way she wasn’t looking at him.
---
Elara watched everything.
Carefully.
Too carefully.
---
And Mikhail—
---
He was quiet.
Observing.
Taking everything in.
---
Under the table—
Camille felt it first.
---
A brush.
Light.
Intentional.
---
Her breath didn’t change.
But her fingers tightened slightly around her fork.
---
Mikhail’s hand.
---
It didn’t linger.
Didn’t grab.
Just brushed against hers—
Then stilled.
Waiting.
---
Camille didn’t pull away.
---
For a second—
Nothing moved.
---
Then—
Slowly—
Her fingers shifted.
Barely.
But enough.
---
Enough to respond.
---
Across the table—
Elara’s voice cut through.
“So, Camille,” she said sweetly. “What exactly inspired this sudden transformation?”
---
Camille lifted her gaze.
Calm.
Composed.
---
“I told you,” she said lightly. “I just wanted to change things up.”
---
Elara smiled.
But it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Right. Overnight?”
---
Camille met her gaze.
Held it.
---
“Sometimes,” she said softly, “people get tired of being the same version of themselves.”
---
A pause.
Heavy.
Loaded.
---
Adrian cleared his throat. “Well, you look great.”
---
Camille turned to him.
Slowly.
---
“Thank you.”
---
The words were polite.
Nothing more.
---
It unsettled him.
She could see it.
---
Because she didn’t soften after.
Didn’t smile the way she used to.
Didn’t give him anything to hold onto.
---
She moved on.
---
“Mikhail,” she said, her tone shifting just slightly. “Can you help me with something in the kitchen?”
---
The room stilled.
---
Adrian frowned. “What do you need help with? I can—”
---
“It’s fine,” Camille cut in gently. “He’s closer.”
---
Another lie.
Another deliberate move.
---
Mikhail stood without hesitation.
“Of course.”
---
His chair scraped softly against the floor.
---
Elara’s eyes followed him.
Sharp.
Suspicious.
---
Camille stood too.
Calm.
Unhurried.
---
“Excuse us.”
---
And just like that—
They left the table.
---
The moment they stepped into the kitchen—
The air changed.
---
The performance dropped.
---
Silence wrapped around them.
Heavy.
Real.
---
For a second—
Neither of them spoke.
---
Then—
Camille turned.
Walked past him.
Reached for her phone.
---
Her hands were steady.
---
She opened it.
Pulled up the messages.
The photos.
The proof.
---
Then she held it out to him.
---
“Look.”
---
Mikhail took the phone.
His fingers brushed hers briefly.
Colder than before.
Tense.
---
His eyes dropped to the screen.
---
And everything in him went still.
---
He didn’t react immediately.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
---
He just—
Read.
---
Message after message.
Photo after photo.
Proof after proof.
---
Camille watched him.
Carefully.
---
She saw the exact moment it hit.
---
His jaw tightened.
His grip on the phone hardened.
His eyes darkened—
Not with confusion.
Not with doubt.
---
With rage.
---
Cold.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
---
“…How long?” he asked quietly.
---
“Months,” Camille replied.
---
Silence.
---
Heavy.
---
Then—
He looked up.
---
And the look in his eyes—
Was nothing like before.
---
Not distant.
Not detached.
---
Personal.
---
“They’re careless,” he said.
---
Camille let out a soft, humorless breath.
“They think I’m stupid.”
---
Mikhail’s gaze sharpened.
“No,” he said. “They think you won’t do anything.”
---
That landed.
---
Camille tilted her head slightly.
“And you?”
---
A pause.
---
Then—
He stepped closer.
---
Not touching.
But close enough that the space between them felt intentional.
---
“I think,” he said quietly, “they made a mistake.”
---
Camille held his gaze.
Unflinching.
---
“Good,” she said softly.
---
A beat.
---
Then—
“Because I want them to regret it.”
---
Silence.
---
Then—
Something shifted.
---
Mikhail handed her phone back slowly.
His expression settled into something calm.
Too calm.
---
“What do you need from me?” he asked.
---
Camille’s lips curved slightly.
Not into a smile.
Something sharper.
---
“Help me ruin them.”
---
A pause.
---
Then—
For the first time that night—
Mikhail almost smiled.
---
“Tell me how.”