The dining room is alive with the low hum of conversation and the clink of glasses. The table stretches long and wide, made of dark wood polished to a mirror–like sheen. It dominates the space, its grandeur fitting for a house like Tobias’s, where everything is designed to impress–or intimidate. The air is thick with the sharp scent of whiskey and cigars, the advisors seated around the table already indulging heavily. Their voices are loud, slurred at the edges, laughter spilling out at odd intervals.
I sit near the far end, opposite Silas, my chair angled slightly toward the door. Tobias sits at the head, a king surveying his court, his fingers steepled under his chin as he listens to one of the advisors drone on about some deal they closed earlier in the week. My glass of whiskey sits untouched in front of me, the amber liquid catching the light from the chandelier above, but I’m not interested in drinking. Not tonight.
My gaze flicks to Silas, who’s swirling his glass lazily, his smirk faint but ever–present. He leans back in his chair, relaxed, as if he owns the room, as if nothing could touch him. It’s a stark contrast to the men around us, who are already well into their cups, their suits rumpled, their eyes gleaming with indulgence. This is what the Black Vipers call a casual dinner.
Then the door opens, and the energy in the room shifts.
She walks in, and the first thing I notice is the dress. Dark red, tight, and entirely out of place on her. It clings to her body in a way that draws attention she clearly doesn’t want, showing off curves that most women in this house would flaunt without hesitation. But not her. There’s something about the way she moves, the way she holds herself, that makes it clear this isn’t a choice. She doesn’t enjoy the way their eyes track her, lingering too long, or the way their conversations falter mid–sentence.
And then there are the bruises.
Dark marks bloom along her arms, stark against her pale skin, and around her throat, faint but unmistakable, a cruel reminder of the grip that nearly ended her. The sight of them is a quiet, seething thing in my chest, one I push down the moment it surfaces.
She doesn’t look like the women who usually parade through this house in tight dresses and high heels, draping themselves over whoever holds the most power in the room. They wear their confidence like armor, bold and unapologetic, reveling in the attention of the men around them. Paige… Paige looks like she’s holding her breath, like the weight of every pair of eyes on her is a physical thing.
Innocent. The word slips into my mind before I can stop it, sharp and unwelcome.
Silas stands immediately, his grin widening as he moves toward her. “Well, don’t you look lovely,” he drawls, his tone a mix of charm and mockery. He holds out his arm to her, like he’s escorting royalty to a throne.
Paige stops in her tracks, her shoulders stiffening as she stares at him. For a second, I think she might take it, that she might let him guide her into this lion’s den, but then she steps
around him without a word.
The rejection is subtle, but it’s there, and it lands.
Șilas blinks, his grin faltering for the briefest moment before he chuckles, shaking his head. “Suit yourself,” he says, dropping his arm and moving back to his seat.
A small smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it. The rejection, quiet as it was, is satisfying. Silas doesn’t get told no very often, and seeing him brushed off like that- especially by her–tugs at something darkly amused inside me.
Paige’s eyes scan the room, her expression carefully neutral, but I can see the tension in the set of her jaw, the tightness in her shoulders. She’s bracing herself, trying to keep that mask of indifference firmly in place. But the way her fingers twitch at her sides betrays her.
“Miss Taylor,” Tobias says, his voice cutting through the room with ease. Everyone falls silent, their eyes turning to him as he gestures toward the empty chair at the far end of the table. “Please, join us.”
