Chapter Five – The Board Dinner
663 Words
They dressed me like a trophy.
A maid arrived just after sunset with a gown sealed in black silk. No words. No questions. Just quiet efficiency—as if silence itself was a rule here.
The dress was deep wine-red, clinging in all the wrong ways, the neckline daring, the back low. Elegant. Provocative.
Strategic.
Lucien wanted them to look at me.
When I entered the dining hall, the room fell quiet.
A long table stretched beneath a chandelier of crystal and gold. Men and women in tailored suits and expensive jewels turned as one, their gazes sweeping over me with interest thinly veiled as judgment.
Lucien stood at the head of the table.
Waiting.
He looked up as I approached, his eyes darkening for a fraction of a second before his expression smoothed into indifference.
“Sit,” he said calmly.
I took the seat beside him, spine straight, chin lifted. If I was going to be paraded, I would not bow.
The dinner began with polite conversation—stocks, acquisitions, political favors traded with smiles. I listened more than I spoke, just as Lucien ordered.
Then a man across the table leaned forward, studying me openly.
“So this is the new Mrs. Blackwood,” he said with a grin. “You’re much younger than I expected.”
Lucien didn’t look at him. “Age has never been an issue for me.”
The message was clear.
Ownership.
The man chuckled awkwardly and turned back to his plate.
As the night wore on, I felt Lucien’s control tighten—not physically, but psychologically. A hand on my knee beneath the table. A glance that warned me not to speak. A subtle squeeze when someone addressed me directly.
By dessert, my nerves were frayed raw.
When the final guest left, Lucien stood and placed a hand on my back.
“Come,” he said.
We didn’t go to my wing.
He led me down a different corridor—one I hadn’t seen before—into a private study lined with books and dark wood. The door shut behind us with a soft click.
Locked.
“You embarrassed me this morning,” Lucien said, loosening his cufflinks. His voice was calm, almost conversational.
“I took a walk,” I replied. “That’s hardly a crime.”
He turned slowly.
“You disobeyed me.”
I folded my arms. “I’m not afraid of you.”
That made him laugh. Low. Dangerous.
“You should be,” Lucien said. “But fear isn’t what I want.”
He stepped closer. Too close.
“I want understanding.”
He stopped in front of me, towering, his presence overwhelming.
“Apologize.”
I met his gaze, heart pounding. “No.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he reached past me—to the wall—and pressed a button.
The far side of the room lit up.
A screen came alive.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
On it were images—documents, frozen bank accounts, headlines half-written and waiting. My father’s face. My mother’s. My brother’s name highlighted in red.
Lucien watched my reaction closely.
“One call,” he said softly, “and everything holding your family together collapses.”
My legs weakened.
“You wouldn’t,” I whispered.
“I already have,” he replied. “I just haven’t finished.”
Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. The words tasted like blood.
Lucien studied me for a moment… then reached out and brushed a tear from my cheek with his thumb.
“Good,” he murmured. “You’re learning.”
He stepped back and unlocked the door.
“Go to bed, Elara,” Lucien said. “Tomorrow will be harder.”
I walked out on shaking legs, one truth pounding through my chest—
This wasn’t a marriage.
It was a war.
And Lucien Blackwood was winning.
- Writer
