CHAPTER FOURTEEN — THE DINNER CRASH
807 Words
Damien adjusted his cufflinks with an irritated sigh as his phone rang. His mother’s name lit the screen. He answered curtly.
“Damien, please tell me you’re on your way,” Isabella’s voice chided, calm but firm. “Clara has been waiting at La Réserve for half an hour already.”
His jaw flexed. “I’m going.”
“You’ll be civil,” she added smoothly. “Just dinner. That’s all we ask.”
The line clicked dead.
Damien shoved the phone into his pocket, already regretting the evening. He despised orchestrated dinners, despised Clara’s endless chatter — but family duty left little room for escape.
He stood by the window for a moment, staring out at the London skyline, lights blurring in the rain-slick streets below. He could feel the tension of the evening tightening in his chest — the thought of polite smiles, carefully measured compliments, the endless small talk. And worse, the thought of Clara’s triumphal glee if he faltered for even a second.
As he slid into his car, he pulled out his phone again, opening the Sterling-Friends group chat.
Kill me now. Dinner with Hamilton. At La Réserve. God save me from small talk.
Within seconds, Nathan replied with a string of laughing emojis. Then, privately, he forwarded the message straight to Chloe.
Chloe, already slipping into her black dress at the hotel, saw the notification. She smiled faintly. So he was suffering. Perfect.
She paused in front of her full-length mirror, adjusting the silk of her dress over her shoulders. The soft fabric hugged her frame, the slit revealing just enough to hint at confidence without arrogance. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, considered the deep rose tint on her lips, then gave herself a small, approving nod.
She grabbed her clutch, already knowing where she’d be headed. With one last glance at the reflection of the city lights glimmering across the glass, she whispered, almost to herself, Let’s see how this goes.
La Réserve
The restaurant glowed with warm lighting, velvet banquettes curving beneath gilded mirrors. The maître d’ led Damien to a private table where Clara waited in crimson silk — neckline plunging, slit rising high, her smile shimmering like glass.
“Damien,” she purred, rising to kiss his cheek. “At last.”
“Clara,” he said shortly, pulling out her chair.
She launched immediately into chatter — charity events, her last trip to Monaco, whispers of gala preparations. Damien listened with half an ear, irritation simmering beneath his calm exterior.
He scanned the restaurant, noting the hushed murmurs of other diners, the clink of cutlery, the soft jazz drifting through the room. Every element seemed meticulously arranged — the perfect backdrop for Clara to shine, and for him to endure.
Then the air shifted. Heads turned.
Chloe walked in.
The black dress clung to her, neckline dipping just enough to tease, slit baring toned leg with every step. Her hair swept back, lips tinted in deep rose — poised, unhurried, devastating.
Damien’s glass paused midair. What the hell — Clara’s smile faltered, then stiffened into place.
“Good evening,” Chloe said smoothly, stopping at their table. Her eyes flicked between them. “I see I’m late.”
Before Clara could speak, Chloe slid into the empty chair beside Damien, setting her clutch on the table as though she had every right.
“I’ll have red wine. Whatever Mr. Sterling’s having.”
Damien leaned toward her, his voice low and sharp. “You weren’t invited.”
Her eyes met his, calm and steady. “Neither was I yesterday at dinner. But it worked out, didn’t it?”
Clara’s laugh was brittle. “How cozy. Three at a table.”
Chloe sipped her wine, unbothered. “Don’t worry. I won’t stay long.”
She allowed herself a moment to take in the room — the soft glow of the lights, the subtle clinking of glasses, the way Clara’s every movement seemed calculated for attention. Chloe’s eyes flicked to Damien, noting the tight set of his jaw, the way his hands flexed around the edge of his glass. Small, telling movements. She savored the quiet satisfaction of watching him squirm ever so slightly.
Damien, aware of her gaze, resisted the urge to shift, to reclaim control. He’d never been caught off guard like this before. Not in a social setting. Not with a woman. And certainly not one who moved like Chloe — deliberate, calm, untouchable.
Then she was gone, heels clicking softly as she disappeared into the night.
Damien sat back, expression unreadable, the warmth of her touch still ghosting his cheek. Clara’s presence across the table suddenly felt louder, more desperate, more suffocating.
And for the first time that evening, Damien realized Chloe hadn’t ruined his dinner. She’d saved him from it.
- Writer
