Once Betrayed, Twice Shy

Something weird happened at dinner

CASPIAN

I check my watch for the third time in as many minutes, the silver face gleaming under the room’s soft lighting. My fingers move to my cuff links, adjusting them needlessly as I sit at the table waiting for her. What in the world was I even thinking?

This dinner will be a nightmare.

I run a finger between my collar and neck, fighting the sensation of being slowly strangled by the stiff fabric. The dining room feels too quiet, too formal for whatever this is supposed to be. Crystal glasses catch the light from the chandelier above, and the long table stretches between the two place settings like a barrier I put there on purpose. I told the staff to keep it simple, but nothing about this place ever stays simple for long.

“Should I go retrieve her?” a maid asks from the kitchen doorway, her posture rigid even in this private setting.

“No.” The word comes out more sharply than I intend. I force my voice lower. “She’ll be here soon.”

The maid dips her head and disappears, leaving me alone with the echo of my own thoughts. I can still hear the conversation from the car, the way Farah’s voice cracked when she realized I had already started looking into her past. That flash of real anger, the way she looked at me like I had taken something that belonged only to her. Then the quiet that followed, and the strange honesty that settled between us when she said we were both prisoners of our circumstances. I had not expected that from her. I still do not know what to do with it.

My train of thought comes to a halt the moment she enters the room.

She has changed from the dress she wore earlier into something softer, a frilly dress that moves freely around her legs yet somehow still looks entirely right on her. Her hair, which had been pulled back in a ponytail all day, now falls freely around her face in dark waves that catch the light. I hate that I notice these things. I hate that my eyes linger on her longer than they should, taking in the slight nervous set of her shoulders as she stops just inside the doorway.

It is only when she clears her throat that I realize she is still standing there awkwardly, waiting.

“Sit,” I say, gesturing to the chair across from me. The word comes out flatter than I mean it to, so I add, “Please.”

She crosses the room and takes the seat. The maids appear almost at once with the first course, setting plates down with quiet precision before vanishing again. Steam rises from the food, carrying the scent of herbs and seared meat, but neither of us reaches for a utensil right away.

The table falls silent except for the occasional soft sound of cutlery against fine china once we finally begin. I am used to eating alone. Company at a meal has always felt like an unnecessary complication, something that requires conversation I rarely have the patience for. Sitting across from her now feels strange in a way I cannot quite name. Every small movement she makes draws my attention, from the way she cuts her food into careful pieces to how she keeps her eyes mostly on her plate.

I wonder, not for the first time, if inviting her had been a good decision at all.

After several long minutes of quiet, she sets her fork down and looks up.

“When will we be traveling?” she asks. “To the orphanage, I mean. Or wherever your research is leading.”

I take a sip of water before answering, buying myself a moment. “As soon as I wrap up the current business transaction I am working on. A few more days at most. Once that is settled, we leave.”

She nods, absorbing the information the same way she has absorbed everything else I have told her today—quietly, carefully, filing it away somewhere behind those dark eyes.

“And if there is nothing there?” she asks after a pause. “If the records lead nowhere?”

“Then we look elsewhere.” I keep my tone even. “I do not leave possibilities unexplored.”

“I know.” There is no heat in the words this time, only a tired kind of recognition. “You made that clear earlier.”

Another stretch of silence settles over the table. I reach for my glass again simply to have something to do with my hands. The wine is good, but it does little to loosen the tightness still lingering in my chest from the car ride.

“You did not have to thank me,” I say eventually, the words leaving my mouth before I can decide whether they are wise. “For the tour.”

She glances up, surprise flickering across her face. “I meant it. You could have just ordered me around the way you usually do. Explaining things… it helped. A little.”

I almost smile at that. Almost. “I will try to keep that in mind.”

The corner of her mouth lifts for the briefest second before she looks down again. We return to the food, the quiet between us no longer quite as sharp as it was when she first sat down.

“Your territory is larger than I expected,” she says after a while. “The trading base especially. All those checkpoints. It must take a lot to keep everything running.”

“It does.” I set my fork down and lean back slightly. “Most people outside the pack never see how much work goes into holding this much ground. They only see the surface.”

“And you prefer it that way.”

It is not a question, but I answer it anyway. “Yes.”

She studies me for a moment, then returns her attention to her plate. The meal continues in that same careful rhythm—small exchanges, longer pauses, the occasional sound of glass or silverware. I am still not certain this was a wise idea, yet some part of me does not want it to end just yet.

We finish the main course, and the dessert arrives, something light and citrus that she only picks at. I notice her movements growing a little slower, the way she blinks a fraction too long between bites.

Then, without warning, she sets her spoon down and frowns at the table as if it has done something to offend her.

“Is it just me,” she says, her voice quieter than before, “or does the room seem to be tilting?”

I sit forward at once, the easy distance of the evening vanishing. “What do you mean?”

She never gets the chance to answer.

There is a sudden crash as her glass slips from her fingers and shatters against the floor, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet dining room like a blade. A heartbeat later, she slumps sideways out of her chair and hits the polished wood.

I am on my feet before the last piece of crystal finishes spinning to a stop.