The food was exquisite. Each bite of the perfectly cooked steak, each delicate roasted vegetable, tasted like ash in Elara’s mouth. She ate mechanically, her jaw tight, forcing the sustenance down her throat as if it were medicine. It was fuel. Nothing more.
Across the vast table, Julian Thorne ate with the same unnerving efficiency he did everything else. He did not attempt to make conversation. The only sounds were the precise click of silverware on china and the oppressive silence that screamed between them. He was a man utterly comfortable with quiet, a man who felt no need to fill the space with empty words. His power was a quiet, radiating force, and his silence was just another tool of control.
When he finally finished, he dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin and placed it neatly
