Chapter 4: The Table of Witness
1260 Words
The dress Luca chooses is black.
Not soft black. Not forgiving black.
It clings in a way that feels intentional but cut low enough to invite attention, structured enough to look deliberate. When the woman from his staff helps me into it, her hands are efficient, distant. She doesn’t meet my eyes.
“He said this one,” she murmurs, fastening the last hook. “No jewelry. Hair down.”
Of course, he did.
I stare at my reflection and barely recognize the woman looking back. I look expensive. Composed. Owned.
My stomach knots.
When I stepped into the hall, Luca was already waiting.
His gaze hits me like a physical thing.
He doesn’t hide it this time. He lets it move slowly, thorough down my body and back up again. Something dark flickers in his eyes, something that feels like satisfaction sharpened into intent.
“Good,” he says.
That’s it. No compliment. No acknowledgment beyond that single word, spoken like a verdict.
I straighten my spine. “I didn’t agree to be paraded.”
“You agreed to be seen,” he replies, stepping closer. “There’s a difference.”
He offers his arm.
Not an invitation.
A directive.
I hesitated just long enough for him to notice.
Luca leans in, his mouth close to my ear. “If you embarrass me tonight,” he says quietly, “you’ll regret it.”
My pulse spikes. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a promise,” he says calmly. “Smile.”
The car ride is silent, but not empty. His hand rests on my knee the entire way—not gripping, not caressing. Just there. A reminder. Every time the car turns, his thumb presses in slightly, anchoring me in place.
The restaurant is exclusive in a way that doesn’t need signage. Valets move like shadows. Doors open before Luca reaches them. Conversations falter when we enter.
Eyes follow us.
I feel them everywhere, starting on my back, my shoulders, my mouth. On the way, Luca’s hand slides to my lower back, fingers spread possessively like he’s marking territory.
“This is unnecessary,” I murmured through my smile.
“Tonight is about clarity,” he says under his breath. “For them. And for you.”
We’re led to a private table with glass walls, elevated, visible from every angle. A fishbowl.
Of course.
Men approached Luca immediately. Handshakes. Murmured respect. Curious glances flick my way, assessing, cataloging.
“And this,” one of them says with a knowing smile, “must be the fiancée.”
Luca’s arm tightens around my waist.
“She is. This Aliah, my fiancée,” he replies. “And she’s not fond of strangers.”
The man chuckles. “Protective already?”
Luca’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Possessive,” he corrects.
Heat crawls up my neck.
The man’s smile fades just a little. “Congratulations.”
When they leave, I exhale slowly. “You didn’t have to say that.”
“Yes,” Luca says, lifting his wine. “I did.”
Dinner begins. Course after course. Conversations I’m not meant to join whatever territories, alliances, subtle threats dressed as pleasantries. Luca speaks fluently, effortlessly, the kind of man who knows he doesn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.
I sit quietly, posture perfect, smile practiced.
“Eat,” Luca murmurs when I hesitate over my plate.
“I am.”
“You’re not,” he says, and lifts his fork.
Before I can react, he brings it to my mouth.
The table goes still.
I freeze.
“Luca,” I hissed, barely moving my lips.
“Open,” he says softly, his eyes locked on mine.
Every instinct screams at me to refuse.
Every gaze in the room burns.
Slowly, I part my lips.
The bite tastes like salt and humiliation. Luca watches me chew, swallow.
“Good,” he says again, and returns to his own meal like nothing happened.
My hands tremble under the table.
“This is cruel,” I whisper.
He leans closer, his knee brushing mine. “This is education.”
Another man approaches, much older, sharper eyes. He looks at me openly.
“You chose well,” he tells Luca. “She’s obedient.”
My breath catches.
Luca smiles.
“She’s disciplined,” he says. “There’s a difference.”
The man laughs and moves on.
I turned to Luca, fury, shaking my voice. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Yes.”
“To humiliate me?”
“To anchor you,” he corrects. “You disappear when you’re angry. Tonight, you stay present.”
My pulse pounds. “You don’t get to teach me lessons like this.”
His gaze hardens. “I do,” he says quietly. “Because if you lose control in a room like this, you won’t survive the rooms that matter.”
The words sink in, cold and heavy.
Dessert arrives. Luca barely touches it.
“You’re not finished,” he says when I push my plate away.
“I am.”
His fingers closed around my wrist under the table. Not tight. Not loose. Precise.
“You’ll eat,” he says calmly. “Or I’ll make a spectacle of it.”
I stare at him, breathing shallowly. “You wouldn’t.”
His thumb presses into my pulse point.
“Test me,” he murmurs.
My body betrays me again and my heart races, heat pooling low in my belly, an unwanted awareness of how close he is, how completely he has the room bending around him.
I pick up my fork.
Luca releases my wrist immediately.
Approval flickers in his eyes.
When dinner finally ends, I’m exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with food. My smile feels carved into my face. My skin feels too sensitive, every nerve humming.
As we stood to leave, Luca leaned down, his voice meant only for me.
“You did well,” he says.
The praise hits harder than the humiliation.
In the car, the silence is thick.
“You enjoyed that,” I say.
“Yes,” he admits.
My throat tightens. “Why?”
His gaze slides towards me, dark and unflinching. “Because you didn’t break,” he says. “And because everyone saw you choose me.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
Luca’s hand slides back to my knee, possessive and steady. “You always have a choice,” he says. “You just chose correctly.”
The car pulls through the gates. The house looms, waiting.
As we step inside, Luca stops me in the hallway. His fingers lift my chin, which is not forcing, just guiding until I’m looking at him.
“You were beautiful tonight,” he says quietly. “And furious.”
I swallow. “You crossed a line.”
He leans in, close enough that my breath stutters. “I showed you where it is,” he corrects. “You’re still standing on it.”
For a moment, just one, I think he might kiss me.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he steps back, composure sliding back into place.
“Go to bed,” he says. “Tomorrow will be worse.”
As he walks away, leaving me trembling with anger and something far more dangerous, one truth settles in my bones that tonight wasn’t about dinner.
It was about a witness.
And Luca Montelli wanted the world to see exactly where I belong.
To him.
Even if I’m not ready to admit it yet.
- Writer
