Chapter Seven: A Dinner With Wolves
1369 Words
It started with a knock on her door—two short, sharp taps.
Arielle looked up from her seat by the window. She’d been reviewing the files Kairo had handed her that morning—mock portfolios and social bios of people she was expected to greet at the upcoming Vescari-Devereux Investment Dinner.
He hadn’t told her she was expected to host.
But now, at nearly 5 p.m., one of the assistants stood in the doorway with a folder in hand.
“Change of plans,” the assistant said. “Mr. Vescari moved the dinner to tonight. Here, in the penthouse.”
Arielle took the folder without reacting. “How many guests?”
“Twelve confirmed. Not including Mr. Vescari and yourself.”
Twelve.
That meant two things. One: this wasn’t just a social dinner—it was a pre-negotiation. Two: Kairo wanted her watched.
The assistant cleared her throat. “Styling is being sent up. You’ll need to be ready in forty-five minutes. He requested something formal. Black, if possible.”
Of course he did.
As soon as the assistant left, Arielle got to work.
She showered quickly, tied her hair up, and scanned the dresses already pre-selected in the dressing room. Most were designer gowns meant to impress—but she bypassed them all and pulled a sleek black dress that hit just below the knee. Conservative neckline. Long sleeves. Clean.
She needed to blend in, not draw attention.
The makeup artist arrived a few minutes later. Arielle kept her instructions simple: subtle, controlled, sharp lines. No glitter. No red lips.
By the time Kairo knocked once and stepped into the lounge where she waited, she was sitting straight, phone down, hands on her lap.
He paused at the threshold.
“You adjusted.”
She looked up at him. “I’ve had practice.”
He didn’t comment. Just gave a small nod and motioned toward the hallway.
“Let’s begin.”
The dining area had been completely transformed.
The long obsidian table was set with black porcelain, gold cutlery, and sharp crystal glassware. A low centerpiece of white orchids and ivy ran the middle. The lights were dimmed just enough to create distance between people—not too warm, not too inviting.
Arielle knew the psychology.
Kairo didn’t want closeness.
He wanted tension.
The first guests arrived a little after six. Arielle stood near the entrance, Kairo beside her, his hand resting lightly against the small of her back—enough to perform the illusion of intimacy, but distant enough to remind her it wasn’t real.
They were a silent pair. Matching. Measured.
She smiled when needed. Said the names she’d memorized. Kept her tone warm, but never overly familiar. A couple of the men tried to test her—light jabs, jokes about the engagement, underestimations—but she deflected with practiced ease.
At one point, one of the Devereux cousins, Sebastian, leaned in during a toast.
“Didn’t think you had this in you,” he said under his breath. “You’ve changed.”
“Didn’t think you’d still be wearing cufflinks your father picked for you,” she replied, taking a sip of her wine.
He didn’t speak to her again that evening.
By the time all the guests had arrived, Kairo gave a brief welcome—calm, impersonal—and invited everyone to sit. He didn’t toast. He didn’t charm. He went straight to business.
The meal was served in courses.
Discussions started light—economic forecasts, market speculation, jokes about local politicians—but Arielle could feel the shift in air when Matthieu Silvain, CEO of a competing luxury conglomerate, leaned forward.
“I hear the Devereuxs are consolidating assets under one branch now,” he said casually. “Strange, considering they were spreading wide just last quarter.”
Vivienne, seated two chairs down, gave a polite smile. “We adapt with the market.”
“But isn’t that risky?” Matthieu continued, sipping from his wine. “Consolidation leaves you vulnerable. Especially if your lead faces a scandal.”
A beat of silence.
Kairo placed his fork down gently.
Arielle felt her spine go straight, but she didn’t react.
She let her gaze drift slightly—studying, calculating.
Vivienne offered a cool smile. “I wasn’t aware there was a scandal.”
“Not yet,” Matthieu said. “But these days, all it takes is one photo. Or a name. And suddenly, entire stock values collapse.”
Arielle realized this wasn’t just a dig.
It was a warning.
Matthieu knew something. Or wanted to test if they thought he did.
Kairo finally spoke. “Interesting choice of topic, Mr. Silvain. I assume this concern is purely academic?”
“Of course,” Matthieu replied with a grin.
Arielle leaned slightly toward her glass and said without looking up, “You should try the lamb, Mr. Silvain. The last time someone brought scandal to dinner, they choked on the fish.”
The table went quiet.
Then laughter—light, cautious, slightly uneasy.
Kairo’s fingers tapped once against his glass, approving.
The tension shifted again.
By dessert, Arielle had memorized the players.
There were three key investors watching her more than Kairo.
Two were from overseas—likely there to assess viability of the new Vescari-Devereux partnership. One was Celeste, who hadn’t said a word the entire evening. But she watched Arielle constantly, like someone staring through frosted glass, trying to see if what was behind it matched her assumptions.
Celeste had been wearing Devereux power for years.
And now she was watching it move toward someone else.
After the final course, Kairo rose from his seat and tapped his glass once.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I appreciate your time. You’ll find updated terms in your folders by morning. Until then, I hope tonight gave you clarity.”
He didn’t thank Arielle.
He didn’t need to.
She had played her part.
After the last guest left, the staff quickly began clearing the table. Arielle removed her earrings in the hallway and slipped her heels off the second she entered the private living room.
She expected silence.
Instead, Kairo stood by the bar, pouring himself a drink.
He looked over at her. “You handled yourself well.”
“Is that approval?”
“Observation.”
She crossed her arms. “Matthieu was trying to provoke you.”
“He was trying to see what you’d do.”
“And did I pass?”
“You improvised.”
“I didn’t say anything reckless.”
“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”
She hesitated. “He knows something, doesn’t he?”
Kairo turned toward her fully now, glass in hand.
“Matthieu always pokes where he smells weakness. He’s not interested in facts. He’s interested in leverage.”
“So he’s bluffing.”
“Likely.”
Arielle narrowed her eyes slightly. “And if he’s not?”
Kairo took a sip, then placed the glass on the table.
“Then he won’t be talking about it again.”
It wasn’t a threat.
It was a certainty.
The next morning, a headline appeared quietly on a private finance news forum. Buried under industry updates and luxury brand mergers.
“Silvain Holdings to Shift Core Assets After Private Restructure”
No scandal.
No scandal for the Devereuxs either.
But Arielle read the article twice.
Matthieu had retreated.
Which meant he had tested a theory and lost.
And Kairo had shut it down before it reached public ears.
Later that day, a courier delivered a box to Arielle’s suite.
Inside was a first edition of The Prince by Machiavelli.
Tucked inside was a card.
No name. No message.
Just one sentence:
“Never let them see the weight you carry.”
She stared at it for a while, then placed the book on her shelf beside the others he’d lent her.
She didn’t ask if it was from him.
She didn’t need to.
She’d survived the dinner.
But more than that—she’d played the room, handled pressure, deflected threat, and held her own among wolves.
He was testing her.
And this time, she’d passed.
Whatever came next… she’d be ready.
- Writer
