The son stormed out, humiliated and broken, and the heavy door slammed behind him. Silence lingered in the dining room like smoke after a fire. His father’s hand was still on my shoulder, firm, protective—possessive.
I tilted my head slowly, letting my crimson lips curl into the faintest smile. “Well,” I whispered, lifting my glass again, “that was dramatic.”
His grip tightened ever so slightly, his voice low, rough, like it had been caged for far too long. “You enjoy this too much.”
I leaned back in my chair, deliberately crossing one leg over the other, the slit of my dress revealing just enough to make his jaw tighten. “Enjoy?” I teased, letting the word drip like honey. “You make it sound like I’m playing a game.”
“You are,” he said. His eyes were molten, dangerous. “And you’re pul
