War at the Table
496 Words
The morning sunlight streamed through the tall dining hall windows, but the air was anything but bright. She sat gracefully at the long table, sipping her coffee as though nothing had happened in the garden the night before.
The father sat at the head, his presence commanding as always, his hand occasionally brushing hers beneath the table. It was subtle, almost invisible, but enough to remind her who truly owned the moment.
The son sat opposite her, his jaw stiff, his eyes burning holes into her as if he could will her into breaking. He hadn’t told his father about their confrontation—she could see it in his silence, in the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the table.
Finally, he snapped. “So, when were you planning to tell me?” His words cut the air, sharp and loud.
The father set down his glass, calm but firm. “Tell you what?”
“That she’s not just your… guest,” the son spat, glaring at her. “That she’s more than that. That you’re flaunting her under my nose just to spite me.”
The room stilled.
Her lips curved into the slowest, most deliberate smile. She didn’t look at the son—only at the father, as if the boy weren’t even worth her attention.
The father leaned back in his chair, his tone dangerously even. “Watch your tongue. She’s under my roof. Which makes her mine to protect. Mine to keep.”
The son’s chair scraped against the floor as he shot up, fists clenched. “Yours to keep? She was mine first! She—” His eyes darted to her, wild, accusing. “She’s playing you, can’t you see? She’s not loyal. She’s not—”
Before he could finish, she rose, her silk robe brushing the chair as she stepped closer to the father. She rested her hand lightly on his shoulder, her smile sharpened with venom.
“Funny, isn’t it?” she purred. “You had me, and you threw me away for something cheap. Now you watch me sit where you never could. Maybe instead of warning your father about me, you should warn yourself about me.”
The father’s lips curved into a slow, proud smirk as his hand came to rest over hers. His gaze cut to his son, steady and commanding. “Don’t mistake her strength for your weakness, boy. She’s mine now. And I’ll make sure the whole world knows it.”
The son’s face went pale, rage boiling in his eyes, but he had no words left. He stormed out, the slam of the door echoing like a gunshot.
She leaned down, whispering into the father’s ear, soft and dangerous: “He thinks I’m poison.”
The father chuckled, low and dark. “Good. Poison keeps the weak away. But with me, you’ll burn like fire.”
And she smiled, knowing the game had only just entered its most dangerous phase.
- Writer
