Chapter Four: Dinner with the Devil
1175 Words
The day passed in fragments, Mia spent most of it wandering the halls of the Blackwood estate, guided by a quiet maid whose name she’d already forgotten. The house was far too large to take in all at once—corridors lined with oil paintings, glittering chandeliers that looked like they belonged in a palace, endless rooms that smelled faintly of polished wood and money.
And yet, despite the grandeur, a strange coldness lingered. Every step she took echoed too loudly. The eyes of the staff followed her discreetly, their gazes carefully guarded, as if they were measuring her, wondering how long she’d last here.
She felt like an intruder wearing the mask of a wife.
Her mind wouldn’t stop circling back to Adrian’s words that morning: Not everyone here will be pleased about your arrival.
That thought gnawed at her as the hours crawled toward evening.
By the time a maid entered her room again, arms full of silk and lace, Mia’s nerves were strung so tight they threatened to snap.
“Mr. Blackwood requested you dress for dinner,” the maid said softly, her eyes lowered.
Of course he did.
The gown she laid out was unlike anything Mia had ever worn—a deep emerald green dress that shimmered faintly under the light, its neckline daring, its fabric whisper-soft against her skin. She hesitated before slipping it on, feeling as though she were being dressed for some ritual rather than dinner.
In the mirror, she hardly recognized herself. Her hair had been carefully styled, falling in soft waves down her shoulders. Her lips were painted a subtle shade of rose, her cheeks glowing with the faintest touch of powder.
She looked beautiful.
She also looked like someone else’s possession.
The knock came at last.
Her chest tightened when the door opened and Adrian stepped inside, no longer in his stark business suit but in a perfectly tailored black dinner jacket. He looked devastating, controlled, every detail of him sharpened like a blade.
His gaze traveled over her slowly, lingering just long enough to make her cheeks burn.
“Better,” he said simply, as if she were a piece of art he’d commissioned.
Mia clenched her fists against the folds of her gown. “I didn’t dress for you.”
His lips curved faintly. “Of course you didn’t.”
He extended his arm toward her, expectant.
For a moment she thought of refusing, of telling him she could walk herself to dinner. But there was something in the way he stood, something immovable, that told her defiance would only amuse him.
So she slid her hand into the crook of his arm, hating the way her body reacted—how her skin prickled at his nearness, how her heartbeat quickened despite every warning in her head.
The dining room was a cathedral of wealth. A long polished table stretched down the center, set with crystal glasses and silver cutlery, though only two seats had been arranged. Candles flickered in golden holders, their flames painting the room in a soft, intimate glow.
The intimacy unsettled her more than a crowd would have.
Adrian pulled out a chair for her, his gesture smooth, almost mocking in its courtesy. She sat stiffly, her hands folding in her lap as he took his place across from her.
The servants moved like shadows, pouring wine, laying dishes before them—roasted lamb, delicate vegetables, sauces rich with aromas that made her stomach twist with both hunger and unease.
But once the servants withdrew, silence fell.
Only the faint clink of Adrian’s knife against porcelain broke the stillness as he began to eat, calm and deliberate.
Mia stared at her plate, appetite gone.
“Eat,” he said without looking up.
She swallowed hard. “I’m not hungry.”
His eyes lifted, pinning her with a gaze that made her insides tighten. “You’ll eat anyway.”
For a moment she thought about pushing the plate away, about saying no just to prove she still had some control. But his eyes held hers, unyielding, and she found her fingers reaching for the fork almost against her will.
She forced a bite past her lips.
The flavors burst warm and rich across her tongue, but she hardly tasted them.
Adrian leaned back slightly in his chair, watching her with unnerving interest. “Do you always fight so hard against the inevitable?”
Her fork froze midway to her lips. “What do you mean?”
“You’re here, Mia. You’re my wife. No amount of sulking or pretending will change that. You might as well stop clawing at the walls of your cage.”
His words cut too close. She set the fork down with a quiet clatter, her voice sharp. “Maybe I don’t want to be caged at all.”
For the first time, something flickered in his eyes—surprise, then a spark of something darker.
He rose slowly from his chair. The sound of it scraping against the floor made her chest tighten.
Her pulse spiked as he circled the table, each step deliberate, measured, until he stopped behind her chair. She felt the heat of his presence at her back, his breath ghosting against her ear as he leaned down.
“You mistake me,” he murmured, his voice low, silk laced with steel. “This cage is not meant to trap you. It’s meant to protect you.”
Her breath hitched. “Protect me from what?”
Adrian didn’t answer immediately. His fingers brushed the edge of her chair, a whisper of contact that sent shivers down her arms.
“From the vultures,” he said at last, his tone dark. “From those who would tear you apart the moment they smell weakness.”
She turned her head slightly, enough to catch his profile in the candlelight. The sharp line of his jaw, the unreadable depths of his eyes.
“And what about you?” she whispered before she could stop herself. “Are you one of them?”
The silence stretched taut.
Then he straightened, moving back around to his seat. His expression was unreadable, but his lips curved in the faintest shadow of a smile.
“Finish your meal,” he said softly. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.”
Her stomach knotted. “What’s tomorrow?”
His gaze held hers, dark and gleaming, promising answers she wasn’t sure she wanted.
“Tomorrow,” he said, his voice smooth as the wine in his glass, “you’ll meet the family.”
The words landed like a blow.
Mia’s fork slipped from her hand, clattering against the plate. She hardly noticed. All she could feel was the sudden, sharp pulse of fear at the thought of facing the infamous Blackwood family—people who already resented her presence, who would see her as nothing more than an unworthy outsider.
And yet, across the table, Adrian’s eyes never wavered. Watching her. Measuring her. Waiting to see if she would break.
- Writer
