The Woman at the Table
1219 Words
CHAPTER NINE
The next morning, the mansion was buzzing.
Eliana woke early, still curled beside Desmond. The way his arm rested over her waist, the peaceful rise and fall of his chest she almost didn’t want to move.
But she had things to do.
She slipped out of bed quietly and dressed herself in a crisp white blouse tucked into tailored navy trousers. Her curls were pinned back, her lips a soft rose. Clean. Confident. CEO’s wife but more importantly, her own woman.
Downstairs, Nora blinked when she saw her heading into the west wing offices.
“I’d like a list of today’s meetings,” Eliana said simply.
The woman hesitated. “I… I’m not sure”
Eliana smiled. “I’ll wait. You can check with your boss.”
Two minutes later, Desmond himself stepped out of the study, dark suit on, tie half-knotted.
He paused when he saw her standing there, arms crossed.
“You’re up early,” he said.
“I want to attend your meetings.”
His brows rose. “Why?”
“Because I’m not just playing dress-up anymore,” she said. “If I’m going to protect what we’re building, I need to know what goes on behind those doors.”
Desmond stepped closer. “They won’t like it.”
“Good,” she said. “Let them know I’m not decoration.”
Something flickered in his eyes—something between amusement and pride.
“Fine,” he said. “Pull up a chair. But don’t say I didn’t warn you..
The meeting was held in the smaller boardroom glass walls, polished floors, a long black table in the center. Ten seats. Nine men.
Eliana sat beside Desmond.
Most of the men didn’t hide their surprise.
Some didn’t even hide their irritation.
She ignored it all.
As the meeting began, the agenda flowed smoothly profit margins, shipping contracts, a new real estate investment. Desmond kept his tone firm, calm, in control.
Then came the discussion of the company’s upcoming charity gala.
Mr. Hartman, Desmond’s senior advisor and one of the oldest members of the board, cleared his throat and said, “We should keep the event traditional. Same venue, same format. No need for experimentation this year.”
Eliana glanced at the notes. “The same event that lost money last year?”
The room went still.
Hartman looked at her sharply. “Excuse me?”
She smiled politely. “You said it should stay the same. But based on this report…”she tapped the folder“it actually lost sponsorships and had a 12% drop in attendance. Wouldn’t a refresh help?”
There was a pause.
Desmond didn’t interfere.
Hartman leaned back, folding his arms. “With respect, Mrs. King, we’ve been handling this gala long before your arrival.”
“With respect,” she echoed, “that might be why it’s underperforming.”
A few men hid smiles.
Hartman’s jaw tensed. “This isn’t about decor or dresses. It’s about influence.”
“And nothing influences people more than presentation,” Eliana said smoothly. “I propose a new venue something sleek and modern. We invite younger tech entrepreneurs and social investors. Desmond’s company needs to look forward, not back.”
Desmond finally spoke. “She has a point.”
Hartman’s eyes narrowed. “Are we really taking advice from someone who’s been here five minutes?”
“She’s my wife,” Desmond said. “Which makes her voice more valuable than anyone outside this table.”
The message was clear.
Eliana wasn’t temporary.
And she wasn’t silent.
After the meeting, Desmond caught up with her in the hallway.
“You enjoyed that,” he said.
“Did I go too far?”
“You made Hartman sweat. That’s always a win.”
“I meant it, you know,” she said. “You need younger energy. Your company is strong, but it feels… safe.”
Desmond nodded slowly. “You’re right.”
She stopped walking. “I want a title.”
He raised a brow. “A title?”
“I don’t want to just sit beside you. I want to have an official role. Public. Visible.”
He studied her face. “Why?”
“Because if I’m going to keep defending this empire, I want my name on it too.”
He stepped closer. “That’s a bold move.”
“Then make it official.”
He smiled slow and wicked.
“Welcome to the board, Mrs. King.”
That night, news leaked.
An anonymous press release described Eliana as the CEO’s wife and newly appointed co-chair of the charity committee. The words “power couple” were used. Social media buzzed. Blogs speculated. Some praised. Some mocked.
She didn’t care.
She wasn’t looking for approval.
She was claiming her space.
The next few days moved fast.
Desmond gave her access to the mansion’s private office. She met with event coordinators. Designed a new invitation list. Drafted speeches. Studied previous galas and found all their weak spots.
She wasn’t just changing flowers and themes.
She was changing image.
And Desmond noticed.
One evening, he walked into the study where she’d been working for hours.
“You’ve been in here all day,” he said.
She didn’t look up from the screen. “I’m fine.”
“You skipped lunch.”
“I’ll eat later.”
Desmond walked over, gently took her hand, and closed the laptop.
She blinked up at him.
“You don’t have to burn yourself out to prove something.”
She stood slowly. “I’m not doing this to prove anything. I’m doing it because this matters to me.”
His eyes softened. “You matter to me.”
Her breath caught.
And then, with no warning, he leaned in and kissed her soft, deep, possessive.
When he pulled away, he whispered, “You’re dangerous when you want something.”
“And you like that.”
“I do.”
The next morning, Hartman returned.
With an apology.
Not sincere, of course. Just enough to smooth the surface.
Eliana accepted it.
Barely.
But as he left, she noticed something curious.
His hand had a tremble.
He was worried.
Good.
Let him be.
Later that week, a package arrived for Eliana.
No sender.
Just a silver box and a black ribbon.
She opened it slowly.
Inside was a photograph grainy, old.
Her.
As a teenager.
Standing in front of the orphanage gates.
On the back, a handwritten message:
“You can pretend to be one of them. But we know what you are.”
Eliana’s hands trembled.
Not from fear.
From rage.
Whoever sent this was digging into her past.
Trying to intimidate her.
She wouldn’t let it work.
That evening, she placed the photo in front of Desmond.
“Someone’s playing games.”
He picked it up, studied it, then looked at her.
“I’ll find out who sent it.”
“I already know,” she said.
“Who?”
“Your uncle.”
Desmond’s eyes narrowed. “He’s getting desperate.”
“He wants me to feel small,” she said. “He wants to remind me I don’t belong.”
Desmond reached for her hand. “But you do.”
She held his gaze. “Then let’s show him how much.”
- Writer
