BENEATH HIS ROOF

THE DINNER THAT WASNT

Bella stood frozen outside the large oak doors of the main dining room, her breath catching slightly as she reached up to smooth her dress. The black maid’s uniform had been traded, for the evening, for a deep emerald green gown that Elena had insisted she wear—“something more suitable for the dinner,” the older woman had said with a wink.

Dinner. As if it were normal for a servant to dine with the master.

Her hands trembled slightly as she smoothed down the silk, the fabric catching a golden shimmer in the hallway light. She’d never worn anything so fine. Every stitch felt like it belonged to someone else’s life.

She didn’t know what awaited her on the other side of those doors. A conversation? A trap? Or simply silence and awkward utensils clinking over expensive porcelain?

“Come in,” came Damian’s voice—calm, deep, authoritative. But not unkind.

Bella swallowed and opened the door.

The dining room was aglow with warm lamplight and the soft flicker of candles. A long polished mahogany table stretched the length of the room, yet only two places were set—one at each end. A silver candelabrum stood in the center, its flames dancing in the reflection of the polished cutlery.

Damian stood near the far chair, still in his crisp dress shirt and vest, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. His tie was missing tonight, a small detail, yet it made him seem slightly less severe.

“Bella,” he said as she stepped inside. “You’re right on time.”

“I… wasn’t sure what time you meant.”

He gestured toward the seat near him, not at the far end as she expected. “Come. Sit beside me.”

Her breath hitched again, but she obeyed, heart thudding.

The chair was plush, the kind that made her feel like she might disappear in its velvet. She placed her napkin in her lap, doing her best to mimic the table manners she’d observed over the years. Still, everything felt like a test. Like one wrong move would unravel it all.

A butler entered silently and placed two silver-covered plates before them. Bella caught a whiff of roasted chicken, herb butter, and something citrusy—lemons, maybe. Her stomach, despite the nerves, growled softly.

Damian noticed and let the corner of his mouth twitch into what might have been a smirk.

“You’re nervous,” he said, not unkindly.

She looked down. “Should I not be?”

“You’re not here as a servant tonight.”

“Then what am I?”

That gave him pause. The silence stretched between them as he considered her.

“You’re someone I’d like to get to know better,” he said at last. “Outside the rules of this house.”

Bella blinked. “You hardly speak to the staff. Most of them are terrified of you.”

“I know. That’s intentional.”

She tilted her head, curious. “Why?”

“Because expectations make people reckless. They start to think they know you. That’s when things get dangerous.”

He said it so casually, but there was a weight behind the words. Something darker. Something worn.

Bella picked up her fork. “So what makes me different?”

Damian didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving hers.

“You’re not afraid of silence,” he said. “You don’t try to fill it with meaningless things. And you pay attention.”

She wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a warning.

The chicken was tender, paired with buttered greens and roasted potatoes. Bella ate slowly, not wanting to appear greedy, but the warmth of the food was comforting, grounding. Still, her thoughts churned louder than the clink of cutlery.

Why had he invited her here? What was he trying to accomplish? And more importantly—why was she enjoying it?

“You’ve been in this house a while now,” he said after a stretch of quiet.

“Yes.”

“Do you hate it?”

She paused. “No. I hated it at first. But now… I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“Complicated,” he echoed with a slight smile. “That’s an honest answer.”

Bella leaned back slightly. “May I ask you something?”

Damian nodded.

“Why do you live alone in a house made for twenty? You could be in a penthouse in London or traveling the world. Why here?”

His expression didn’t change much, but his eyes did. They darkened with memory.

“This house was my father’s obsession. Every brick, every chandelier—it was a symbol of control. He used it to keep my mother here, to keep me here. And now it’s mine. I suppose that’s why I stay. To make it mine in a different way.”

Bella nodded slowly. “Have you succeeded?”

He didn’t answer.

The candle between them flickered, casting golden light across his features. In the quiet, she noticed the small things—his lashes darker than she’d realized, the sharp line of his jaw, the tension always coiled in his shoulders.

He looked like a man always ready to fight something. Or someone.

“Do you trust anyone?” she asked suddenly.

He met her gaze. “Not easily.”

“And yet, you invited me here.”

“That was either an act of trust… or recklessness.”

Bella smiled for the first time that evening. “Maybe both.”

Damian leaned forward just slightly, elbows on the table, watching her like she was a puzzle he didn’t quite understand—but wanted to.

“You intrigue me, Bella.”

Her heart skipped. “Why?”

“Because you’re brave in the quietest ways. You didn’t run when the others whispered. You stayed. You looked me in the eye. You cleaned the room no one dared enter.”

Bella blushed, memories of the off-limits west wing surfacing. She had dusted it without knowing its history. Later, she learned it had been the late Lady Wycliffe’s favorite chamber—abandoned since her death.

“I didn’t mean any harm,” she said.

“I know,” Damian replied. “And yet… you went there anyway. Like it was nothing.”

“It was dusty.”

He chuckled—a low, genuine sound she’d never heard from him before. Something in her chest stirred.

The butler returned, clearing the plates and offering a dessert—chocolate tart with whipped cream and berries.

Bella hesitated. “This is the first real meal I’ve had like this. Ever.”

Damian blinked. “You’ve never been to a restaurant?”

“No,” she said, spooning a bit of the tart. “I didn’t grow up with money. My mum worked three jobs to keep the lights on. Meals were about survival. Not pleasure.”

There was a pause. Then Damian said, “I had every luxury—and none of what mattered.”

The dessert melted on her tongue. Rich, smooth, indulgent.

“I don’t understand you,” she said quietly.

“I don’t expect you to. But you’re trying. And that alone makes you the first.”

He stood then, walking to the large window overlooking the garden. Moonlight bathed the stone pathways outside, silvering the roses. Bella followed him, plate in hand, and stood beside him.

“I used to watch from this window as a boy,” he said. “My mother would sit in the garden for hours, painting. Sometimes she wouldn’t even notice the time pass. When the light faded, I’d run down and wrap her shawl around her shoulders. My father hated that. Said she was wasting time.”

“What happened to her?”

Damian’s jaw clenched. “She left one morning. Took nothing. Said nothing. We never heard from her again.”

Bella’s voice softened. “I’m sorry.”

“She left me with this house. With him. And now she’s just… a ghost in the wallpaper.”

Bella reached out and laid her hand gently on his arm. “Then we repaint the walls.”

He turned toward her, eyes searching her face.

“You say ‘we’ like you plan to stay.”

“I do. For now.”

He didn’t say anything. Just watched her, like he was waiting for her to vanish too.

Then, with a surprising gentleness, he brushed a loose curl from her cheek.

“You’ve changed the air in this house, Bella.”

She smiled. “Good. It needed it.”

They lingered there for a long time, not touching, not speaking—just breathing in the new warmth that had begun to gather between them.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t nothing.

And it was no longer pretend.