Of Toast and Territory
1014 Words
The hallway had been too silent, like walking into a mausoleum. The dining room didn’t help. It looked more like a museum exhibit than a place anyone actually ate in. Eden shifted her weight onto one foot and scanned the room, noting the intimidating space between her and the man sitting at the head of the table like a damn monarch.
Cassian didn’t look up. Of course he didn’t. He was already halfway through his espresso and reading something on a sleek tablet. Probably world domination plans.
She rolled her eyes and walked in, letting her bare feet slap against the polished floor just enough to be annoying. If this was going to be her new prison, she’d at least rattle the bars a little.
Sliding into a seat three chairs away from him—not directly beside him because gross, and not at the opposite end because she wasn’t invisible—Eden leaned her elbows on the table.
No greeting.
No glance.
Not even a grunt.
She glanced down at the table, already set for two. It didn’t look like a breakfast—it looked like a threat. Sliced fruit in glass bowls, eggs so perfectly poached it made her feel personally attacked, and a tower of bread that looked too artisan to be toast.
A maid glided in. “Miss Eden. Would you like coffee? Tea? Juice?”
“Do you have anything with caffeine and less judgment?” Eden asked dryly. “If not, orange juice will do. And toast. The kind that’s actually a little burnt.”
The maid blinked like she wasn’t sure if that was a joke or a challenge. “Yes, ma’am.”
Eden slumped back into her chair, arms crossed.
Still, Cassian didn’t acknowledge her.
Was this how he planned to play it? Pretend she wasn’t there? Just like last night—silent treatment, zero warmth, zero humanity. A man carved from glacier.
“So… breakfast in a funeral home,” Eden murmured under her breath. “Nice.”
Nothing.
She grabbed a grape from the crystal bowl and popped it into her mouth with a little extra flair. “Is this where you usually eat, or is this just for the rich-people effect? Like, ‘look how long our table is, our problems must be huge’?”
Still nothing.
God, he was like talking to a statue.
She studied him. Cold suit. Crisp cuffs. Not a hair out of place. His jaw was sharp enough to slice through her sarcasm and his expression didn’t shift once.
He finally spoke without looking up. “Silence suits the room. Try not to ruin it.”
Eden snorted. “You’re welcome. It was getting far too peaceful in here.”
Cassian sipped his coffee without comment.
Eden leaned forward, voice low and mocking. “You know, most men would at least fake small talk. You don’t even bother.”
“I don’t waste time with things that don’t matter,” he replied, calmly flipping a page on his tablet.
“Wow. Inspirational. Do you get that embroidered on your throw pillows?”
“Eat your food.”
“I’d rather eat nails.”
He finally looked at her.
And it was cold.
Not angry. Not frustrated.
Just… indifferent. Like she was noise.
“You’ll attend the charity gala on Friday.”
Eden raised an eyebrow. “We’re doing that already? Public appearances and forced smiling?”
“You’re not here to live rent-free,” he said, tone flat. “You’re here to play your part.”
“Ah yes. The decorative wife. Do I get upgraded to arm candy or am I strictly trophy-level?”
Cassian ignored her tone. “You’ll dress appropriately. Arrive with me. Smile.”
She gave a slow, mocking nod. “Smile. Right. Anything else? Should I curtsey too?”
“If you have to ask, you’re already underqualified.”
Eden’s laugh was soft but dangerous. “You really do think you own the world, don’t you?”
“I own enough to not care what you think.”
“You know, most men at least pretend to give a damn about the women they drag into fake marriages.”
Cassian looked back at his screen. “Pretending isn’t in my contract.”
She stood up abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping against the marble. Her toast—now lightly burnt—arrived just as she pushed away from the table. She grabbed a piece, bit into it dramatically, and walked over to him.
He didn’t look up.
So she leaned forward, placing her palms flat on the table.
“Let me explain something to you, Mr. Wolfe. I may be here because life handed me a steaming pile of crap and you waved a check in my face, but I’m still me. I’m not your maid. I’m not your doll. And if you think for one second that I’m going to sit here, quiet and obedient, while you pretend I’m just a piece of furniture—”
She leaned closer.
“—you’re going to have a really long, really loud year.”
Cassian’s eyes lifted.
Unbothered.
Unmoved.
“I don’t expect you to be quiet, Eden,” he said, voice calm like glass about to shatter. “I expect you to remember your place.”
“I’m not furniture.”
“No. Furniture serves a purpose.”
That one stung.
Eden pulled back. For a moment, her sass faltered. But then she straightened her hoodie, took another bite of toast, and smiled—bright, sarcastic, unbothered.
“Wow. If I wasn’t being paid, I’d almost be offended.”
She turned to leave, then paused in the doorway.
“By the way, Cassian,” she said sweetly, “your eggs are too perfect. Like your personality. Might want to mix it up before someone falls asleep mid-bite.”
She didn’t wait for a response.
Didn’t look back.
She left the dining room with burnt toast in one hand and her chin held high.
Let him have his silence.
She’d bring the noise
- Writer
