Chapter 4: Under the Table
545 Words
The dining table was long enough to seat twenty, but the three of them sat clustered at one end, the silence broken only by the light clink of silver against fine bone china.
Julian sat at the head, the undisputed king of the manor. Isabella sat to his right, looking radiant in emerald silk, while Elara sat to his left, feeling like an interloper in her simple slip dress.
"I must say, Julian," Isabella began, delicately cutting her steak. "The staff mentioned you’ve cleared out the entire West Wing for Elara. Isn’t that a bit… excessive for a houseguest? Especially one with such a complicated family history."
Elara gripped her fork tighter. "My family history has nothing to do with my presence here, Miss Sterling."
"Oh, sweetie, your family history is the only reason you’re interesting," Isabella purred, casting a sly look at Julian. "I heard your father is currently residing in a state-funded facility. How… tragic. From caviar to cafeteria food."
Elara’s chair scraped against the marble floor as she made to stand up. "I don’t have to sit here and listen to—"
"Sit down, Elara."
Julian’s voice wasn't loud, but it had the weight of a gavel. Elara froze, her eyes clashing with his. To her surprise, his gaze wasn't cold; it was a warning. Don’t let her win, his eyes seemed to say.
Elara slowly sank back into her seat.
"Isabella," Julian said, his voice smooth as silk but sharp as a razor. "Elara is here for a specific purpose. If you find her presence distracting, perhaps you should spend the weekend at your father’s estate in the Hamptons instead."
Isabella’s face paled. She opened her mouth to argue, but Julian’s expression was final.
Under the table, Elara felt a sudden, heavy warmth against her knee. She gasped softly, her breath catching in her throat. Julian’s large hand had settled firmly on her thigh.
She looked at him, but he was casually sipping his red wine, engaging Isabella in a boring conversation about the steel market. His face was a mask of perfect corporate indifference.
But his hand… his hand was moving.
His thumb began to stroke the inner curve of her thigh, tracing slow, agonizing circles through the thin silk of her dress. It was a possessive, intimate gesture—one that screamed that she belonged to him, right under the nose of his fiancée.
Elara’s heart hammered so hard she was sure they could hear it. The heat from his palm radiated through her whole body, making her toes curl against the floor. She tried to move her leg away, but his grip tightened just enough to tell her stay.
"Don't you agree, Elara?" Isabella asked suddenly, her eyes narrowing. "That a woman should know her place?"
Elara looked from Isabella’s suspicious face to Julian’s calm, predatory eyes. Under the table, his fingers moved higher, dangerously close to the hem of her dress.
"I think," Elara said, her voice breathy and strained, "that some people don't realize they’ve already lost the game they're playing."
Julian’s eyes flared with a dark, hidden spark of approval. He finally pulled his hand away, but the ghost of his touch stayed branded on her skin.
"Checkmate," Julian murmured into his wine glass.
- Writer
