The Debt

Chapter 5 – The Dinner

~ Mara ~

The restaurant was the kind of place I had only ever seen in magazines.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting soft light over tables draped in white linen. Waiters moved silently between guests, refilling glasses and clearing plates with practiced efficiency. The air smelled like expensive perfume and money, and I felt completely out of place in my emerald dress that suddenly seemed cheap compared to what every other woman in the room was wearing.

Julian's hand was on my lower back the moment we walked through the door. It stayed there as the hostess led us to a private table in the back corner, and it stayed there as he pulled out my chair and guided me into my seat. The touch was possessive, deliberate, a reminder of what he had told me earlier in his office.

You belong to me.

The Morrison group was already seated when we arrived. Three men and one woman, all of them older than Julian, all of them watching me with the kind of polite curiosity that rich people used to assess whether someone was worth their attention.

"Julian," the oldest man said, standing to shake his hand. "Good to see you again. And who is this lovely young woman?"

"Mara Sinclair. My personal assistant."

The way he said it made the title sound like something else entirely. I smiled and shook hands with each of them, pretending I didn't notice the knowing looks they exchanged, pretending I didn't understand exactly what they assumed about my relationship with Julian.

Dinner was long and tedious. The conversation revolved around business deals and market trends and people I had never heard of. I sat beside Julian and ate food that tasted like nothing because I was too tense to enjoy it, and I drank wine that probably cost more than my weekly grocery budget, and I tried to look like I belonged there even though I didn't.

Julian's hand found my thigh under the table before the appetizers were finished.

I had expected it. After a week of this, I knew his patterns, knew that he couldn't sit beside me without touching me, knew that he had to remind me constantly that he could do whatever he wanted and I couldn't stop him. But expecting it didn't make it easier to ignore.

His fingers traced lazy patterns on my skin while he discussed acquisition strategies with the woman across the table. His thumb slipped beneath the hem of my dress while he laughed at something one of the men said. He was completely relaxed, completely in control, carrying on a conversation while his hand crept higher and higher.

I picked up my wine glass and took a long sip, forcing myself to breathe normally.

"You're very quiet, Mara," the woman said suddenly, her eyes fixed on me. "Julian's assistants are usually more... talkative."

"I'm still learning," I said. "There's a lot to take in."

"I'm sure there is." Her smile was sharp, knowing. "Julian has very high standards. I hope you can keep up."

"She's doing wonderfully," Julian said, and his hand squeezed my thigh in a way that made me grip my fork too hard. "I couldn't ask for better."

The rest of dinner passed in a blur of forced smiles and nodding at the right moments. By the time dessert arrived, my jaw ached from clenching it and my thigh burned from the constant pressure of Julian's hand.

When we finally stood to leave, I was light-headed from the wine and the stress and the effort of pretending everything was fine. Julian's hand returned to my lower back as we walked out, and I let him guide me because I didn't have the energy to resist.

The car was waiting outside. Julian opened the door for me and I slid inside, and then he was beside me and the door was closing and we were alone in the dark backseat with the privacy partition raised between us and the driver.

"You did well tonight," Julian said.

"Did I?"

"You smiled when you were supposed to smile. You laughed when you were supposed to laugh. You played the part perfectly."

"What part is that?"

Julian turned to look at me, and in the dim light his face was hard to read. "The part of a woman who belongs to me."

I stared at him, my heart pounding, my skin still tingling where his hand had been all night.

"I don't belong to you," I said quietly. "I work for you. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

He reached out and touched my face, his fingers tracing along my jaw, tilting my chin up so I had no choice but to meet his eyes. His thumb brushed across my lower lip, slow and deliberate, and I forgot how to breathe.

"You signed a contract," he said. "You live in an apartment I own. You wear clothes I'll buy for you and eat food I pay for and go where I tell you to go. Every part of your life belongs to me now, Mara. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."

"For who?"

"For both of us."

His hand dropped from my face and he turned away, looking out the window at the city lights sliding past. The conversation was over.

I sat in silence for the rest of the drive, my mind racing, my body still aware of every place he had touched me tonight. I hated him. I hated the way he looked at me, the way he touched me, the way he made me feel like I was nothing more than a possession he had acquired.

But underneath the hatred was something else. Heat. Tension. A pull toward him that made no sense and scared me more than anything he had said or done all week.

The car stopped outside my apartment building. Julian stayed where he was, looking at his phone, already focused on something else.

I opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Before I closed it, I looked back at him one more time.

"Goodnight, Julian."

"Goodnight, Mara. I'll see you tomorrow. Seven AM. Don't be late."

The door closed. The car pulled away. I stood there watching until the taillights disappeared around the corner, and then I walked into my building and took the elevator up to my apartment.

I didn't bother turning on the lights. I just sat on my bed in the darkness, still wearing my emerald dress, and pressed my fingers to my lips where his thumb had been.

I could still feel him there. The warmth of his skin, the pressure of his touch, the way my whole body had leaned toward him even as my mind screamed at me to pull away.

This was dangerous. He was dangerous. And the worst part wasn't that he wanted to own me.

The worst part was that some small, traitorous piece of me wanted to let him.

I kicked off my heels and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

Four years, fifty weeks, and six days to go.