The Rebel's Tamer

CHAPTER 5

One thing is certain at the moment: Chanelle is beyond uncomfortable. The Roswells have gathered around her like a pack, and she feels like an enemy, a prey, a rebel that may be devoured at any moment. She can only look down, straight ahead, and anywhere but into their eyes.

No one ever imagined her in this situation. She thought she would attend like a ghost and disappear in the middle, but it seems fate had a different, awful plan.

Chanelle is sitting on the left side of a curved couch. Next to her is Ethan—not too close, but close enough for her to hear whatever he’s talking about with another Roswell sitting at the center.

She wonders if it is okay for her to hear the conversation. Don’t they feel cautious? Why do they make it seem like she's a friend? She's not. Then there’s Vaughn, in front of her, sitting on the right side of the couch. His eyes are serious, poised like the boss he is.

“Tell us more about yourself, Chanelle. You’re talkative if I remember our first encounter correctly… or was it the alcohol effect?” Ethan blurted out in the middle of the conversation, all smiles and chuckles. As charming as he is, he makes sure no one is left out of the conversation, including Chanelle.

She can only wish they would ignore her completely and just go on their way sooner, but everything is against her fantasy. Now they are all looking at her, waiting for her answer.

She cleared her throat and simply smiled. Damn. “I pretty much told you the summary of my life, Ethan. Need I repeat myself?” she said, smiling. The man was surprised she addressed him by his name, as if they were close, but he was the one who approached her first anyway.

She’s tense, the man is amused.

"Right. Chanelle, guys. You all know her," Ethan attempts to introduce her again, putting her in the spotlight. Of course, by now, who doesn’t know her? Her whole family tree is highly publicized. Intentionally.

"Daughter of the narcissist politician, of course, I know her."

It was Vaughn who said that.

Words full of criticism against her father. She should be offended, but she's not.

Because it's true, and she thought the same thing. If anything, it feels liberating to hear those words in front of her. It wasn't a slip of the tongue; it was not a mistake. Chanelle is rather grateful, even if it's a mockery. This just proves she's far enough from her father's vicinity.

"Vaughn," the other cousin warned. Chanelle remembered his name as Ashton. The cousins are well-named; it suits their looks. Ashton, Ethan, Vaughn.

“He’s just being an ass right now, apologies—”

“I’m not sorry,” Vaughn cut off his cousin, Ashton.

Chanelle tries to look at him and level his grimy stare, but all he does is raise his brow and challenge her more, as if she is competing with him. Then she realized, maybe he wants to break her.

Ethan tried to chuckle to lighten the atmosphere. It was a good attempt, but it wasn’t until he spoke that Chanelle was able to divert her eyes. “He’s not in the mood; he hasn’t been laid for long,” Ethan jokes.

It sounded more like a lie.

Vaughn adjusted his seat, still staring at her, scrutinizing her being, about to devour all her energy. “I’ve never felt better, actually.” The man claimed, meaning he is not sorry even in the slightest. He meant what he said.

“Now tell me, Chanelle. Why did your good father send you here?”

“Vaughn, that’s enough,” the older brother, who if she is right is named Richard, tried to stop him from questioning her.

Vaughn's lips curled into a smug smirk, his eyes alight with mischief as he casually crossed his arms, the gesture emphasizing his confident demeanor. After tossing back a shot with effortless flair, he fixed his gaze on her, his stare penetrating and commanding, leaving no doubt of his dominance in the moment.

Chanelle’s eyes roamed and saw Ethan looking at her apologetically, like he himself cannot control his cousin’s attitude.

“Come on, Tan, I thought you said this woman is not like her father. Why is she here, then?”

This time, Chanelle felt offended. To be compared to her father is one thing she loathes, and for the man to imply that she’s no different is just beyond what her patience can take.

Ethan was about to speak when Chanelle stood up.

She forced a smile, trying desperately to hold back her tears. "I'll take that as a sign that I'm not welcome here, which I completely understand. But there's one thing I need to make clear, I am not my father, and I never will be," she declared with conviction, attempting to lighten the moment with a chuckle. "Thanks for the invitation, Ethan. I did enjoy my little taste of freedom. It's a shame I have to leave so soon."

As she turned to leave, her eyes met Vaughn's, the man who had just looked down on her. She couldn't decipher the emotions in his expression, but one thing was clear to Chanelle, she didn't like him and had no desire to be anywhere he was. This encounter only strengthened her resolve to carve out her own path, far from the shadows of men like Vaughn and her father.

Fortunately, they had not crossed paths since that fateful encounter. Not that it was likely given the deep-seated feud between their families, but considering their elevated social statuses, such an encounter wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility. They could have easily met in the opulent corridors of a casino, the exclusive lounge of a VIP airplane, or the luxurious hallways of a five-star hotel.

Yet, Chanelle had been granted a rare respite, a chance to feel a semblance of peace. Her father, ever the political juggernaut, was far too engrossed in his relentless pursuit of power to bother her with his incessant demands. His attention was diverted elsewhere, consumed by his so-called "political" tour across the provinces. This tour, a thinly veiled campaign of manipulation and influence, kept him conveniently occupied and miles away from her.

For once, Chanelle could breathe freely, unburdened by his overbearing presence. The constant weight of his expectations, the looming threat of his interference, was momentarily lifted. Her father's absence allowed her a fleeting taste of freedom, an interlude in the otherwise suffocating narrative of her life. It was a brief, fragile peace, but one she cherished deeply, knowing all too well how quickly it could be shattered.

Sure enough, an invitation arrived once again. This time, however, it wasn’t sent to her personal account. They hadn’t invited Chanelle specifically; they had invited her online persona, the fierce critic who wrote scathing exposés against corruption and injustice. Her heart pounded with a mix of tension and excitement. The audacity of it all—they wanted her to write about them, the Roswells.