Dante's POV
Dinner that night wasn't just tasteless; it was a bitter, metallic tang on my tongue, like chewing on rusty nails. The air itself felt heavy, thick with unspoken accusations and simmering resentment. I sat at the far end of the impossibly long, polished mahogany table, a king presiding over an unwanted feast. My steak, a perfect medium-rare just minutes ago, was congealing on the plate, a testament to my utter disinterest. My knife, held in a loose, almost predatory grip, felt more like a weapon than an eating utensil. My gaze, sharp and unwavering, was fixed on them – the intruders.
Berenda, her mother, sat directly across from my father, her posture a parody of elegance. She was draped in pearls that screamed "new money trying too hard," pearls I knew, with an absolute certainty, she hadn't earned a single cent towards. She was playing the part, a meticulously crafted illusion of belonging, of being at home in a house that had been in my family for generations. Her laughter, soft and melodious, grated on my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard as she simpered at my father's insipid anecdotes. She kept tucking a strand of her unnaturally blonde, perfectly coiffed hair behind her ear, a gesture so transparently affected it made my stomach churn. It was the desperate, pathetic hope of a woman who'd clearly always dreamed of sitting at a table like this, in a house like this.
And then there was her.
Cassidy.
She was seated directly across from me, a deliberate placement by my father, or perhaps, a cosmic joke. She was squarely in my line of sight, as if she were daring me, challenging me to make the first move. Like she wanted to test the boundaries, to see just how far she could push before something broke.
She was quiet at first, thankfully. Her shoulders were stiff, rigid, betraying an unease that was almost satisfying to witness. Her fingers, slender and surprisingly delicate, gripped her fork so tightly her knuckles were white. She picked at her salad, pushing the leaves around her plate as if they were a personal affront, as if the very sight of the pristine greens offended her common sensibilities.
And I hated it. I hated that she, despite her ridiculous attire and defiant stance, somehow managed to look more like she belonged here than her mother ever could. There was a raw, unpolished grace about her, a quiet dignity that was utterly infuriating because it didn't fit the narrative I had already assigned to her. She was supposed to be the "baggage," the inconvenient consequence of her mother's calculated climb.
The oppressive silence of the formal dining room, punctuated only by the clinking of silverware and my father's booming laughter at his own jokes, was suddenly shattered.
"So," Berenda chirped, her voice cutting through the heavy air with an artificial sweetness that made my teeth ache. "How was everyone's day? Cassidy, sweetheart, are you settling in okay?" The question was saccharine, designed to draw attention, to reinforce their newfound familial bond.
Cassidy's hazel eyes, those deceptively innocent eyes, darted to her mother for a split second, then back to her plate, as if seeking refuge.
"Sure," she muttered, her voice low, almost inaudible. "It's… fine." The word was dismissive, laced with a barely concealed apathy that was almost admirable.
I let out a sharp, unexpected laugh. It wasn't a genuine laugh, not one born of amusement. It was a sneer, a derisive bark that was loud in the hushed room.
She froze. Every muscle in her body seemed to lock. Then, slowly, deliberately, she lifted her eyes. They met mine, challenging, unwavering.
"What?" she asked, her voice cool, remarkably steady. No tremor, no fear. Just a quiet, dangerous curiosity.
I tilted my head, feigning casual interest, studying her as if she were a specimen under a microscope. My lip curled into a contemptuous smirk as I leaned back in my chair, stretching my legs out under the table.
"It's just funny," I drawled, my voice low and laced with venom. "You sound just like her already." My gaze flickered pointedly to Berenda, who stiffened imperceptibly.
Her brow furrowed, a slight crease appearing between her delicate eyebrows. "Like who?" The question was a challenge, an invitation to elaborate, to dig myself deeper. I accepted.
"Her," I said, jerking my chin toward Berenda, who was now watching me with a forced, brittle smile. "Like you've been practicing in the mirror. Sweet little smiles, careful little words. Both of you playing your parts so damn well." My voice was a silken whip, each word designed to sting, to expose the raw nerve underneath their carefully constructed facade.
Berenda's carefully maintained smile finally faltered, cracking around the edges. My father, who had been engrossed in his phone, finally looked up, his jaw tightening into a rigid line.
"Dante," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. It was a clear command to cease, but I was far from finished.