The formal dining room had never felt so vast. Under the shimmering crystals of the grand chandelier, the space felt less like a room and more like a stage where two actors had forgotten their lines. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of roasted venison, red wine, and the suffocating pressure of things left unsaid.
Amara sat down with a quiet grace. She didn't offer a greeting, and Darien didn't offer a welcome. He simply gestured toward the service, and within moments, the silent staff had placed the first course before them.
For a long time, the only sound was the rhythmic, metallic clink of silverware hitting fine bone china. It was a sharp, piercing noise that seemed to echo off the vaulted ceilings. Every time Amara's fork touched her plate, Darien's jaw tightened. Every time Darien shifted his weight in his chair, Amara's shoulders pulled a fraction higher.
It was a cold war fought with napkins and wine glasses.
