The dining room stretched like a cathedral of shadows, its long mahogany table set for two, though the flickering candelabras made it look more like an altar. Silver gleamed, wine waited, and silence settled between them heavier than the storm outside.
Elara sat first, spine straight, dress pooling around her like spilled ink. Damien remained standing, one hand curled around the back of his chair, eyes fixed on her as if measuring whether she deserved the meal—or the knife beside it.
Finally, he sat.
No prayer. No toast. Only the scrape of crystal against wood as he poured himself a glass of red.
"Drink?" His voice was velvet stretched over steel.
She met his gaze. "If you're trying to poison me, you could've done it hours ago."
The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, something sharper. He filled her glass anyway and pushed it across the table. The crystal slid with a hiss.
They ate in silence at first, the clink of silverware echoing too loud. He cut his steak with precise strokes, each slice identical, each movement deliberate. Elara's food cooled untouched.
"You don't eat," he said at last.
"Not when I'm the one being watched."
His knife paused. He didn't look up. "Everything here is watched."
Her pulse stumbled, but she refused to flinch. "By your father?"
Now he raised his eyes. Dangerous eyes, dark as the wine between them. "By me."
The room seemed to tilt. She picked up her fork, stabbed a piece of meat, and let it fall back to the plate with a clatter.
"So that's your role?" she asked. "The faithful hound guarding his master's table?"
A silence like shattered glass. His hand tightened around the stem of his wineglass until it creaked. For a heartbeat, she thought he might throw it at her. Instead, he laughed—low, humorless.
"Careful, Elara. Hounds bite."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice soft but razor-edged. "And cages break. Eventually."
The air between them throbbed with unspoken violence.
He sipped his wine as if she hadn't spoken. "Do you know why the Varezzi name holds power?"
"Blood," she said. "Money. Fear."
He studied her as though cataloging the curve of her throat, the flicker in her eyes. "No. Obedience. It isn't bought, it isn't earned. It's enforced. Every servant in this house, every banker in that city, every official signing their name in trembling ink—they obey. Because my father taught them what happens if they don't."
"And you?" she pressed. "Do you obey?"
His laugh this time was softer, but it carried something feral. "I play the part."
The thunder outside cracked through the walls. Candle flames shivered. She could almost believe the house itself was listening.
He leaned back, fingers drumming on the table. "You wanted to know what this marriage costs? Listen carefully. The Varezzi name devours. It doesn't matter if you fight it or feed it—you'll belong to it all the same. You'll wear it like a collar until you forget your own name."
Her heart hammered, but she forced her voice steady. "Maybe you've already forgotten yours."
The words hit. She saw it—just a flicker—in the tightening of his jaw, the slight darkening of his stare.
He stood suddenly, chair scraping, and circled the table. Not rushed. Not sloppy. Measured, like a predator adjusting its angle. He stopped behind her, his breath warm against her ear.
"Do not mistake this dinner for safety," he murmured. "You don't test me. You don't test this house. If you do…" His finger brushed the rim of her wineglass. With a sharp twist, he shattered it in his hand. Shards fell into her lap, glittering like frozen blood.
She didn't move. Didn't breathe. Only turned her head slightly, enough to see his knuckles streaked red. He didn't flinch.
"Wine tastes better with ash," he whispered.
And then he left, walking away as if nothing had happened, blood trailing from his hand onto the polished floor.
The door shut with a boom, and she was alone—glass shards cooling against her skin, the taste of iron in the air.
But her mind was racing.
He had cracked. She had seen it. Beneath the menace, beneath the cold obedience to his father's empire, there was a wound still raw. And if there was a wound, there was a way in.
She brushed the shards from her lap, one cutting her palm, but she didn't wince.
The glass hadn't broken her.
It had given her a weapon.