The soft murmur of conversation filled the restaurant, a low hum beneath the clinking of glasses and the muted shuffle of waiters gliding between tables. Elara sat across from Damian, the candlelight flickering over his sharp features, carving him into something almost inhuman—too perfect, too dangerous.
She could feel the weight of eyes on them. Damian hadn't lied. People were watching. Men in tailored suits, women in diamonds—some with curiosity, some with envy, but all with the same underlying wariness. Everyone here knew who Damian Morello was, and they knew better than to look for too long.
Except they still looked. And Damian fed on it.
"Smile," he murmured, his voice so low only she could hear.
Elara forced her lips into a soft curve, her hand tightening around the stem of her wine glass. The taste of the red liquid was rich, but bitter on her tongue.
"That's better," Damian said smoothly, eyes gleaming with approval. "You wear obedience beautifully."
Her jaw clenched. "And if I didn't?"
His smirk was subtle, dangerous. "Then I'd make sure every person in this room saw just how disobedient you could be."
Her cheeks burned, and she quickly dropped her gaze, focusing on the flickering candle between them. He was pushing her, pulling her deeper into this charade, and she hated how easily her body followed the script.
The waiter returned with plates—seared steak for Damian, salmon for her. She barely touched her fork before Damian's hand closed around her wrist under the table.
"Not yet," he murmured.
She froze. "Why?"
"Because I didn't give you permission."
The words, so casually spoken, sliced through her composure. Her throat tightened, but with the room full of watching eyes, she forced herself to stay still, her pulse racing against his grip.
After a long, deliberate pause, Damian released her hand and nodded. "Now."
Shame flooded her as she picked up her fork, each movement mechanical. He wasn't just controlling her body—he was controlling how she appeared to the world.
As the evening dragged on, she realized the real performance wasn't for the strangers in the restaurant. It was for her. Every smile, every sip, every forced gesture reminded her of the invisible leash around her throat.
Halfway through the meal, Damian leaned in, his gaze sharp and knowing. "You're learning," he whispered. "Soon, you won't have to think about obedience. It will be instinct."
Her fingers trembled around her wine glass. She wanted to tell him he was wrong—that she would never let him break her that way. But the lie sat heavy on her tongue. Because tonight, she had obeyed.
And worse—she had let him see the cracks forming.
Her pulse hammered as she set the glass down, the tremor in her hands betraying the mask she wore.
Damian reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers—not tender, but claiming. His smile was slow, predatory.
"Don't worry, little dove," he whispered. "By the time this ends, you'll thank me for your chains."
And Elara, staring at him in the candlelight, feared more than ever that he might be right.