"What do you want for dinner?"
Her voice was soft, laced with mischief, as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her lips, painted a perfect cherry red, were all he could focus on. Gary's sapphire eyes followed the curve of her smile, the way it pulled with familiar intimacy.
"You," he murmured, and kissed her before she could laugh again.
Her back pressed against the cold bookshelf, forgotten tomes forming their silent audience. The kiss was slow at first, but soon his hands slid down the curve of her waist, over her hips, and settled on the shape he knew too well. Her moan was soft, almost swallowed by the hush of the room.
"Gary," she whispered, breathless, "not here."
"No one's coming," he replied, eyes gleaming. "I locked the door."
She hesitated, then tilted her chin, surrendering to his mouth once more.
Her dress had risen slightly when he lifted her onto the library table, silk pooling at her thighs. The scent of her perfume mingled with old paper and waxed wood, a strange, sensual blend. Gary's hands were firm yet reverent as they slid beneath the hem of her dress, tracing the soft skin at the back of her knees and up, higher.
"There might be a camera," she breathed, lips brushing his ear.
"Then let it witness love," he whispered back.
His fingers found the waistband of her thong, delicate and damp. She gasped, hips arching toward his touch.
Her breath hitched when his hand pressed flat against her, firm and slow. The heat of her, the way she opened for him, it never stopped undoing him. She was already trembling.
"God, Gary..."
He pulled back just enough to look at her, her eyes glazed, lips parted, cheeks flushed. She was everything. His everything.
"I can never get enough of you," he said.
His lips found her neck as his hand moved in rhythmic circles. She clung to the edge of the table, the room spinning slightly. He knew her body like scripture, and when her head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut, he knew he was there, with her, inside her, even before skin met skin.
Her breath caught as his touch deepened, precise and unrelenting. She bit her lower lip, and he kissed her harder, silencing the sound that rose from her throat.
The heat built fast, urgent, inevitable. She clawed gently at his back, pulling him closer, trembling with pleasure that felt like worship.
And then,
A sharp buzz cut through the moment. His phone.
Gary cursed under his breath, forehead resting against hers. "Ignore it," she whispered, but he saw the name on the screen.
"My father," he said, exhaling. "Dinner. Family dinner."
She smiled through her daze. "You owe me after this."
"I'll make it up to you in my room. All night."
She laughed softly, still breathless, pulling her dress down as he smoothed her hair. His thumb brushed a smudge of lipstick from her cheek. He kissed her again, tender now, a promise.
****
The only partners. excluding Mr. Neon Wilmer and his wife, entered the hall, arms linked. The room, hushed moments earlier, grew quieter still with their arrival. The suited men already seated turned their gazes, watchful. Among them, the only woman, Mrs. Roselyn, sat poised across from her second son, Belkin, the child she'd had before Mr. Wilmer's youngest.
At the head of the table sat Mr. Neon Wilmer, ninety-two years old, his silver-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose.
Gary paused at the threshold, aware of the way every eye seemed to rest on him. Roselle had been right: he was the only one who brought someone. The only one with a girl.
He pulled out a chair for the stunning woman at his side, waited for her to sit, and then walked over to his father.
"How are you today, Dad?" he asked, voice low, eyes softened by concern.
Mr. Wilmer gave a nod. "I'm good, son."
"I'm glad." Gary reached out, rubbed his father's arm gently.
"Go ahead and take your seat," the old man said, shifting slightly in his chair. His movements were slow now, age having dimmed his strength. But his eyes gleamed with admiration as he watched Gary return to his place beside Roselle—so full of life, so devoted. He thought of the grandkids he might never see. Years ago, Gary had introduced this same woman to him, her hand resting on her lover's arm as they spoke with such joy and promise. Neon had believed they'd marry. They hadn't.
The table glittered with abundance. Roselle eyed the dishes, too much food, too beautifully dressed, and knew half would go uneaten. Still, Gary had remembered. Spaghetti Bolognese, her favorite, sat within reach. He served her a generous helping and smiled. "Enjoy."
Mr. Wilmer cleared his throat, drawing every eye.
"I'm glad we're gathered here today. Thank you for joining me," he said. He knew how stubborn his children could be, how easily they could have refused this invitation. He was grateful they hadn't.
Roselle's fingers curled around her utensils. She chewed carefully, hyperaware of the boy across from her, the one with the wineglass and the blank stare.
Eleanor.
The son of Wilmer's first mistress. He and Gary were the same age, Gary older by months, but their lives couldn't be more different. Eleanor, with his chiseled jaw, scarlet hair, and thick lashes, had always drawn attention. The pointed nose and grey eyes were pure Wilmer.
Gary raised his glass. "You're important to us, Dad. You always have been. We're your children. You deserve our respect."
Mr. Wilmer's face softened with a rare smile.
But Richard, seated a few chairs down, gave a humorless laugh. "Don't forget, you were adopted," he said, avoiding Gary's gaze. "You probably would've been on the streets right now. An unwanted kid, dumped and forgotten."
The table stiffened. Silverware paused. Roselle's spine straightened.
Richard was the fourth son, born of an affair Mr. Wilmer never denied. He hadn't worked a day in his life. His hands, soft and uncalloused, sliced into grilled meat as he continued. "You're not one of us, Gary. You never were."
The parents, and Roselle, were stunned. The others? Quietly pleased. Their insecurities needed Gary out of the picture.
But Gary didn't flinch. He'd long ago stopped giving them reactions. Silence, he'd learned, was louder than outrage. It frustrated them more.
He had been adopted from Sanford Bluncho Orphanage, after the Wilmers spent years childless. Neon had wanted children; Roselyn, heartbreakingly patient, suggested adoption. When they found him, a baby with piercing azure eyes, they were spellbound.
He brought them joy. Even after Roselyn's first biological son, Bob, was born, Gary remained their heartbeat.
Now, Roselyn dabbed her lips with a napkin, furious. Her gaze burned into Richard, the ash-blonde boy whose mother had stormed into the mansion pregnant and shrieking twenty-six years ago. She'd demanded a place at Wilmer's side. Suitcases in tow. Entitlement blazing.
"Watch your mouth," Roselyn said, voice steady despite the ache. She had learned to see them all as her children, despite the betrayals. Gary, Bob, Belkin, Sarah, hers. The others... the shadows of infidelity.
Gideon scoffed, rolling his eyes. "He's not a Wilmer," he muttered. "He should be serving the table, not sitting at it."
Mr. Wilmer, stunned, said nothing. Age had taken the weight from his voice.
Gary swallowed a bite of meat and sipped his wine. Unbothered.
Roselle's hand moved to his back. She rubbed gently, her touch a quiet protest. She knew his story. She hated the way they twisted it.
Across the table, Eleanor smirked. He hadn't touched his food. He was too focused on Roselle. The way Gary kissed her hand. The way she smiled only for him.
It boiled his blood.
He emptied his wineglass in one long drag and leaned back.
"He doesn't even deserve a position in the company," Eleanor said. "Assistant administrator? That's insane. I should've gotten that role. I carry Wilmer blood."
Still, Gary didn't look at him.
"He was elected by the board," Roselyn snapped. "Not by bloodline. He's earned it. Seven years, no failures. The company is thriving because of him."
The room fell silent again. If Sarah had been there, she would've spoken up, Roselyn was sure of it. Her daughter had adored Gary, always had.
Eleanor blinked slowly, unfazed. He leaned forward. "What's your name, darling?" he asked Roselle, loud enough for everyone to hear.
She looked up, startled. Her eyes widened. Silence thickened around her.
"You look beautiful tonight," Eleanor continued. "Red suits you."
Mr. Wilmer reached for his glass. Drank.
For the first time that evening, Gary turned and looked directly at Eleanor. The room tensed.
Eleanor smiled faintly, victorious.
Now he knew: she was Gary's weakness.
And he would use her.