Dinner is an eight-course affair made up of dishes with names too fancy for me pronounce and portions too tiny for any satisfaction to come from eating them.
Because I've been to enough high-society events to know which fork goes with the fish and which goes with the cake, my earlier joke to Malachai was just that—a joke. But I don't think it would even matter if I embarrassed myself via cutlery blunder. No one is paying attention to me.
Around the large, solid oak table are Shaws. Uncles, aunts, older cousins, close family friends. A murder of crows in black silk and cashmere. At the head of the table is Alistair, Helena at his right, Silas at his left.
Malachai wasn't joking; unlike my parents who were intrested enough in him to attempt conversation, Malachai's parents do not give a fuck about my existence.
After brief, polite small-talk about my job—"Your work must be so fulfilling. It's very… practical."—I all but ceased to exist to them.
I'm fine with it. If anything, I'm happy about it. What hurts to watch is the way they treat Malachai.
Whenever he speaks, they either completely ignore him or respond in polite, disinterested tones. His achievements mean nothing to them.
"Managing expectations as always, Malachai," Alistair said.
Like as if Malachai didn't work hard for months gathering reliable business partners and setting up trade outlets. Like I haven't watched him stay back night after night in the office to set up amicable relations with foreign investors.
It feels like I'm in the Twilight Zone, watching this man who instills fear in the hearts of employees by just existing reduced to nothing here.
Silas, on the other hand, is the life of the party. He regales guests with tales of his escapades, explains the historic properties he was funding the restoration of, talking about the exclusive, members-only club he was developing in Maldives and all the 'work' he's been doing to 'grow the family's wealth.'
Whenever I asked my parents who their favourite child was, they'd say 'We love you both equally' despite constantly showing otherwise.
Alistair and Helena don't bother to pretend.
It was strange, watching Malachai steadily grow more silent and distraught as the Orange and Campari Granita was switched out for Lemongrass Panna Cotta. When I tried to jump to his defense, he just put a hand over mine on the table and gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head, his eyes saying it's more trouble than it's worth.
It doesn't make a lick of sense!
This is the man who forced my father to apologize. I've seen him angry and serious, I've seen him happy and carefree. I've seen bits of the man people fear and pieces of the man women love. But I haven't seen him like this before. Defeated. Like his soul is dying right there in his chair.
I hate it.
I eat each meal slowly and in silence, watching the dinner unfold like the outsider I am.
The only one who pays me any attention is Delilah. She's actually a sweetheart, leaning over to tell me about the severe-looking man across from us (a great-uncle who oversaw their European holdings) and the woman beside him (a cousin who was a renowned concert cellist). She compliments my dress and my makeup, and then says, with startling sincerity, "Are you really with Malachai? I mean, I can't imagine someone as pretty as you dating him!"
Considering his exes include models and pop stars, I fear she might be exaggerating. But, holy shit! She must be a saint!
As the staff clear the dessert plates, I can't hold it back anymore. "You're so nice! What are you doing with a guy like Silas Shaw?"
Delilah looks at her fiancé, who is holding court, and gives me a small, sad smile. "He's a Shaw. Who wouldn't want to marry a Shaw?"
She makes it sound like she's doing it for the same reasons I am.
"Fair point. But aren't you… scared of them?"
A brow arches. "Scared of them?"
I glance around, my voice drops even lower. "They've got this 'evil organisation' energy. Tell me you feel it too."
Delilah's face goes through a rapid series of adjustments—surprise, confusion, then a forced neutrality. I feel my cheeks heat with immediate, profound embarrassment.
"I know it's weird but…"
I've seen some shady things in the company's imports and exports. Illegal things. I'm not going to snitch or anything—provided Malachai holds up his end of the bargain and I'm put in some witness protection program —but it's a feeling I can't shake off. That they are bad. That Malachai is bad.
The same feeling tells me I should ditch my shitty revenge plan, get a cat and go to therapy; like a normal person.
But I'm stubborn.
And stupid.
Mostly stupid.
"I love Malachai," It's becoming so easy to lie like that. "Whatever the truth is, I'll get over the it. I just need to know, are they criminals?"
Delilah frowns slightly, her gaze flicking toward Alistair. "Not… exactly?"
That doesn't sound so convincing.
I sigh, grabbing my wine glass and taking a fortifying sip. "I can live with 'not exactly'."
Suddenly, the screech of Malachai's chair against the marble floor cuts through the din. He tosses his napkin onto the table and storms away without a word.
Delilah grabs my arm before I can run after him. "Don't."
I sit back down, stunned. The rest of the table is frozen for a moment, all eyes on the door he vanished through.
The tension lasts until Silas lets out a smooth, condescending chuckle. "You know my brother, family. Dramatic as always."
Everyone laughs and conversations resumes as if nothing had happened.
Whatever Malachai is going through, I'm the only one here who gives a damn.
"Why did you stop me?" I hiss at Delilah.
"Dinner doesn't end until Alistair gives the toast," she explains quietly. "Malachai can afford to defy his father. You can't."
I bite my tongue, seething. But she's right. I wouldn't want to disrespect the family head before we can officially become in-laws.
Voices speak around and over me, Silas starts speaking to Delilah so her kindness cannot distract me from the emotions washing over me. Here I am, surrounded by people, and yet utterly alone.
Reminds me too much of being back in boarding school.
Fifteen agonizing minutes later, Alistair Shaw stands up and raises his glass. The room falls silent.
"To family," he begins, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. "To my dear Helena, my steadfast companion. To my son, Silas, and his brilliant fiancé Delilah—the future of this family is bright in your hands." He doesn't even glance in the direction Malachai went. "And to my father, whose wisdom and legacy guide us still, even from afar."
The room choruses, "To family!" and drinks.
I take a large, unladylike gulp and nearly sprint from the table.
"Check the garden!" Delilah calls after me.
Helpful, except I have no idea where the garden is.
I find myself in a huge, depressing drawing room—no Malachai, just a wall full of creepy paintings under the orange glow from the fire place. I find a bathroom and the kitchen and a room that's there just because, before I finally push open a pair of doors and stumble out into the biting cold.
"Shit."
Great idea to jump outside without a coat at the bum crack of October.
I wrap my arms around myself and keep going, my thin dress offering no protection.
The 'garden' is a labyrinth of manicured paths and towering hedges. Vintage lamp posts cast pools of weak, jaundiced light.
"Malachai?" I call out, my voice swallowed by the vastness. My heart beats fast with a mix of fear for myself and a distinct, aching worry for him. "Malachai!"
I turn a corner and find myself in a clearing, standing face to face with an angel.
Or rather, the statue of an angel.
She's breathtakingly beautiful in a terrifying way.
Soft, familiar features and three pairs of wings.The statue was carved crouching, one hand stretched out to touch something small on the ground, her face tilted down. Her expression is a paradox: cold, empty eyes paired with a loving smile, as if fascinated by the fragile creature beneath her.
Even standing, I feel infinitesimally small in her presence. Like I am the thing she's looking down on. Like I'm burning under a cruel sort of affection. Yet, I am captivated. I want her to see me.
To destroy me.
I take a step closer, drawn in, wanting to see what she's reaching for.
"She's beautiful, isn't she?"
I whirl around. Malachai is seated on a stone bench shrouded in shadow, looking down at something small and metallic in his hand.
My heart leaps into my throat, first from surprise, then from sorrow.
He's a wreck.
His tie is askew, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His usually impeccable hair is disheveled, as if he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. But worst of all are his eyes—lifeless, hollow.
"I've been looking for you," I say, my breath misting in the air.
"I'm sorry. I just couldn't stand being in that room anymore."
I sit beside him, the cold of the stone seeping through my dress. Wordlessly, he takes off his jacket and drapes it over me. Protest starts and dies in my throat. It's warm and it smells like him. My body automatically sinks into it.
"What angel is that?," I say softly, looking back at the statue. "Uriel? Gabriel?"
"That's my mother," he says, voice flat. "It's the only likeness of her my father didn't destroy."
"Oh…" and because I don't know what else to say, I add, "I'm sorry."
He shrugs, "There's nothing to be sorry for. You're not the reason she left."
Silence.
Malachai takes his fingers though his hair roughly and sighs, a ragged, broken sound. "What am I even doing here, Juniper? I don't want to be here. I shouldn't have brought you here."
I smile to ease the tension. "How will your family know we're madly in love if we don't subject ourselves to their torture?"
He laughs, but it's devoid of the joy I'd heard during our movie date. "No matter what I do, it's never enough for him. He's hated me since she left. Said she coddled me, made me soft." He looked at his hands. "But, if I'm being honest, I think he just hates me because he can't bring himself to hate her."
I remain quiet as he runs his fingers over the pendant/locket reverently. "I can barely remember her face or being 'coddled' but I've done… things I'm not proud of to earn a shred of his approval. I've ended relationships with good people because they weren't 'suitable' by his standards. And for what? He'll never be happy until I'm a carbon copy of him."
The raw confession hangs between us. This is the core of him, the poisoned root of all his anger and his obsession with control.
"I get it," I say, my voice barely a whisper. "Not the billion-dollar empire part—obviously—but the rest. The performance. The pressure to be something you're not. My parents' love was always conditional. On me being quieter, smarter, more like Chloe. I spent my life trying to fit into a mold they'd made for a different person. You can't live for someone else's approval, Malachai. It will kill you. It's already killing you."
"You're one to talk. You're with me for your family's approval."
My lips immediately purse like I ate something sour. When he looks at me again, there's regret mixed with the pain in his eyes. "I didn't mean—it's just, I'm a product of that shitty miserable man. Who am I if not my fathers son?"
I told him already, when I was full from pop corn and drunk on sleep. But a reminder never hurt anyone. I don't know how tough his childhood was, I'll probably never fully understand it. But, even when he was the office tyrant, he's always been fair to me. I would've quit otherwise.
He's not a devil or a demon or a cruel prince. He's him.
I want him to know that and never forget it.
"You're you. You-you. Malachai Shaw."
We stare at each other, the air crackling with something… new. Something more.
It's too soon to fall in love with Malachai Shaw.
My breath grows shallow.
I can't fall in love with Malachai Shaw.
My eyes drift to his lips, and the memory of our kiss in the museum garden flooding back. No matter what I do, I can't escape that moment and the feeling that came with it.
Falling in love would be unethical.
That feeling like riding the wind.
Unprofessional.
The taste of champagne and mint on his lips.
Catastrophic!
The world narrows to this bench, this statue, this man. I want to kiss Malachai so badly, I'm aching.
Malachai's hands cup my face. They are surprisingly warm in the cold.
My eyes start to fall shut. I lean in until our breaths mingle, until I can feel his lips hovering near mine. So close.
So, so close.
"You're kind, Juniper," he says softly. "And you're genuine. Funny. Sweet. You try to see the best in people, even when they don't deserve it." His thumbs brush just beneath my eyes, a touch so gentle it makes my chest ache. "Your ex never earned that from you. He never deserved you."
My heart stutters. The compliments are nice but totally unnecessary; if he doesn't kiss me soon, I'm going to take matters into my own mouth— I mean hands.
My eyes start to fall shut. "Malachai… please…"
He knows I want it. I know he wants it too.
Instead of his lips on mine, his hands tighten. Not enough to hurt, just enough that I notice. Something cold slides down my spine.
I open my eyes.
Malachai is looking at me like I'm something fragile balanced on the edge of a blade. His jaw is tight, his breath uneven.
"You shouldn't say my name like that," he murmurs.
"Like what?" I whisper.
"Like you really want me."
"What if I do?"
His gaze flickers, and for the briefest, most terrifying instant, his eyes seem deeper than they should be. Endless. As if I could fall into them and never reach the bottom.
"You're sweet, Juniper," he repeats. His grip firms, just a fraction more. "But you don't know who Malachai Shaw is."