The dining room of the Hart estate was a monument to old-world intimidation. A long, mahogany table that could easily seat thirty stretched across the room, polished to such a high shine that the flickering flames of the silver candelabras were reflected in its surface like ripples in a dark lake. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting ancient hunts—hounds tearing into stags, predators claiming their prize—which felt entirely too appropriate for the company gathered tonight.
I was seated between Jude Williams and a senior member of the University Board, directly across from Jalen. Marian sat at the head of the table, presiding over the meal like a queen who knew exactly where the poison was hidden.
"The vintage is excellent, Jalen," my father remarked, swirling a glass of deep red Cabernet. "I didn't know you were such a connoisseur of the rare and the bottled."
"I value things that improve with age and pressure," Jalen replied, his voice a low, smooth baritone that seemed to vibrate the very silverware on the table.
He didn't look at me while he spoke, but I felt his gaze as if it were a physical weight. I sat perfectly still, my back straight, my hands folded in my lap. Beneath the heavy gold silk of my skirt, the emerald green ribbon was a secret fire against my thigh. Every time I breathed, I felt the silk pull, reminding me of the library, the rain, and the man who had claimed me.
"Fiona has been very quiet tonight," Jude whispered beside me, his voice slick with malice. He leaned in closer than was polite, his shoulder brushing mine. "Are you overwhelmed by the grandeur, or are you just afraid you'll say the wrong thing in front of the Professor's wife?"
"I'm enjoying the meal, Jude," I said, my voice cold and steady. "Something you clearly aren't doing, since you're so focused on my silence."
Jude's eyes flashed with a momentary spark of anger, but he covered it with a sharp, artificial laugh. "I'm just concerned. It would be a shame if your focus slipped now, especially after all that 'private tutoring' you've been receiving."
Across the table, Jalen's hand tightened around the stem of his wine glass. His knuckles turned white, a silent sign of the "Monster" fighting to keep his mask in place.
"Fiona is a dedicated student," Jalen said, his eyes finally locking onto mine. The intensity in them was enough to make my breath hitch. "She understands that some lessons require more... individual attention than others. Don't you agree, Miss Harry?"
"I find that the most difficult subjects are the ones that require the most sacrifice," I replied, meeting his gaze with a boldness that sent a shiver of electricity down my spine.
Marian, who had been silently watching the exchange while sipping her wine, let out a soft, chilling laugh. "Sacrifice. What a charming, dramatic word for a girl your age. But Jalen is right. He has always had a knack for finding 'projects' that require his full attention. Though sometimes, he forgets that a project is only valuable as long as it stays within its boundaries."
The air in the room seemed to vanish. The "Iron Orchid" was no longer just watching; she was striking.
"Speaking of boundaries," Marian continued, her ice-blue eyes fixing on me. "I heard a fascinating rumor today. A girl in a green dress was seen at a club that is far too dangerous for a University student. It would be a tragedy if someone like you, Fiona, were to be tarnished by such a scandal."
My father paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. He turned to me, his expression darkening into the look of a man who was ready to protect his investment at any cost. "A green dress? Fiona doesn't own a green dress. I personally approve her wardrobe."
"Of course," Marian purred, her gaze never leaving mine. "I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding. A trick of the light. Or perhaps someone playing a part they weren't meant to play."
Under the table, I felt a sudden, heavy pressure against my knee. Jalen's leg had moved, pinning mine against the mahogany support of the table. The heat of him was staggering, a bold, dangerous move right in front of his wife and my father.
It was a silent command: Stay still. I have you.
"The world is full of tricks of the light, Marian," Jalen said, his voice as calm as a frozen pond. "That is why we study Art. To distinguish the masterpiece from the forgery."
He shifted his weight, his thigh pressing harder against mine. It was a possessive, territorial claim that made my heart hammer a frantic rhythm. I could feel the emerald ribbon beneath my dress, the friction of the silk against my skin as his leg moved. It was the most "sweet" and terrifying sensation I had ever experienced—being claimed in a room full of people who wanted to destroy us.
"Quite right," my father said, seemingly satisfied by Jalen's intervention. "Fiona knows better than to wander into places she doesn't belong."
"I do, Father," I said, my voice slightly breathless as Jalen's hand—hidden by the long, low-hanging tablecloth—found my knee.
His fingers were warm, firm, and agonizingly slow as they traced the edge of my skirt. It was a declaration of war. He was touching me while his wife spoke of my ruin. He was the monster, and he was showing me that he didn't fear the hunters.
"You look a bit flushed, Fiona," Jude noted, his eyes narrowing as he sensed the shift in the air, though he couldn't see what was happening beneath the table. "Is the room too hot for you?"
"The room is perfect," I said, leaning into Jalen's touch just a fraction of an inch. "I've just realized how much I have left to learn."
Jalen's fingers tightened briefly before he pulled his hand away, sitting back and finishing his wine in one long, elegant swallow. The dinner continued, a blur of expensive food and hollow conversation, but I was no longer afraid. The "Iron Orchid" had her thorns, and Jude had his lies, but I had the Monster.
As we stood up to move to the drawing room for coffee, Jalen leaned in to help me with my chair. His lips brushed my ear, a movement so quick and subtle that no one else noticed.
"The gallery," he whispered, his breath hot against my skin. "Ten minutes. Don't be late, Little Bird."
I walked out of the dining room, my legs feeling like jelly, the green ribbon still burning against my thigh. The feast was over, but the night was just beginning. And in the dark of the Hart gallery, I knew that the "contract" was about to ent
er its most dangerous phase.