Chapter 3 The first meal

The dining hall swallowed me whole the moment I stepped inside.

It was massive. The ceilings stretched impossibly high, adorned with ornate moldings and a chandelier that glittered like a thousand frozen stars. Its crystals refracted the dim, amber light across the polished marble floor, making the hall feel alive yet somehow cold, untouchable. The echo of my footsteps on the smooth stone sounded absurdly loud, like an announcement of my intrusion.

Dominic Vale was already there, seated at the head of the enormous table. He didn't rise. He didn't acknowledge me with a smile or a word of welcome. He simply watched me as I approached, the calm, dark intensity in his eyes reminding me exactly why I had hated him all these years.

"Sit," he said, his voice low, calm, and unyielding.

I obeyed. My legs barely reached the floor of the high-backed chair. Every movement felt awkward, unfamiliar. The seat was polished wood, cold against my skin, and I found myself tucking my hands tightly into my lap, trying to keep them from trembling.

The room smelled faintly of polished wood, wax, and expensive cologne. It was sterile in a way that made my chest tighten-so much wealth, so much control, and I was nothing but a shadow passing through it.

The meal arrived silently. Waiters glided across the floor like shadows, their expressions neutral, almost robotic. Each silver platter seemed designed not just to feed, but to demonstrate superiority. A perfectly roasted chicken with herbs, golden potatoes arranged with geometric precision, vegetables that gleamed unnaturally under the chandelier's glow. And for me, a similar plate, but every bite felt like a reminder of my insignificance.

Dominic leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed yet impossibly commanding. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, followed me as I cautiously picked up my fork.

"You know the rules," he said.

"I do," I replied, my voice trembling slightly despite my efforts to stay calm.

"And yet..." He paused, letting the words linger, pressing them into the space between us. "You look like someone trying to escape."

"I'm not," I said quickly, my voice stronger than I felt. "I just... I'm tired."

"You're going to have to get used to being watched," he said softly, almost conversationally, but every word carried weight, authority, and an unspoken warning. "Every word, every movement... I will notice. I will remember."

I looked down at my plate. I wanted to eat, wanted to survive, but each bite felt like I was surrendering a piece of myself. I tried to force a taste of the food, but it was bland, heavy, and lifeless in my mouth. My appetite had vanished under the weight of his gaze and the suffocating grandeur of the room.

"I understand," I whispered, almost to myself.

He nodded once, then reclined slightly, returning to silence. The quiet stretched long, suffocating, almost cruel. Each tick of the clock on the far wall was deafening. I felt every second dragging me further into this gilded cage I hadn't asked for.

Minutes passed. Hours, it felt like. My fork hovered above my plate. I forced a bite. Chewed mechanically. Swallowed. The taste of overcooked chicken and cold, waxed potatoes mixed with something bitter in my mouth-fear, anger, humiliation.

Finally, he spoke again, breaking the silence like a scalpel.

"You'll learn quickly," he said, his tone deliberate, measured. "Obedience is easier than resistance. But defiance... defiance is interesting."

My stomach turned. His words weren't a threat, not in the usual sense. They were a challenge, deliberate and personal. And I hated it.

"I'm not here to entertain you," I said, trying to find strength in the tremor of my voice.

He smiled slightly then, just enough to make my skin crawl. "Oh, I don't need entertainment," he replied softly. "I just need... results."

And I realized with a sickening clarity-he wasn't going to make this easy. Not for me, not for my sister, not for anyone.

I ate in silence. Every bite felt like a compromise of my dignity, a reminder of the contract I had signed, the binding of my life and my sister's to a man I hated.

He didn't speak for long stretches after that. Just watched. Observed. Measured. It was exhausting. Every twitch of my hand, every glance, every hesitation-he cataloged it all. And I hated that I knew it. Hated that I was aware I was losing control over the smallest parts of myself.

Finally, when I had finished the mechanical act of eating, he stood. The sound of his polished shoes on the marble floor echoed in the hall. He circled the table slowly, like a predator examining its prey.

"You'll learn," he said quietly, stopping behind my chair, "that everything in this house has a purpose. Every rule, every glance, every gesture. Nothing here is by accident. Not you, not me, not this meal."

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "And if I refuse?" I asked quietly, testing boundaries I knew I probably shouldn't.

His eyes locked onto mine, cold and intense. "Refusal is a luxury you no longer possess," he said softly, almost gently, and yet the weight behind it was terrifying.

I shivered, the reality of my situation pressing down like a physical weight. One year. One contract. One life-and-death gamble for my sister. And I was trapped.

"Go to your room after this," he said finally, sitting back down at the head of the table. "Do not wander. Do not explore. Do not speak unless spoken to."

I nodded, my hands clenched in my lap. Words failed me. Resistance seemed pointless.

After what felt like an eternity, I rose, gathering my plate and tray. The waiters had already disappeared. I walked back to the hallway, each step echoing like a drumbeat marking my captivity.

My room was dark, the moonlight spilling over the polished floor. I leaned against the doorway, exhaling shakily. I had survived the first meal. Barely.

I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the tension in my body unwind slightly. For the first time, I let myself imagine Mia lying in that hospital bed, waiting for a miracle I might not be able to provide. My heart clenched. I had made a deal with a man I hated. And every fiber of me screamed against it-but survival demanded compliance.

I couldn't help but glance at the contract resting on the desk, untouched, waiting for my signature.

And for the first time since he had offered me this "solution," I wondered... if I signed, would I lose everything I still had of myself?

The room was silent. My hands shook. The weight of what was coming settled over me like a storm cloud.

Tomorrow, I would face him again. I would navigate rules I didn't understand, etiquette I didn't know, and power I couldn't match.

And tonight, I would try to sleep in a mansion that felt more like a prison.

Because tomorrow, the real test would begin.