Chapter 4 Dinner with the Devil

The air in the Stirling family dining room was thick with the scent of rosemary-roasted chicken and a tension that, for Aria, was utterly suffocating.

The table was a masterpiece of normalcy-her mother's floral china, the heavy silver cutlery that only saw light on special occasions, a vase of cheerful yellow tulips from the garden. It was a scene from her childhood, warm and familiar. But sitting at it, large as life and twice as infuriating, was the jagged piece of shrapnel that had torn through that normalcy: Elias Vance.

He held court. There was no other word for it. Seated at her father's right hand, the place of honor, he was the sun around which her family's gratitude orbited. He had swapped his usual razor-sharp power suit for a simple, dark cashmere sweater that made him look deceptively soft, approachable. The raw scrapes on his knuckles were a stark reminder of the role he was playing.

And he was playing it to perfection.

He laughed at her father's terrible jokes, a rich, genuine sound that seemed to warm the room. He listened with rapt attention as her mother detailed every minute of her rose-growing challenges, offering a surprisingly knowledgeable comment about soil pH that made Eleanor light up. He even managed to coax a smile from a pale and tired-looking Liam, propped up in a chair with cushions, by deftly steering the conversation away from the accident and onto football.

Aria pushed a piece of asparagus around her plate, her appetite gone. She felt like an anthropologist observing a strange and bewildering ritual. Who was this man? This was not the cold-eyed shark who had eviscerated her proposal without a flicker of remorse. This was a charming, humble, and thoughtful guest. A fraud.

"More wine, Elias?" her father asked, already reaching for the bottle of expensive Bordeaux.

"I'm driving, Robert, but thank you. It's exceptional," Elias said, placing a hand over his glass. The picture of responsibility.

"Nonsense! We'll call you a car. Aria can give you a lift later, can't you, darling?"

Aria's head snapped up. She met her father's beaming, slightly wine-flushed face. "I, uh-"

"It's really not necessary," Elias interjected smoothly, saving her. His eyes met hers for a brief second across the table, and in them, she saw a flicker of the man she knew-a glint of amusement at her discomfort. "I wouldn't want to put Aria out. I know I'm probably the last person she wants to chauffeur."

It was a gamble, a statement that hovered on the edge of acknowledging their history. Her family, blissfully unaware, just laughed it off as a joke.

"Don't be silly," her mother chimed in. "Aria doesn't mind. Now, who's for dessert? I made a lemon tart."

Aria stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the hardwood floor. "I'll get it."

She practically fled into the sanctuary of the kitchen, leaning against the cool stainless steel of the refrigerator, taking a deep breath. The clatter and chatter from the dining room felt miles away. She just needed a moment. A single moment where she wasn't watching her own family fall in love with her enemy.

The door swung open.

She didn't need to turn around. She felt his presence the way one feels a shift in barometric pressure before a storm. The space in the large kitchen suddenly felt claustrophobically small.

"Can I help?"

His voice was quiet, closer than she'd expected. She turned. He was standing by the island, holding the empty salad bowl. He looked out of place here, in her mother's homey kitchen with its gingham curtains and collection of ceramic chickens. He was too large, too intense, too... Elias.

"I think you've helped enough," she said, her voice low and tight. She turned her back to him, focusing on taking the tart out of the fridge, her hands trembling slightly.

She heard him set the bowl down. He didn't leave. She could feel him watching her.

"They're good people," he said after a moment. The charm was gone from his voice. It was just a flat, simple statement.

"They are," she replied, not turning around. "Which is why they can't see what you're doing."

"And what am I doing, Aria?"

Finally, she turned to face him. "This. All of this. The modest sweater, the interest in roses, the 'oh, please, no more wine' act. You're reeling them in. Making them trust you. What's the endgame, Elias? Going to convince my father to merge companies? Swindle my brother out of his convalescence fund?"

He took a step closer. The casual pretense was gone, stripped away. In the dim kitchen light, the shadows under his eyes were more pronounced. He looked tired. And for the first time, genuinely annoyed.

"You have a truly spectacular talent for thinking the absolute worst of people," he said, his voice a low hum.

"I have a talent for recognizing a predator," she shot back, holding her ground though her heart was hammering. "I've seen your work. Remember?"

They stood there, locked in a silent battle of wills, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the distant laughter from the other room. The air between them crackled with all the things unsaid-the professional humiliation, the shared, terrifying experience of the accident, this impossible new debt.

He was close enough that she could see the faint, fading line of the cut on his brow. She could smell not just his expensive soap, but the lingering, faint scent of the smoke from the crash, clinging to him like a ghost.

The door swung open again. "Everything alright in here?" her father asked, his head poking in. "The natives are getting restless for that tart!"

The spell broke. Aria forced a smile. "Just coming."

Elias's face seamlessly rearranged itself into the pleasant, respectful mask from the dining room. "Just insisting I help clean up," he said to her father with an easy smile. "Aria was refusing."

Later, as he stood in the doorway saying his goodbyes, he was the perfect guest again, thanking her mother profusely, clapping Liam gently on his good shoulder, shaking her father's hand.

He turned to Aria last. Her parents hovered, beaming.

"Thank you for... a lovely evening," she said, the words ash in her mouth.

He took her offered hand, but instead of shaking it, he simply held it. His grip was firm, his skin warm. The contact was a jolt. He leaned in, as if to kiss her cheek in a polite farewell.

His lips never touched her skin. Instead, his voice, a whisper so low and intimate it was for her ears alone, brushed against the shell of her ear. It was cold, clear, and stripped of all the evening's pretense. It was the voice of the boardroom.

"This doesn't change anything between us, Aria."

He pulled back slightly, his eyes locking with hers, and in their stormy grey depths, she saw the truth. The charming dinner guest was gone. The shark had returned.

"The game is still on."