Just as the fragile, tense silence in the room threatened to swallow them whole, it was shattered. A deep, commanding voice boomed from the other side of the door, a sound that once meant safety but now screamed dread. It was their father, Killian.
"Girls, are you ready? Is everything fine in there?" The words were accompanied by a sharp knock, not a request for entry but a warning that his patience was wearing thin.
Naomi flinched, her eyes wide with a fresh wave of panic, immediately locking onto Anaya. Anaya, however, was a portrait of control. The fury on her face vanished, replaced by a calm mask so seamless it was terrifying. She took a steadying breath and called out, her voice even and clear, betraying not a hint of the storm that had just passed.
"Yes, Father. We will be down in a moment."
There was a pause of silence, a heavy, suffocating moment where the girls could almost feel his presence on the other side of the door. They knew him; he might still be outside, his ear pressed to the door, listening for any sign of deceit. Finally, his voice came back, clipped and final.
"Alright, finish up."
The sound of his retreating footsteps was a small mercy, but they remained frozen, speaking only with their eyes. Naomi's filled with a profound, aching apology. She mouthed the words, "Thank you," the gesture small and fragile in the heavy air.
Anaya's response was just as silent, just as firm. Her expression was unyielding, a mixture of lingering hurt and unwavering resolve. She mouthed back, "Get dressed now."
With that, the fight went out of Naomi completely. She picked up the black dress, the fabric feeling cold and heavy in her hands. She slipped it on, the material clinging to her like a second skin, a cage of silk and despair.
Anaya moved with a quiet efficiency, her touch gentle but her purpose firm. She helped Naomi with the zipper, her fingers brushing against her sister's back. She sat Naomi down in front of the mirror, her movements precise as she brushed out her hair and styled it with a few artful sweeps. She applied makeup with a steady hand, covering the paleness of Naomi's skin and the redness of her eyes, creating a beautiful, hollow canvas.
Fifteen minutes later, they stood side-by-side, two perfect dolls dressed for a nightmare. Anaya gave Naomi one last, hard look in the mirror, a final, silent command to be strong. Then, together, they opened the door and made their way downstairs, each step on the grand carpeted staircase taking them closer to the dining room, and closer to the fate that awaited them.
The dining room was a stage set for a tragedy. The long, mahogany table gleamed under the low light of crystal candelabras, their flames dancing and casting long, menacing shadows that clung to the walls.
The silver cutlery was arranged with military precision, each piece a soldier at attention, and the fine porcelain plates seemed like stark white altars awaiting a sacrifice. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax and a chilling, anticipatory silence.
At the entrance to the room, a tall, imposing figure stood waiting. Their father, Killian his face an impassive mask. He didn't move as they approached, his presence alone enough to suck the warmth from the air.
"Father," Anaya greeted, her voice a carefully measured tone of respect. They came to a stop a few feet from him, both sisters keeping their heads bowed, their eyes fixed on the intricate patterns of the rug beneath their feet. It was a posture of submission they had learned well.
Killian's gaze swept over them, a cold, analytical inspection. "You're dressed... Good," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any paternal warmth. "Just in time. The guest will be here at any moment." He took a step forward, his polished shoes making no sound on the thick carpet. He began to lay out the rules, his tone as unyielding as stone.
"You will stand in the honour of our guests, and then sit only after the guests have sat down. You will keep your head down," he commanded, his eyes lingering on Naomi for a fraction of a second too long. "You will only begin eating once the guests have. You will not speak unless spoken to. Understood?"
Each rule was a link in the chain being fastened around them. The air grew heavier with every word.
"Yes, Father," both sisters replied in unison, their voices blending into a single, hollow echo. It was the response of conditioned soldiers, not daughters.
Without another word, they turned and made their way to the dinner table. The short walk felt like a mile, each step a reluctant march towards their designated places. They moved like androids, two beautiful, broken figures gliding into the ominous glow of the candles, ready to play their parts in the terrible drama to come.
Their father moved with an unnerving calm, settling into the imposing chair at the head of the table like a king taking his throne. He didn't look at them, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway, a silent sentinel awaiting his counterpart.
Following their instructions like well-rehearsed actors, Naomi and Anaya glided to the opposite end of the long polished mahogany table. They settled into chairs placed opposite each other, a deliberate positioning that left them isolated, miles away from their father. It was a placement that felt less like a family dinner and more like an offering.
Beside them, at the other head of the table, a single chair sat empty. It was a mirror to their father's, a throne of dark, carved wood waiting for its occupant.
This empty seat was a physical manifestation of their dread, a vacuum of power that seemed to pull all the air from the room. It was reserved for him. The guest.
For a few agonising minutes, the only sounds was the frantic silent beating of their own hearts. Then, came the sound cut through the heavy silence – the smooth, expensive purr of engines pulling up on the gravel drive outside. It wasn't one car, but several. The sound was sophisticated, controlled, and utterly terrifying.
They both flinched, their heads snapping towards the dining room door in a single, instinctual motion. It was a shared, primal reflex, the movement of two prey animals sensing the arrival of the predator.
Their eyes, wide and unblinking, were fixed on the polished wood, a barrier that suddenly felt impossibly thin. They stared in a state of pure, paralysing fear and anticipation, their bodies rigid, their breath caught in their throats. It was no longer a question of if, but when. And in that terrible silence, they could only imagine what might walk through those doors any minute.
Suddenly, the doors swung open the sound a final, damning toll in the tense room. Two men walked in, their presence immediately sucking the air from the space, making the candle flames flicker and cower.
The first was an older man, his presence a chilling testament to a life of power. A neat crown of white hair sat on the top of his head, a stark contrast to the cold darkness in his eyes. They knew him instantly. Sebastian Thorne. A man of no mercy, no kindness, nothing.
He was a void where compassion should have been, his reputation carved from fear and cruelty. Sebastian would come around to see Killian every now and again, and all their meetings would take place behind closed doors, leaving behind a lingering scent of dread and the unspoken knowledge that nothing good had been decided.
Behind him, a shadow moved and solidified into a man they'd never met before but knew far too well through whispered fears and the grim reality of their father's deal.
He was handsome in a way that was almost cruel, dressed in a black tailored suit that screamed expensive and power. The hard muscles of his chest flexed against the fine fabric with every step, a predator's strength barely contained.
His sleek black hair was slightly messy, a careless affectation that spoke of a supreme arrogance, but his expression was nothing but cold.
His grey eyes, icy and indifferent, swept over the room, lingering on the girls for a mere second before dismissing them, as if everyone and everything was beneath his notice.
He was Sebastian Thorne's son, and heir to the mafia throne, Xavier Thorne.
Him.
The single word echoed in the sudden, roaring silence of Naomi's mind. It wasn't a question, but a horrifying, absolute confirmation. This was the man from the deal. This was the fate her father had traded for his empire. This was the monster she had been dressed up to meet.
As if pulled by invisible strings, both girls rose from their chairs, their movements stiff and synchronised. It was a reflex drilled into them, a conditioned response to the presence of power. Xavier and Sebastian Thorne approached the table, their footsteps unnervingly silent on the thick carpet.
Killian stood to meet them halfway, a picture of desperate hospitality. He first grasped Sebastian's hand and then shook Xavier's. Then, he retreated back to his throne at the head of the table.
Xavier moved with a chilling grace, not to the side, but to the other head of the table, the one that had been waiting, empty and ominous. He took his seat, a king claiming his counterpart's throne. The placement was a deliberate, calculated power move, placing him directly opposite Killian and, more terrifyingly, right beside Anaya and Naomi.
The sheer proximity of him was a physical force, a cold radiance that made the air feel thin and sharp. It was the first time in her life that Naomi had ever seen Anaya look remotely terrified. Her sister, who had been her rock through everything, was as still as a statue, her face a mask of beauty, her eyes fixed on her plate, but Naomi could feel the shiver of fear radiating from her.
Sebastian, meanwhile, took the seat beside Killian, a casual yet possessive placement that cemented his dominance. "Well, old friend," he began, his voice a smooth, venomous purr. A cruel, evil smile stretched his thin lips. "It's not every day we gather on such marvellous occasions."
"Indeed," Killian said, his own face beaming with enormous pride that made Naomi's stomach turn.
"You do remember my son, Xavier," Sebastian said, gesturing with a lazy hand towards the silent, imposing figure at the other end of the table.
"Yes. It's been a while since we last did meet," Killian agreed, his voice eager. "And I'm sure you remember my daughters, Anaya and Naomi." He gestured towards the two girls, who sat rigidly beside Xavier, feeling like prized cattle at an auction.
"Why, yes," Sebastian said, his gaze crawling over them, slow and invasive. "They have grown into two beautiful young women. Which is which again?" he asked, as if they were objects he couldn't be bothered to distinguish.
"The eldest is twenty-two, she is Anaya," Killian explained, his voice proud and steady, "and the younger one, who's nineteen now, is Naomi."
"Well," Sebastian said, his smile widening, "it's pleasing to see the reason we are gathered today looking so beautiful." The words hung in the air. There was no more subtext, no more pretending. This was the transaction, laid bare for all to see. Anaya felt the air leave her lungs, the truth of his statement a physical blow.
"Well, enough of that. Shall we dine?" Killian said, his voice a little too loud, a desperate attempt to move past the horrifying moment and get on with the proceedings.
With that, the charade continued. The house cooks moved with silent, practiced efficiency, bringing in platters of food that would have made a five-star chef weep with envy. There was roasted game turkey glistening with a honey glaze, delicate seafood arrangements on beds of crushed ice, and vibrant salads dotted with edible flowers.
It was an assortment of delicacies, a feast for the senses. But for Anaya and Naomi, it might as well have been stale bread and water. All they could see, taste, and smell was one another's impending doom.
They moved their forks, pushing food around their plates, their actions mechanical, their bodies present while their minds were far off. They ate in a silence so thick it felt like a physical weight, broken only by the clinking of cutlery against the plates, a sound as hollow and brittle as their hope.
Then, Sebastian dropped his napkin onto his half-eaten plate. It was a small, white flag of surrender, signalling the end of the pretence.
"Okay, Killian. Enough pleasantries," Sebastian said, his voice cutting through the silence like a shard of glass. "Shall we commence with what we came to do?"
Across the table, Xavier pulled a sleek, black phone from his inner jacket pocket. He began typing something, his thumbs moving with a detached, rhythmic precision. He didn't even look up, as if the life-altering events unfolding around him were a boring distraction from his more important digital world.
With a subtle nod from Sebastian, the table was cleared in a flurry of motion. The half-eaten feast was whisked away as if it had never been there. And then, through the door, in walked two men in black suits, their faces blank and menacing. They were security, the kind of men whose presence promised violence, not protection.
One of them held a black leather briefcase, which he handed to Sebastian without a word. Both men then took up positions behind their boss, standing like stone statues, their hands clasped in front of them, a silent, obvious threat meant for Sebastian's protection and everyone else's intimidation.