ELLE'S POV
The clinking of silverware and soft murmurs fill the room. I sit at the table, wishing the chandelier above would kindly stop pretending it's a spotlight.
I sit straight, hands in my laps, trying not to fidget. Damian sits beside me; rigid and unreadable. Across the table, family members in tailored suits and polished shoes stare like they belong on a cover of a business magazine. At the head, the man I recognize immediately. Uncle Harrison.
Damian had warned me on the drive here. "He knows your weak spots," he'd said. "Don't give him anything."
He wasn't exaggerating. Harrison's gaze sweeps over me as if I'm a set of numbers, not a person. Even without the full details of my earlier vision, the unease coils in my chest, tightening with each glance.
I take a quiet breath and remind myself:
Smile. Keep it steady. Look like I belong, even though my stomach knots.
Dinner has been going on for… how long? Ten minutes? Thirty? Time stretch when strangers in power are studying you like you're a curiosity.
The car ride had been mostly silent after Damian's long lecture about his family. Every exhale felt like it carried his gaze or maybe it was just me imagining it. When he finally muttered, "Try to behave," I couldn't help but smirk. "No promises."
Now, sitting here, I almost regret it. Almost.
Harrison breaks the quiet. "So, this is the fiancée."
His tone is quiet but sharp, demanding attention.
"Yes," Damian says smoothly, voice crisp, carrying a weight that tightens the air. "Elle Morgan."
Harrison's eyes sweep over me again. "Hmm. Not what I was expecting."
I tilt my head, keeping my expression light. "Well, that's the nicest thing I've heard all day."
A few people at the table chuckle under their breath. Harrison doesn't.
He leans back, swirling his wine slowly. "Tell me, Elle, what exactly do you do? Aside from… keeping my nephew entertained."
The smile freezes on my lips. I blink once, twice, making sure I heard him right. The air tightens, forks pause midair. Did this man just...
"I'm sorry, what?"
"It's a simple question." He smirks. "Don't tell me small talk isn't your thing."
Before I can respond, Damian's voice cuts through the air. "Watch your mouth."
It's calm, but every word carries weight.
Harrison raises a brow, pretending to be innocent. "It was just a question, Son. No need to snap."
"Then ask it without the disrespect," Damian shoots back, his tone sharp enough to make the server flinch.
The silence that follows is thick. A woman coughs softly. Someone pretends to reach for water. I can almost hear the tension snapping between them like a live wire. I catch a flicker of amusement in one of the cousin's eyes, apparently this isn't new.
I breathe out slowly. This man is trying to provoke us. Fine.
Two can play.
"It's alright," I say, lightly tapping Damian on the shoulder. "Mr. Harrison's just being protective. If I had a nephew who looked this good and made this much money, I'd be suspicious too. But, I think I can answer that myself."
Harrison studies me, a flicker of amusement in his sharp gaze. "Oh? Do tell."
"I write," I say, keeping my voice steady. "One of my books, Silent Hearts, became really popular last year. People are still talking about it."
A low murmur spreads across the table. I notice a few jaws tighten. Even Damian stiffens beside me. Clearly, this is the first he's hearing anything solid about me.
Harrison's smirk thins, his tone sharp. "A writer, huh? And here I thought you were just another girl with… hobbies."
I tilt my head again, letting the tension build, and continue.
A girl across the table leans forward, eyes wide. I can see she had just checked me online. "Wait… you're… you're Elm? The Elm?!"
I nod, keeping my smile small and controlled. "I use a pen name. Elm; Elle Morgan. I'm not after the spotlight. I care about the work, not the fame."
Harrison narrows his eyes, clearly trying to get under my skin. "And yet, here you are, sitting at my table, enjoying the attention?"
"Not that kind of attention," I say, meeting his gaze. "This one's by choice."
The reactions are priceless. Whispers ripple across the table. Even Damian's eyes widen slightly, he never knew, never expected this side of me. The realization hits him hard: I'm not what he thought. I'm more than just a pretty face or a distraction.
I sit back, letting it all sink in, keeping my smile steady. I've answered without flinching, without giving anyone, even Damian the satisfaction of underestimating me.
Harrison narrows his eyes, not expecting me to punch back with humor.
"Quite a tongue you have, Ms. Morgan."
I raise my glass, and tap it gently against his. "Only when provoked."
Another wave of laughter spreads around the table. A couple of cousins laugh out loud. Even Damian's aunt hides a smile.
Damian doesn't laugh.
But he looks at me with something I haven't seen before.
By dessert, the air is looser. I'm mid sip when a soft voice pipes up from across the table.
"Uncle Damian?"
We all turn. A little girl; six, maybe seven, peeks shyly from behind Harrison's chair. Her curls bounce as she steps forward, clutching a stuffed bunny.
Damian's entire face softens instantly. "Zoe," he says, gently.
She smiles, bright and warm. Then she spots me.
Before I can greet her, her glass tips over, spilling juice across the tablecloth. Everyone gasps except me. Harrison's face darkens.
It's a simple spill, but these people react like she set the place on fire.
I move immediately.
"It's okay," I say, grabbing a napkin and moving to her side. "Trust me, I spill things all the time. Usually right before I try to impress someone important."
Zoe giggles instantly. I dab at the spill and give her a wink. "See? No harm done. We're both disasters."
Zoe beams. "You're really pretty."
I grin. "And you're trouble. My kind of girl."
Someone laughs. The room warms. The tension finally lifts.
When I sit down again, Damian is watching me.
Not cold.
Not angry.
Just… watching.
And for the first time, he doesn't look like a man made of walls.
He looks human.
The car is quiet, heavier than the one that brought us here.
I glance out the window, watching the city lights stretch and shimmer. "You didn't have to go full mafia boss on your uncle." I say still watching the lights.
"He disrespected you. You were a guest in his house."
"And you don't have to defend me," I reply. "I can handle myself."
He turns his head slightly, eyes flicking toward me. "You'd rather I let him insult you?"
"I already handled it," I shrug. You don't need to fight for me."
He exhales, slowly. "You talk too much."
The silence after feels charged… but not in a bad way.
Something warm simmers under the tension, but neither of us says anything.
I look out the window again, letting the lights blur. When he pulls up to my apartment, I step out, letting the door click softly behind me.
"Don't forget," I say, leaning lightly against the car. "Your end of the bargain."
He blinks. "Bargain? Oh… right. I'll text you the address for tomorrow. Contract will be drawn tonight."
I tilt my head, letting the words hang. "And…?"
He rolls his eyes. "I'll get your foundation supported."
"No, no," I cut him off. "You're coming to the event. With your rich… friends."
He exhales slowly, measured. I see it; the calculation, and trace of irritation. "Fine. Let's keep this clean."
He drives off, clearly angry.
I step inside, unbothered, leaving him with the weight of my words; the reminder that this isn't just a social evening. It's my terms, my rules, my leverage.