"Madam, shall I serve?"
Maria's question hovered over the table like a fragile bridge. No one answered her at first.
"Yes," I said finally. "Please."
The clink of cutlery against porcelain sounded too loud in the dining room. The long table felt longer tonight, the empty chairs more accusatory. Daniel's seat remained untouched, a silent reminder of absence that felt intentional rather than accidental.
Linia sat across from me.
She didn't fidget. Didn't fill the space with nervous movement. She held her fork lightly, her posture composed, her eyes occasionally lifting to mine and then lowering again. The kind of restraint that came from long practice.
"This feels familiar," she said quietly.
I didn't look up. "To you?"
"Yes," she replied. "Meals where silence says more than words."
Maria set the dishes down carefully, her gaze darting between us before she retreated. The door closed softly behind her, sealing us inside the tension.
I cut into my food without appetite. "You didn't tell me everything last night."
"No," Linia said. "I told you what you were ready to hear."
That landed harder than accusation.
"I don't appreciate being managed," I said.
She nodded. "Neither do I."
Silence reclaimed the table.
I studied her face—calm, observant, unreadable. The same face that had watched my marriage fracture. The same eyes that had learned the rhythm of this house faster than I ever realized.
"You knew he would leave," I said.
"Yes."
"You knew he would panic."
"Yes."
"And you waited."
She met my gaze steadily. "I prepared."
"For what?" I asked.
"For this moment," she replied. "When silence becomes dangerous."
I laughed softly. "You talk like everything is strategy."
She lowered her fork. "Because everything has consequences."
My appetite vanished completely.
"Why are you really here?" I asked again. "Not survival. Not truth. Why now?"
She considered the question longer this time. "Because you're pregnant."
The word hit me like a blow.
"How do you know that?" I demanded.
She didn't flinch. "You hold your body differently. You hesitate before sitting. You touch your stomach when you think no one is watching."
My hand curled instinctively in my lap.
"You've been watching me too closely," I said.
"I watch everything closely," she replied. "It's how I stay alive."
The silence thickened.
"You should have told me," I said.
"You weren't ready," she answered.
"And now?" I asked.
She met my eyes. "Now you're dangerous too."
I leaned back slowly. "Is that a warning?"
"It's an observation," she said. "Power shifts when life enters the equation."
My phone buzzed on the table.
Unknown number.
Again.
I didn't open it. Not yet.
"You're being contacted," Linia said softly.
"So are you," I replied. "Don't pretend you're not."
Her jaw tightened slightly. "Some messages are harder to ignore than others."
"I know," I said.
We ate in silence for several minutes, the sound of chewing and cutlery filling the space where conversation once lived. The house seemed to listen, its walls heavy with secrets.
"I spoke to the lawyer today," I said eventually.
Linia's gaze sharpened. "About the petition?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"I countered it," I replied. "Emergency authority. Temporary control."
She nodded slowly. "Good."
"Good?" I echoed. "You don't even know the terms."
"I know enough," she said. "You moved first."
I studied her. "You wanted that."
"I wanted you protected," she corrected. "There's a difference."
"You're very selective with your concern."
She didn't deny it.
The phone buzzed again.
This time, I picked it up.
Dinner is when deals are made.
Another message followed immediately.
Ask her who benefits if you disappear.
My throat tightened.
I looked up.
Linia was watching me intently now, no pretense left.
"Who benefits if something happens to me?" I asked quietly.
She inhaled slowly. "Many people."
"That wasn't the question," I said.
She hesitated.
The first real hesitation I'd seen from her.
"Daniel," she said finally. "The board. Certain partners. Anyone who believes you're in the way."
"And you?" I pressed.
Her eyes met mine, unwavering. "I benefit if you survive."
I laughed softly. "That's a convenient answer."
"It's the truth," she said. "Dead women don't correct history."
A chill slid down my spine.
"I don't trust you," I said.
"I don't need you to," she replied. "I need you to stay alive."
The phone buzzed again.
This time, it was a call.
Unknown number.
I stared at the screen, my pulse racing.
"Answer it," Linia said.
"Why?"
"Because they're escalating," she replied. "And silence won't save you."
I hesitated, then answered.
"Yes?" I said.
A distorted voice filled the line. Calm. Controlled.
"You've made interesting choices, Isabella."
My grip tightened. "Who is this?"
"Someone who doesn't like unpredictability," the voice replied. "You invited chaos into your home."
"You invaded it long before I noticed," I said.
A low chuckle. "Still sharp. That's good."
Linia leaned forward slightly, listening.
"You should send her away," the voice continued. "Tonight."
"And if I don't?" I asked.
Silence stretched.
Then: "Then accidents stop being accidents."
The line went dead.
The room felt suddenly smaller.
I set the phone down slowly.
Linia didn't speak at first.
"They're serious," she said finally.
"I know," I replied. "So are we."
She studied my face. "What will you do?"
I pushed my chair back and stood. "Finish dinner."
She blinked. "That's not an answer."
"It is," I said. "I won't be rushed into fear."
I walked toward the doorway, then stopped.
"But after dinner," I added quietly, "someone is leaving this house."
Linia rose slowly. "Who?"
I turned to face her.
"I haven't decided yet."
Her expression didn't change—but something sharpened behind her eyes.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance.
The house held its breath.
And somewhere between the silence at dinner
and the threat on the phone,
I realized—
This was no longer about survival.
It was about choice.
And whichever one I made tonight
would cost me something I could never get back.