Dinner was quieter than usual.
Not empty — just restrained, as if the room itself had learned not to intrude. The table was set with the same precision it always was, plates aligned, cutlery placed at measured angles. Nothing about the arrangement suggested anything special.
Nothing except the dessert.
Mia noticed it the moment she sat down.
It was placed neatly beside her plate, untouched, its presentation careful but not extravagant. Something familiar. Something she liked. Something she hadn't mentioned in days, maybe weeks.
Her shoulders tightened.
Another attempt, she thought.
Across from her, Theon sat with his usual composure. His posture was straight, his expression neutral, his attention seemingly divided between the food and the reports he had skimmed briefly before dinner.
He hadn't said anything about the dessert.
Neither had the staff.
That, somehow, made it worse.
They ate in silence.
Mia finished most of her meal, though her appetite was uneven. The dessert remained untouched.
Theon noticed.
He always did.
"You're not eating it," he said, not accusatory — just observant.
She didn't look up. "I don't feel like sweets today."
He studied her for a moment longer than necessary.
Not the plate.
Her.
Something in her expression must have shifted — something subtle she wasn't aware of herself.
Because he didn't push the plate toward her. Didn't suggest she try a bite. Didn't comment further.
Instead, he leaned back slightly.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
Her heart skipped.
She looked up, alert now. "About what?"
"Only if you'll answer honestly," he added.
The calmness in his voice unsettled her more than anger ever would have.
She hesitated. "I… suppose."
He nodded once.
"Do you hate me?"
The question was simple.
It was also devastating.
Mia's breath caught so sharply it embarrassed her.
She hadn't expected that. Not here. Not now. Not from him.
"I—" She stopped, fingers curling into the edge of her napkin. "Why would you ask that?"
"Because I want to know," he said.
There was no defensiveness in his tone. No attempt to soften the question. No hint of accusation.
Just inquiry.
Her pulse pounded in her ears.
"Can I really be honest?" she asked, her voice barely steady.
"Yes," he said without hesitation. "I won't punish you for honesty. Even if you say that you hate me."
The words sat between them.
She searched his face for irony, for threat, for anything that would give her permission to lie.
There was nothing.
Her throat tightened.
"I… can't deny it," she said finally.
The words felt heavier once spoken.
He didn't react.
Not even a flicker.
"Why?" he asked calmly.
That surprised her more than the question itself.
He wanted reasons.
She swallowed.
"You don't care what people think," she said slowly, as if choosing each word might lessen its impact.
"You do whatever you want. You take what suits you and ignore everything else."
He remained still.
"You took me as repayment," she continued, her voice gaining steadiness now that she had begun.
"You trapped me here. You decide where I go, what I do, who I see. You act like concern excuses control."
Her chest felt tight, but the words kept coming.
"You don't ask what people want," she said. "You just decide. And everyone accepts it because they're afraid of you or dependent on you."
She paused, then added quietly, "That includes me."
The silence afterward was long.
Theon did not interrupt.
Did not defend.
Did not correct.
He listened the way he always did — completely.
When she finished, her hands were shaking.
She waited for anger.
It didn't come.
Instead, he stood.
The movement was unhurried, deliberate. He adjusted his jacket, smoothing the sleeve as if grounding himself in the familiarity of the gesture.
"The dessert," he said, voice level, "doesn't hold much value to be a scheme."
That was all.
No explanation.
No rebuttal.
No denial.
He turned and left the dining room.
Mia remained seated, staring at the untouched plate.
The words replayed in her mind, over and over.
Doesn't hold much value.
She scoffed internally.
Of course it doesn't, she thought bitterly. Not to someone like him.
She pushed the dessert away and stood, her appetite gone entirely.
_______________________________________________
The night stretched on.
Mia lay awake, replaying the conversation from every angle. The way he hadn't flinched. The way he hadn't tried to explain himself. The way he had simply… accepted her words.
She told herself that was proof.
He doesn't care enough to argue.
That made sense.
It had to.
__________________
Elsewhere in the house, Theon stopped walking only after he reached the study.
He closed the door behind him and stood still for a long moment, one hand resting against the edge of the desk.
Her words echoed with painful clarity — not because they were unexpected, but because they were familiar.
He had heard them before.
In different forms. From different mouths. Over different years.
He knew this version of himself well — the one people constructed from distance and fear.
He exhaled slowly and sat down.
The dessert didn't matter.
That was the truth.
Compared to what it cost him to lower restrictions.
Compared to the effort it took to keep her safe without suffocating her.
Compared to the calculations he ran every day to ensure her education, her privacy, her autonomy within a world that did not forgive loose ends—
A dessert was nothing.
He had never thought of it as leverage.
He had thought of it as comfort.
But comfort, he had learned, was easily mistaken for manipulation.
He opened a file and forced his attention back to work.
___________________________________________
The next day passed quietly.
No one mentioned the dinner. No one addressed the conversation. Nothing changed on the surface.
That, more than anything, unsettled Mia.
She had expected consequences.
Instead, she found the same routines waiting for her. The same permissions. The same restrictions. The same distance.
It felt like shouting into a void.
At lunch, she noticed that dessert was not served.
She told herself she didn't care.
________________________________________
The loyalty test continued.
Neither of them realized it had shifted.
For Mia, it became a matter of endurance — staying quiet, doing her work, avoiding unnecessary interaction.
For Theon, it became something else entirely.
A slow, accumulating fatigue.
He had listened.
He had accepted.
And he had not corrected her.
Because explaining had never changed anything before.
And because some misunderstandings did not come from lack of information — they came from certainty.
That night, Mia passed the dining room again.
The table was empty now, cleared and reset for the next day. The plate where the dessert had sat was spotless, as if it had never been there at all.
She paused for a moment, feeling something she couldn't quite name.
Then she walked on.
Neither of them knew it yet, but something irreversible had happened.
Not because of what was said.
But because of what was heard — and what was never allowed to be seen.