Page 30 of The King's Pawn
That night, I join Sasha for dinner again.
It feels like a mistake the moment I step into the dining room. It feels like I’ve willingly placed my throat against a blade, knowing exactly how sharp it is and foolishly believing that if I stay still long enough, it won’t cut me.
The long table stretches between us despite our chairs being placed close together like usual, the distance between us more psychological than physical. The polished marble floors gleam beneath the chandelier’s somber light, every crystal catching and refracting it into cold fragments. The room feels cavernous, echoing, as if it is holding its breath along with me.
He is already seated in his usual place at the head of the table. Impeccable, as always.
His dark suit shirt is crisp, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms as if he’s just stepped out of his study rather than into a formal dinner. His tattoos are a stark contrast against the faint glint of an expensive watch flashing at his wrist. He cuts through the meat on his plate with precise, economical strokes. There is nowasted motion, no hesitation, as if even eating is something to be mastered rather than enjoyed.
Everything about him is controlled. Measured. Untouchable.
I take my seat next to him without meeting his eyes.
The chair feels too large, the room too quiet. The staff move quickly once we’re seated, serving with practiced efficiency before retreating as though they can sense the tension coiled tightly between us. Their footsteps fade, and then it’s just the two of us.
The clink of silverware against expensive China is obnoxiously loud. Every small noise seems amplified beneath the hum that never quite dissipates under this roof, the constant awareness that this house always seems to be listening even when it pretends not to.
I barely touch my food.
The vegetables are arranged with artistic precision, the sauce delicately ribboned across the plate, too perfect to disturb. I poke at it halfheartedly, my appetite nonexistent. My stomach feels knotted, twisted tight with a mix of anger and unease that refuses to settle.
The silence stretches.
It grows heavier the longer I stare down at my plate, suffocating under its weight. I can feel his attention on me even without looking up. That steady, assessing gaze presses against my shoulder blades like a physical thing, pinning me in place.
It’s a tactic, I realize. One I’m sure he’s used countless times before on people far more powerful than I am. Silence makespeople uncomfortable. It makes them talk or break, but I refuse to give him either.
Instead, I focus on my breathing. In through my nose, out through my mouth. I tell myself that I have survived worse than this table, worse than this man. I remind myself that fear is exactly what he expects from me and it’s not something I will give him the luxury of earning. I’m done giving him things he doesn’t deserve.
Eventually, the tension becomes unbearable and finally, he speaks.
“You’re very quiet tonight.”
His voice is calm, observant, devoid of accusation. It’s worse than if he had snapped. Worse than if he had raised his voice.
I don’t look at him. I keep my eyes trained on my plate. “Maybe I don’t have anything to say.”
The words come out flatter than I intend, stripped of any emotion I had the first night we were forced to eat together. If I’m being honest, it’s more of a shield than anything. If I give him nothing, maybe he’ll take nothing. Wishful thinking, I know, but what else do I have control over in a place like this?
He pauses, and I can feel the shift beside me as he leans back slightly in his chair. The faint creak of leather follows the movement. I imagine his eyes on me now, studying every line of my posture, every subtle tension in my shoulders.
For a moment, he says nothing.
“Perhaps if you didn’t spend so much time pacing around your room at night, you would have more energy to spare a conversation.”
The words land with brutal precision.
The realization hits me like a slap across the face, so sudden and sharp that it steals the air from my lungs. My breath stutters, my chest tightening painfully as understanding crashes into place.
Cameras.
There have to be cameras in my room. How else would he know what I do behind closed doors if not by spying on me?
How else would he know about the restless nights, the endless pacing, the way I trace the perimeter of the space like an animal trapped in a cage? There is no other explanation that doesn’t lead back to the same conclusion. He has been watching me when I thought I was alone.
My fingers curl around my fork, gripping it so tightly, my knuckles ache. Heat floods my chest, rising fast and uncontrollable, and my face burns with humiliation so intense, it borders on nausea.
I had known—of course I had—that there would be cameras in the public areas of the estate. Hallways, entrances, common rooms. It would have been foolish to expect anything else from a man like him, a man who rules through surveillance and control as much as he does through fear.
