Kent storms into the dining room, where the table is set for four. He sits down hard in his chair at the head of the table, waving at the place settings on either side of him.
“Remove these,” he says to the waitstaff, biting off the words in his frustration. “Have Daniel’s and Fay’s plates sent up to Fay’s room, they’ll take their supper there.”
The waitstaff give each other worried looks but silently do as they’re told. The chef comes out next, looking around the room.
“Sir?” He asks, his French accent heavy in the word. “Will you be dining alone?”
“Apparently,” Kent says, angry that Fiona isn’t here either. “Please bring it out.”
The chef nods, impassive, and heads back into the kitchen. A few moments later he appears again with Kent’s first course - salmon tartare with a small side salad and a freshly-sliced French baguette.
Kent ignores the fish and reaches directly for the bread, slathering it with butter as he sits back in his chair and thinks.
Thinks, inevitably, about her.
God damnit, he almost couldn’t take looking at her tonight, sitting there in her bed, crying as if her heart would break. He had tried – tried to break the mood, to cajole her out of it, to scare her out of it by pounding on the wall –
But she had just kept crying –
He grits his teeth between bites of bread, angry with himself for not being able to control himself. For wanting, even now, to dash up those stairs and so something – anything – to make her stop.
But she was Daniel’s problem now, a right with Daniel had just asserted upstairs. Kicking him out and keeping Fay all to himself.
Kent has tried, these past few weeks. Tried to distract himself, to busy himself with his work and his plans, tried to ignore her when she walks by, the light lily scent of her shampoo drifting through the air –
The wide-eyed expressions of her face, when she’s shocked, happy, sad, angry –
God, she’s at her best when she’s angry, with that fire in her eyes, that courage she drags up from somewhere deep in her soul – he loves to prod her, to push her, to raise that fire in her –
The way it felt, those few times when he lost his control, when he caught her spying on him in the basement, for instance, and chased her up the stairs, pinned her against the hall of her room, saw the passion in her, then – the defiance –
The way it felt when she pounded her little fists against his chest – god, he had wanted to turn her around right there, press her up against the wall, press the length of himself up against her ass as he slipped his hand beneath her shirt, taught her a lesson about what it meant to defy him –
Kent squeezes a slice of the bread within his fist, crushing it, ruining it. Then he drops it to the table and stares at it.
God damnit, that girl. She will be the undoing of him. She made him just lose it – lose absolute control of himself, the one thing he never did. And she had absolutely no idea.
He had to get rid of her, Kent decided, looking blankly across the room. He’d send them away – marry them quick, send them back to the old country to his family there, where they’d be safe –
But the idea of it, of them building a life together, of her smiling at his son while she bore his children –
Kent grits his teeth and pounds his fist against the table once. God damnit.
He stares down at his plate as his mind races.
What could he do. What, really, was the other option. Could he, somehow, claim her for his own – convince Daniel to give her up, to move on to someone else –
Kent scoffs at himself, then, putting his hand over his face, disgusted. What was he thinking – trying to find a way to take his son’s fiancé from him? It was unthinkable, despicable. Daniel would never forgive him, and Alden –
God damnit, Kent had never been in such a tight spot. Had never wanted something so badly, and yet had it so completely forbidden to him – in terms of morality, of honor, of political alliance, of family. Absolutely forbidden.
Yet as every day passed, Kent felt his control over himself slipping, bit by bit. If he loses control of himself, he knows that he will lose everything. And yet…
It doesn’t help, sometimes, when she looks at him that way. When she half-lids her eyes and pulls her lower lip into her mouth. Like she’s holding back too.
Kent slams his fist against the table again, forcing his mind away from the thought.
What the fuck was he going to do.
At that moment, the door to the dining room swings open and Fiona breezes in. “Hey baby,” she says with a big smile, settling into her seat across from him. “What, you couldn’t wait for me?”
She looks up at him, then, and her smile falters. She can see, clearly, that he’s in a foul mood and she has to tread very, very carefully if she wants to get out of this in one piece.
“Wait for you?” Kent says, narrowing his eyes at her. “Why should I wait for you, when you are late?”
Fiona glances at the grandfather clock on the far wall and notes that, yes – shit – she was five minutes late. Still, she tries to keep it light as the chef comes through the door again, putting her own entrée and bread in front of her.
“I didn’t know we were on such formal terms in this house,” she says casually, trying a small smile. “I’m sorry, I won’t be late again.”
His eyes narrow further, and Fiona realizes she miscalculated. Shit. The right choice would have been all apology – no joke. She screws her mouth shut, looking down at her plate and taking a piece of bread out of its little basket, fiddling with it between her long-nailed fingers.
“Do you think,” Kent asks slowly, dangerously, “that I should wait for you? That as the man of this house, I should be at your beck and call?”
Slowly, Fiona shakes her head. “No,” she says. “You’re right, I should have been on time.”
“Damn right you should have been,” Kent says. He knows, deep down, that he’s being unfair to her. He doesn’t care, really, if she’s been late. But he’s so worked up – feels so powerless – and Fiona is there to take it out on.
“After all,” he continues, pushing his plate away from him. “You are not my wife,” he says, cruel. “You are here, eating my food, wearing the clothes I buy you, spending my money, in my house, just so you can give me pleasure. When I desire it.”
Fiona blinks at him then. Never, ever, has he stated their relationship in such stark terms. He never called her his girlfriend – she knew it wasn’t really like that – but really? He had basically just called her his whore.
Kent sneers at her, watching the realization of his insult break out onto her face.
“Is that…” Fiona starts, unable to stop herself. “Is that really how you see me?” Slowly, she puts down her piece of bread.
“Yes,” he says, leaning back in his chair, enjoying the feeling of power that comes when he sees her balk. “And right now, I want you to go upstairs. To my chamber. I want you to wait for me there.”
“Kent –“ she says, going pale.
“You are not my wife,” Kent says, banging his hand on the table. “You are here at my leisure. And if you decide that you no longer wish to be, no longer wish to receive my generosity and my gifts,” he says, “you are free to leave at any time.”
Her chin begins to shake a little, in fear and frustration. What had she done wrong? Still, she knows her place in this relationship. In reality, she always has. Kent lets her get away with a lot – treats her, spoils her, rarely contradicts her.
But really, deep down? She’s here for one thing.
Slowly, she stands and – giving him a proud look she can’t help – walks from the room, heading up the stairs. To the third floor, the attic. The room that he keeps there. The room she absolutely hates.
Kent calls to the chef for his next course. When it’s delivered, he quickly slices the steak into pieces, biting it down without tasting it. When he’s finished, he tosses his napkin onto the table and follows Fiona up the stairs.