Even If It Hurts, Daddy

8

Amelia had helped set dining table while Giselle handled the cooking. Richard and Chase had settled in a cavern of cold marble and echoing silence, broken only by the rhythmic scrape of silver against porcelain. The chandelier hung low over the dinner table, casting shadows across Chase’s face. He hadn't looked at Giselle once since they sat down to eat. Even when she tried to maintain eye contact.

Richard sat at the head of the table, like the undisputed king of the domain that he was. He moved with a terrifyingly calm precision that reminded every person in the room that he was the absolute patriarch, cutting his food and chewing as if he were performing surgery.

"The merger with the Sterling Group is stalling," Chase muttered, waving his fork dismissively. "The board is full of dinosaurs. They don't understand that we need to pivot to digital assets now, not next quarter. It’s a bloodbath in those meetings, Dad."

Richard didn't look up. "Perhaps they don't trust the captain of the ship, Chase. Stability starts at the top."

Chase stiffened. "I’m perfectly stable. I’m handling it. But these old men, they just want to gate-keep everything. They are getting on my nerves."

Giselle kept her head down, pushing a piece of asparagus around her plate. Her appetite was non-existent. Every time she breathed, she caught the scent of Richard’s cologne—the same one that had stuck on her three nights ago. It was making her head spin. Her anxiety was spiraling.

"Giselle," Richard’s voice soft and smooth called out, cutting through Chase’s rant. "Would you mind passing the Cabernet? My glass is looking a bit neglected."

"Oh. Of course," Giselle said, her voice sounding thin to her own ears.

The bottle sat in a silver chiller halfway between her and Richard. She reached for it at the same time he did. As she gripped the cold glass, his hand slid over hers to take the weight.

His skin against hers was hot.

The contact sent a jolt through her body so violent she felt it in her toes. It wasn't just a touch; it was a subtle nudge down the memory lane, moments when their bodies collided . She looked up, and for a split second, the dining room vanished. She saw the heat of desires in his eyes—the predatory hunger he was barely masking behind that polite smile on his face.

The "spark" was undeniable even as Giselle tried to hide her struggles with it. It was a physical force, a silent scream in the middle of the dinning room.

Giselle’s hand jerked a bit. The bottle slipped from her wet fingers and hit the edge of the chiller. It didn't break, but the red wine sloshed out, splattering across the white linen tablecloth like a fresh bleeding wound. A few drops landed on Richard’s shirt cuff.

"Oh my god! I’m so sorry," Giselle gasped, jumping to her feet.

"Jesus, Giselle," Chase snapped, finally looking at her. "Can you do one thing without being a clumsy mess? That’s a hand-woven cloth. Why are you so clumsy."

"It was an accident, Chase," she whispered, her face burning. She grabbed her silk napkin and leaned over the table, frantically dabbing at the dark red stain spreading toward Richard’s plate.

"It’s just wine, Chase. Relax," Richard said quietly. He didn't move away. In fact, he leaned in. "I’ll help her. Amelia is already busy with the dessert."

Richard stood up and walked around to her side. He grabbed a handful of the napkin and began dabbing it over the spill.

"I’ve got it, I’ve got it," Giselle said, her heart hammering. She dropped to her knees to catch the wine that was dripping off the edge of the table onto the rug.

Richard dropped down beside her much to Chase’s surprise.

Under the vast expanse of the table, hidden from Chase’s view by the heavy cloth, they were suddenly alone. It was just a small space between them.

Richard reached for the napkin she was holding. His hand closed over hers again, but this time, he didn't let go. He pulled her slightly closer until they were inches apart. She could feel the heat radiating off his body. His eyes were dark, searching hers with an intensity that made her want to run and stay at the same time.

"Steady," he whispered.

Up above, Chase was upset and fuming, if he could eat Giselle alive, he would.

"And that’s the problem!" Chase shouted, slamming his hand on the table, oblivious to the drama unfolding inches from his feet. "Sterling himself is the one holding out. He thinks he can squeeze us for another five percent. He’s a parasite, Dad. I told him today, I said, 'Listen, we’re the ones with the infrastructure—'"

Down below, Giselle was barely breathing, she was trying her best to avoid his eyes or the ways those lips called on hers, tears welling up, it felt so wrong that she was feeling this way. Richard’s thumb brushed against the sensitive skin of her wrist. It was a deliberate, agonizingly slow movement that had her feeling all type of way.

"You're shaking," Richard murmured.

"I... I’m fine," she lied. "I just... the wine..."

"Forget the wine," he said. His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to her eyes. "You’re a terrible liar, Giselle."

"Sir, please," she breathed, her voice a ghost of a sound.