Chapter 119 Stiff reunion
Hannah
The moment we step into the dining room, I feel it, the tension.
It’s subtle at first. Like the air itself tightens, stretching thin over something sharp and waiting to cut.
The table is already set. Not just set, laid out. Crystal glasses gleam under the chandelier, silverware aligned with almost military precision. The spread is… excessive. Roasted meats, buttery sides, fresh bread still steaming, sauces arranged like artwork. It’s the kind of dinner that feels less like a meal and more like a performance.
Lisa stands at the far end, directing two maids as they place the final dishes.
Her eyes lift the moment we enter.
They land on Timothy first.
And in that single second, something passes between them.
It’s quick. So quick I almost doubt I saw it, but I did. A stiffening. A subtle narrowing of her eyes. Not disrespectful, not obvious… but definitely not warm. It’s controlled. Intentional.
Timothy notices.
Of course he does.
His jaw tightens just slightly, his expression turning colder, sharper. Like a door slamming shut behind his eyes.
Lisa doesn’t linger. She looks away almost immediately, smoothing her expression into polite neutrality.
“Dinner is served,” she says evenly.
Then, without another glance, she turns and walks out with the maids trailing behind her.
The silence she leaves behind is… heavy.
“Ah!” Donald claps his hands once, already moving toward the table like nothing exists beyond his own excitement. “Now this is what I’m talking about.”
Timothy pulls out my chair.
The gesture is automatic, practiced but tonight, there’s something rigid in it.
I sit.
He takes the seat beside me.
Donald settles across from us, grinning as he surveys the spread.
“You really didn’t have to go all out like this,” he says, already reaching for a serving spoon. “But I’m not complaining.”
Timothy says nothing.
He doesn’t reach for anything yet. Doesn’t move, really. He just sits there, posture straight, gaze distant and cold.
Donald doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.
“So,” Donald begins, piling food onto his plate, “business has been… interesting lately.”
Timothy finally moves, slowly, deliberately serving himself with minimal effort.
“Mm.”
That’s all he says.
Donald glances up briefly, then keeps talking anyway.
“I had a meeting earlier this week, absolute disaster,” he continues, shaking his head dramatically. “People these days don’t understand negotiation. It’s embarrassing, honestly.”
Timothy takes a sip of water.
“Is that so.”
Flat. Uninterested.
Donald laughs like it’s a conversation.
“It is! I mean, you’d think…”
He launches into a long explanation. Numbers, names, deals, complaints. It blends together into a stream of noise that fills the room but doesn’t really say anything.
I try to follow. I really do.
But every time I start to latch onto something…
“Hannah, you’ve seen this before, right?” Donald suddenly turns to me.
I blink, caught mid-thought.
“I…well, not exactly, but…”
“It’s ridiculous,” he cuts in immediately, waving his fork. “They don’t even understand basic structure. I had to practically hold their hands through the entire….”
He’s already gone again.
I press my lips together.
Okay.
I try again a few minutes later, when there’s a brief pause.
“It sounds like they weren’t prepared…”
“Exactly!” Donald says, pointing at me like I’ve just proven his point. “Completely unprepared. And that’s the problem with…”
And just like that, I disappear from the conversation again.
I glance sideways at Timothy.
He hasn’t touched much of his food.
His expression is unreadable, but his eyes… they’re distant. Hard. Every response he gives Donald is clipped, minimal, barely more than a formality.
Donald, meanwhile, just keeps talking.
“And then I told them, no, absolutely not, that’s not how this works…”
His voice fills every corner of the room.
Loud.
Relentless.
Obnoxious.
The tension is growing. I can feel it now, pressing in on me from both sides. Timothy’s cold silence on one end, Donald’s overbearing chatter on the other.
It’s too much.
I set my fork down.
“So, Donald,” I say, forcing a lightness into my voice, “where have you been all this while?”
He pauses.
Finally.
I offer a small smile, trying to keep it playful. Harmless.
“You’ve been so absent,” I add, tilting my head slightly, “I was starting to forget you were even part of the family.”
The words hang there.
For a split second, I think it’ll land as a joke.
Donald’s smile fades.
Not slowly.
Instantly.
The shift is jarring.
His eyes go cold. Sharp. Calculating.
“I cannot be removed from the Blackwood family,” he says.
The tone…my God.
It’s like ice dragged across glass.
I blink, caught completely off guard.
“I didn’t mean…”
His gaze doesn’t soften.
Not even a little.
Something in my chest tightens.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, sitting up straighter. “I was just joking. I didn’t mean it like that.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, “Donald.”
Timothy’s voice cuts through the room.
Low.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
Donald looks at him.
Timothy doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t move much. But there’s something in the way he says the next words that makes the air feel heavier.
“Remember you’re talking to my wife.”
The emphasis is subtle.
But it lands.
Donald’s expression shifts again, like someone flipping a switch.
The cold vanishes.
In its place, that same easy charm returns.
“Of course,” he says lightly, leaning back in his chair. “No offense taken, Hannah. You know how these things sound out of context.”
I nod slowly.
My appetite is gone.
Donald picks up his glass, swirling the drink lazily.
“So,” he says, as if nothing happened, “how’s Loretta?”
The name hits me like a stone.
I stiffen.
Timothy doesn’t react immediately, but I feel it. The shift beside me.
Donald continues, completely unaware or uncaring.
“I heard… things didn’t go so well,” he adds, his tone almost curious. “Shame, really. She always seemed, what’s the word…useful.”
Useful.
The word sits wrong.
Heavy.
Ugly.
I stare at him.
He keeps going.
“Though I suppose people like her always end up where they belong eventually,” he says with a small shrug. “Situations like that don’t just happen without reason.”
My chest tightens.
My hands curl slightly in my lap.
The warmth from earlier, the fragile attempt at normalcy, it’s gone.
Completely gone.
Timothy sets his glass down.
The sound is quiet.
But final.
“That’s enough.”
Donald looks at him, surprised.
“We just started,” he says, glancing at his barely touched plate. “Relax.”
“Dinner is over,” Timothy replies.
There’s no room for argument in his voice.
It’s not loud.
It’s not aggressive.
It’s worse.
It’s absolute.
Donald lets out a small laugh, like this is some kind of misunderstanding.
“Come on, Timothy…”
“It’s late,” Timothy cuts in. “You should leave.”
Silence.
Donald stares at him now.
Really looks at him.
“You’re serious.”
Timothy doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t need to.
Donald leans back in his chair, crossing his arms slightly.
“That’s ridiculous,” he says. “I just got here.”
“Next time,” Timothy says, his voice still calm, “call ahead.”
Donald doesn’t move.
For a moment, neither of them does.
The tension is unbearable.
Then Timothy stands.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
And suddenly, the entire room feels smaller.
He’s not even doing anything, just standing there but the shift in presence is undeniable. Towering. Cold. Unyielding.
Donald’s jaw tightens.
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes.
Not fear.
But calculation.
He exhales sharply and pushes his chair back.
“Fine,” he says, standing as well. “If that’s how you want to play it.”
He grabs his jacket, slipping it on with stiff, controlled movements.
At the door, he pauses.
Turns back.
His expression is composed again, but there’s an edge beneath it.
“We’ll see each other at work,” he says. “Try to fix your attitude before then, brother.”
Timothy doesn’t respond.
Doesn’t even blink.
Donald huffs softly, lifting his chin just slightly, nose upturned, pride intact.
Then he walks out.
The door closes behind him.
A second later…
SLAM.
The sound echoes through the house.
Timothy doesn’t move.
He stands there, facing the door, his back to me.
Still.
Completely still.
We don’t speak.
Seconds pass.
Then a minute.
The only sound is distant at first, the faint hum of a car engine starting.
Then it grows.
Then fades.
Drifts further and further away until it disappears completely into the night.
Timothy remains where he is.
Unmoving and silent.