Chapter 21 ACROSS THE TABLE OF CONTEMPT
JASMINE:
The evening after the dinner at Manhattan, Ana brushed my hair at the vanity with the same careful patience she did everything else, as if gentleness could make this place feel less like a cage.
I watched our reflections, her eyes lowered, mine too, deep in thoughts.
“Was she really going to marry him?” I asked, keeping my voice casual, like it didn’t matter whether she did or not.
Ana’s hands slowed. “Miss?”
“Francesca,” I clarified.
Ana resumed brushing. “Yes. They were engaged.”
“For how long?”
“Almost a year.”
“Was it political,” I asked, “or real?”
Ana’s mouth tightened, the closest she ever came to an opinion. “With men like him, it’s always both.”
I studied her in the mirror. “Did he love her?” I found myself asking. Why? I knew not.
This time she paused long enough that I almost regretted asking.
“I think,” she said softly, “he respected her.”
Respect. It sounded like a compliment until you remembered what it took to earn it from someone like Nikolai, how long you had to survive near him without becoming a liability.
Love could be reckless. It could flare up and burn out. But respect, respect was chosen.
I was still turning that over when there was a knock and the door opened without waiting for an answer.
A guard stood there. “Miss, the Boss wants you for dinner.”
Just like that.
Ana set the brush down like she’d been dismissed from the scene, and I stood, smoothing my dress.
The walk to the dining hall was quiet. The silence felt engineered. And in no time, I was back to the unnecessarily long dining table that looked less like furniture and more like a boundary.
Nikolai sat at one end, with his jacket off, sleeves buttoned, and his posture relaxed in a way that never meant ease.
A chair waited at the other end for me.
I sat as staff placed plates in front of us and withdrew. There was no music, no conversation, only the soft clink of cutlery, the occasional pour of water.
He didn’t look up right away. That, more than anything, irritated me.
I took a slow sip, letting the pause become mine too, then set the glass down with care.
“So… Francesca...” I started.
His fork paused mid-motion, suspended as if he’d misheard.
“Francesca,” I repeated, sternly this time.
He lowered the fork and continued eating as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “What about her?”
“What happened between you two?” I pried.
His eyes lifted then, sharp enough to pin me across the table.
“You’re in no position to interrogate my past,” he said.
A humourless laugh escaped me. “I’m sitting at the opposite end of your table, under guard, after you revoked my privileges. If that doesn’t buy me one question, what does?”
He didn’t answer the point. He pivoted, smoothly, like he’d been waiting to.
“You hesitated on the phone,” he said.
The change of subject hit like cold water. “What?”
“With him,” he clarified.
David.
“You listened to the entire conversation,” I snapped. “What more did you need?”
His expression didn’t shift, but something in his eyes tightened. “You didn’t tell him you were done.”
“I didn’t owe him a performance,” I said, forcing the words to land evenly. “I ended the call. That was the answer.”
Nikolai set his fork down. “That’s not an answer.”
I scoffed. “So this is still about David, huh?”
He didn’t deny it. We sat in silence now. Even the staff seemed to move more carefully, as if the air could break.
I shook my head, unable to stop myself. “The almighty Don of New York,” I muttered. “Threatened by a phone call.”
His fork made a soft sound against porcelain.
“Careful,” he said.
I met his eyes. “Or what? You’ll revoke my dinner privileges too?”
He didn’t say anything, so I stood, pushing my chair back, then turning to leave before I could say more.
I made it two steps, when his hand closed around my wrist.
His pull brought me back, and the careful distance I’d been leaning on vanished in a single, decisive motion.
We were close, too close to pretend this was still about dinner.
His thumb rested against the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse, like he could feel every betrayal of my body.
I felt something, something I didn’t want to pave way for. So I hardened my eyes.
“Let go,” I said, low.
Instead of answering, he tilted his head slightly, studying me with that controlled curiosity that felt worse than anger.
“You think I was trying to make you jealous,” he murmured.
“Weren’t you?” I shot back.
His jaw tightened.
“And if I was?” he asked, as if the question itself was a test.
My pulse jumped under his thumb, immediately, and he felt it. Of course he’d feel it.
For a fraction of a second his grip tightened, not to hurt me, and not to restrain either, but it was like his hand reacted before his mind approved it.
My breath caught. His eyes flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes. Then he released me abruptly.
He stepped back first, restoring the distance between us. Then I walked away, without him stopping me this time.
Back in my room, I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at my wrist. There was no bruise. There didn’t need to be.
I could still feel the exact shape of his hand, the pressure of his thumb, the way my body had answered him before my pride could intervene.
Francesca’s voice then came back to me, unwanted and perfectly timed.
“Being chosen by him is not the same as being safe with him.“
I swallowed, tasting the truth of it.
Tonight hadn’t felt safe. It had felt like standing too close to something powerful, something that could warm you if it wanted to, or burn straight through whatever you still had left intact.