Chapter 57
The woman rumored to be Jacob's fiancée was a vision, possessing a beauty and an air of elegance that far surpassed their wildest expectations.
But the older generation, seated at the head of the long, formal dining table, was far less impressed. Their gazes were cold, calculating, and critical.
Since Jacob's father, Gray, had passed, his uncle, Dave Smith, had been sniffing around the family business like a vulture. Jacob's iron grip had kept him at bay, but the ambition still festered.
Now, as Dave looked at Elizabeth, his eyes were those of a merchant appraising an object, filled with undisguised scrutiny and a sliver of contempt.
The dinner began, a thick tension hanging in the air.
The food was exquisite, served with flawless etiquette. Elizabeth nodded politely to each of the core family members as they were introduced, her smile never wavering.
After a few rounds of wine, the atmosphere loosened, just a fraction.
Dave set down his glass, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and abruptly turned to Jacob, firing off a string of rapid-fire Italian.
He assumed Elizabeth wouldn't understand a word.
His voice carried that uniquely condescending tone of an elder who believed his position granted him wisdom. "Jacob, there's something I've been meaning to say. That silly joke Gray made years ago, you don't have to take it seriously. It was just pleasantries he exchanged with the Hughes family, something he'd long forgotten. The Smith family is not what it once was. You are the pillar of this family now. Your marriage is not something to be trifled with."
He paused, his gaze flicking pointedly toward Elizabeth before quickly darting away. The disdain, however, lingered like a bad smell. "There are plenty of good girls out there from respectable families, just waiting for a chance to marry into the Smith family. Why are you so fixated on a woman with a damaged reputation? A woman who is…" He trailed off, stopping just short of saying has a child, but the implication was crystal clear, "unclean?"
Leaning forward slightly, he lowered his voice, feigning concern. "Your aunt's niece, Clara Stafford—you've met her. A sweet, well-mannered girl. Stanford graduate, from a family whose standing matches our own. I think she's a much better fit than…"
Before he could finish, a woman's voice, startlingly clear and speaking in flawless Italian, cut through the low hum of the dining room.
"Oh? And is this Ms. Stafford beautiful?"
The voice wasn't loud, but it landed like a thunderclap.
Dave's head snapped around, his eyes wide with disbelief as he stared at the source—Elizabeth. The very woman he'd dismissed as a pretty, monolingual decoration.
She was gently prodding a roasted asparagus spear on her plate with her fork, not even bothering to look up, as if her interruption was the most natural thing in the world.
A beat of dead silence, then a flush of angry embarrassment crept up Dave's neck.
His face hardened. "You! Who permitted you to eavesdrop on your elders? And to interrupt! Have you no manners?" He snarled.
Elizabeth set down her fork and gracefully wiped her lips with her napkin. Then, a smirk played on her lips, as if he were the world's biggest fool. "Mr. Dave Smith, this is a dining hall, not a confessional. You're speaking right in front of me. I'm not deaf. It's only natural that I would hear you. And if you have a problem with me, shouldn't I, the person in question, be allowed to hear it? As for manners…"
She paused, her eyes sweeping over his self-righteous face. "Is it the custom of the Smith family elders to belittle and slander a woman who is about to join your family, using a language you assume she doesn't understand? Is that your idea of manners?"
A collective gasp rippled through the room. A few of the younger cousins barely suppressed their shock.
Elizabeth was really bold.
She was actually talking back to Dave. Like that.
Dave's face turned a shade of puce. He trembled with rage, pointing a shaky finger at her. "You… you insolent bitch! All you have is a sharp tongue! With an attitude like that, you think you're worthy of entering the Smith family? I think you…"
He was clearly so enraged he'd lost all control, the venom spilling out. "…belong on your back in a brothel! At least then that face wouldn't go to waste!"
The words hung in the air, instantly dropping the room's temperature to absolute zero. Even a few of the older men who had been enjoying the show frowned. That was a line you didn't cross.
Elizabeth's eyes went razor-sharp, but before she could react—
The very instant the vile words left Dave's mouth, Jacob, who had been eating in silence as if he were in another world, moved. His silver steak knife was no longer in his hand.
It didn't drop. It flew.
A blur of cold, silver light shot through the air with blinding speed, grazing the outside of Dave's arm.
The sound of expensive fabric tearing was sickeningly clear. The sleeve of Dave's tailored suit was sliced open, the blade sharp enough to break the skin. A thin line of red welled up, beading with blood.
Dave cried out, clutching his arm, his face a mask of shock and fury as he stared at Jacob.
The entire hall was utterly silent. You could have heard a pin drop.
Everyone was stunned by the sudden, violent act.
Only then did Jacob slowly set down his fork and wipe his hands on his napkin.
He lifted his gaze to his uncle, whose face was now ashen. Jacob's voice was as calm as if he were commenting on the weather.
"My apologies, Uncle Dave. My hand slipped."
Hand slipped?
The excuse was so blatantly false that it was more insulting than a direct confrontation. It was a raw display of power.
Jacob didn't even glance at his uncle's bleeding arm. He turned to Elizabeth, who was staring back, her eyes wide from the shocking display. His tone remained flat, but his next words were jaw-dropping.
"Don't mind Uncle Dave. He's not much of a businessman, you see. He runs a brothel to make ends meet. When business is slow, he has to service the clients himself. Seeing you must have triggered a professional habit. He didn't mean to insult you."
Elizabeth stared at him. It was the most she'd ever heard him say at one time, and the content was absolutely scandalous. Was this what it meant to be the head of the Smith family? The man could fabricate vicious rumors about his own blood without even blinking.
Dave's face cycled from red to white to a sickly green. His chest heaved, and he pointed a trembling finger at Jacob, utterly speechless. He knew he'd crossed a line, but for Christ's sake, he was Jacob's uncle! How dare he slander him like this?
Watching Jacob's deadpan expression and Dave's pathetic, impotent fury, the anger that had coiled in Elizabeth's gut from the insult began to dissolve.
She had to dip her head slightly to hide the smile threatening to break free.
She wasn't the only one. All around the table, people were desperately trying to stifle their laughter, terrified of earning Dave's ire.
That knife hadn't just sliced open a suit sleeve.
It was a declaration to everyone present: Elizabeth was his. An insult to her was an insult to him.
No matter who you were.
As all eyes remained fixed on the power play between Jacob and Dave—some terrified, some amused, some re-evaluating their allegiances—no one noticed the small figure at the children's table, set a short distance away.
No one saw Jack quietly slip out of his chair.