CHAPTER 21
Dominic’s POV
I got out of my car as my driver drove to the car drive to park the car.
The house was quiet when I returned. It always was.
That was how I preferred it, stillness like a cathedral, no footsteps, no unnecessary voices echoing through the halls. Noise was a distraction. And distraction was a weakness.
I loosened the cuff of my shirt as I stepped into the foyer. Another endless day of negotiations, handshakes with men who would sell their souls for one more percent of profit. I gave them nothing more than what was needed. Words were currency; mine, I spent sparingly.
The butler met me as always. His eyes gave nothing away, but something in the way he inclined his head was… different. “Mr. Blackwell,” he said evenly, “dinner has been arranged.”
“Dinner,” I repeated, arching a brow. “Okay, what did you make?”
He didn’t answer directly. Just that small pause, and then, “You will see.”
I didn’t press him. If it was important, I’d see it for myself. And if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter.
The corridor stretched long and dim, the city lights spilling in through glass walls. My footsteps echoed against the marble. When I reached the dining room, I stopped.
Because there he was.
Ethan.
Sitting at the long table that so often stood empty, his posture rigid, his hands folded in his lap. Before him, steam curled from plates of food. A single candle flickered, scattering its light across the silverware, gilding the nervous tension written in every line of his body.
For a moment, I simply looked at him.
He hadn’t noticed me yet. His gaze was fixed on the table, jaw tight, shoulders tense. Like a man bracing himself for judgment.
I stepped into the room, and his head shot up. Those wide, uncertain eyes locked on me instantly.
“Mr.Blackwell, you’re back,” he breathed, like the title itself carried weight too heavy for his tongue.
I didn’t answer right away. I let the silence stretch, deliberate, a rope pulled tight between us. Then I walked to the table and lowered myself into the chair opposite him.
“You cooked.” My voice was quiet, but not a question.
He swallowed, throat bobbing. “Yes. I…” His voice cracked and he started again. “I wanted to do something… for you.”
The corners of my mouth tilted, not quite a smile, but close enough to unsettle. “And you thought food would suffice?”
His face flushed hot in the candlelight. “I just… I wanted to try.”
I leaned back in my chair, watching him squirm under the weight of my gaze. The food smelled rich, garlic and herbs clinging to the air. Not the sterile perfection of chefs, but the messy honesty of a human hand.
“Serve me,” I said.
He startled, then fumbled for the ladle, scooping pasta onto my plate with shaky hands. The sauce splashed slightly at the edge, and his breath caught, as if the small imperfection were a sin.
“Relax,” I murmured, though the word carried more command than comfort.
He set the plate down before me, then his own. For a long moment, neither of us moved. He was waiting for my verdict.
I lifted the fork, twirled the pasta, and tasted.
The flavors hit sharp and warm. Imperfect, yes. But alive in a way perfection never could be.
I set the fork down deliberately. His eyes never left my face, searching desperately for something he couldn’t name.
“It’s good,” I said.
The tension in his shoulders eased just barely. His lips parted in something like relief.
“I…..thank you,” he stammered.
“Don’t thank me for honesty.” My gaze lingered on him, watching how he shifted, how his fingers curled against the napkin in his lap. “You did well.”
Silence fell again, but it wasn’t empty. He glanced down at his own plate, then back up, hesitant.
“Do you always… eat alone? Before I got here” he asked quietly.
The audacity of the question almost made me laugh. Almost. Instead, I let him sit in the weight of it, his own boldness echoing back at him.
“Loneliness is not the same as solitude,” I answered finally. “And solitude is a choice.”
He nodded slowly, though I could see the question still burned in him. He wanted to know more, but he didn’t dare press.
Good. He was learning.
We ate in near silence after that, the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain the only sound between us. But I felt his eyes on me, cautious, curious. And every time I caught his gaze, he flushed and looked down again.
When I finished, I set my fork down and leaned back in my chair. His plate was still half-full, untouched in his distraction.
“You’re nervous,” I said.
“I… yes,” he admitted, voice small.
“Why?”
“Because you…” He faltered, shaking his head. “Because you’re you.”
I let the corner of my mouth lift again, just slightly. “And yet here you are, making me dinner.”
His chest rose with a sharp inhale. He had no answer for that.
I stood, pushing my chair back with deliberate grace. The sound of the legs against the floor echoed like a final word.
He looked up at me, wide-eyed. Waiting.
“Come to my room in thirty minutes,” I told him.
His lips parted, a flicker of desire sparking in his expression. Then he nodded, quick and obedient.
“Y-yes.”
I didn’t give him time to say more. I turned, my footsteps steady against the marble as I walked away.
The butler would clear the table. Ethan would sit in that silence, nerves eating at him with every tick of the clock. And then he would come to me.
Exactly as I wanted.
Because he was learning that in my world, nothing was given freely. Not even dinner. Everything carried weight. Everything carried consequence .
And tonight, he would learn that dinner was only the beginning.
I got to my room and showered, washing away the day.