So you’re the charity case.

Liana's POV

Dinner was served in a dining room that rivaled the size of our entire old apartment. The sheer scale of it was disorienting. A massive crystal chandelier, dripping with prisms, hung from the impossibly high ceiling, casting a dazzling, almost blinding light on the polished mahogany table that stretched seemingly into infinity. Our small group – my mother, Mr. Ashford, Dante, and me – seemed like minuscule figures, lost in the vastness. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and expensive wine, and the clinking of silverware on fine china sounded unnaturally loud in the cavernous space.

Dante sat directly across from me at the impossibly long table, an unreadable enigma. He was casually slicing into his perfectly cooked steak, his movements precise and economical, as if he couldn’t feel the weight of my eyes on him, couldn’t sense the nervous energy that radiated from my side of the table. He wore another dark shirt, this one a deep charcoal grey, but it still hugged his broad shoulders and muscular arms too tightly, outlining the powerful planes beneath the fabric. It was as if even his muscles were straining, trying to escape the confines of his own skin, or perhaps, the confines of this stifling formality.

He hadn’t spoken a single word since we arrived, his silence a palpable barrier between him and the rest of us. He simply existed, a dark, brooding presence that seemed to absorb all conversation and light. My mother tried to fill the void with polite chatter, asking Mr. Ashford about his day, commenting on the exquisite antique sideboard, complimenting the meal. Mr. Ashford, a stout, well-meaning man with a kind, if somewhat distracted, smile, responded with genial, if brief, answers. He seemed utterly oblivious to the tension radiating from his son.

“So, Liana,” Mr. Ashford finally directed his attention to me, swirling the crimson liquid in his wine glass, his voice gentle. “Your mother mentioned you have a passion for art. Do you draw professionally, or is it just a hobby?”

I nearly jumped, surprised he even noticed the worn sketchbook I had instinctively clutched in my lap beneath the tablecloth, a subconscious shield against the overwhelming opulence of the room. I had been so engrossed in observing Dante, trying to decipher the complex enigma that was his face, that I had forgotten I even had it.

“Just a hobby,” I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper, feeling a blush creep up my neck. I suddenly felt vulnerable, exposed.

“Nonsense, darling,” Mom chimed in, ever my proudest advocate, her voice a little too loud, a little too enthusiastic. “She’s really talented, Robert. She got a scholarship for art school, a very prestigious one. Full ride, actually!” She beamed at Mr. Ashford, completely missing the subtle shift in the air, the sudden prickle of something cold and sharp.

Dante finally looked up.

It was a slow, deliberate movement, his knife paused mid-air above his steak. His eyes—dark, stormy, like a turbulent sea before a hurricane—met mine for the first time since that chilling encounter on the driveway. There was no warmth, no flicker of recognition, only a piercing, analytical gaze that felt like it was dissecting my very soul. A cruel, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth.

“Scholarship,” he repeated, the word drawn out, laced with a venomous inflection that made it sound like an accusation. His gaze, unblinking, seemed to bore into me, stripping away any pretense. “So you’re the charity case.”

The words sliced through the elegant dining room like razors, sharp and precise, designed to wound. They cut through the polite veneer, shattering the fragile illusion of a new family. The clinking of silverware seemed to stop. The air grew impossibly still, charged with a sudden, unbearable tension.

My spine stiffened, an instinctive, primal reaction to the attack. My cheeks burned, not just from embarrassment, but from a surge of defiant anger. “I earned it,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady, though my hands had balled into fists under the table. “Through hard work and dedication.”

His smile widened, a slow, predatory unveiling of teeth that looked too white, too perfect. It was a smile utterly devoid of humor, cruel and mocking. “Sure you did,” he drawled, his tone dripping with unconcealed disbelief and condescension. It was a clear dismissal, a pointed insinuation that my accomplishments were nothing more than a handout, a favor.

Silence dropped like a heavy velvet curtain, suffocating and complete. My mother, bless her heart, laughed awkwardly, a forced, strained sound that did nothing to alleviate the tension. Mr. Ashford, either oblivious or choosing to ignore the blatant hostility, simply kept eating, his gaze fixed on his plate. No one said a word. No one chastised Dante. No one told him to apologize. The unwritten rules of this house were already becoming terrifyingly clear.

Of course not.

Why would they? Dante Ashford was untouchable. He was the prince of this dark, opulent kingdom, and his word, his disdain, his cruelty, went unchallenged. He ruled this space, his power a silent, pervasive force. I was merely an unwelcome interloper, an insignificant speck in his grand, untouchable world. The realization settled over me, cold and heavy, a chilling premonition of the battles to come.