CHAPTER 5 - QUESTIONS AT THE TABLE

The Lambert residence was everything one expected it to be.

Old money elegance. Tall windows draped in soft ivory fabric. Crystal glasses catching the light like frozen stars. The kind of home where nothing was ever out of place, and nothing was ever spoken without intention—or overheard without consequence.

Elara sat beside Adrian at the long dining table, her posture perfect, her smile measured. The black dress shimmered subtly beneath the chandelier, its open back catching the light as surely as it caught attention. She felt the air against her skin constantly, a reminder of exposure she could not escape.

Mara stood a few steps behind them, near the wall, blending into the room the way professionals were trained to do. Her gaze moved calmly—noting posture, exits, the subtle shifts in body language. She was close enough to hear, far enough to be invisible.

Dinner had already been served when the conversation split naturally down familiar lines.

Adrian and Robert leaned slightly toward one another, voices low but animated.

“I still think the next election cycle is going to surprise people,” Robert said, cutting into his steak. “Too many are underestimating the backlash.”

Adrian nodded thoughtfully. “Public sentiment shifts faster than policy. Markets react to fear long before facts.”

“Exactly,” Robert agreed. “That’s why diversification is essential right now. Energy, defense, infrastructure—those sectors don’t suffer during instability.”

Adrian smiled faintly. “They benefit from it.”

Their words were smooth, confident. Men accustomed to shaping outcomes rather than reacting to them.

Across the table, Vivienne Lambert turned her attention to Elara.

“My dear,” she said warmly, her smile practiced, “that dress is absolutely stunning on you. Black suits you.”

“Thank you,” Elara replied softly.

“And your gallery,” Vivienne continued. “Adrian mentioned it’s doing quite well.”

Elara nodded. “It’s… progressing.”

“I’ve always admired women who pursue the arts,” Vivienne said. “It’s such a delicate field. So emotional.”

“Yes,” Elara agreed.

Vivienne tilted her head. “Are you still curating it yourself?”

“I am,” Elara said. “With some guidance.”

She felt Adrian’s hand rest briefly on her knee beneath the table. Not a squeeze. Just pressure. A reminder.

Vivienne smiled indulgently. “You’re so lucky to have a husband who supports your passions.”

Elara smiled back. “I am.”

Mara watched the exchange carefully. The way Elara’s shoulders never fully relaxed. The way her smile never quite reached her eyes.

Then Vivienne leaned back slightly in her chair, fingers brushing the edge of her glass, her smile steady, her tone light, almost playful.

“So,” she said, “when can we expect little footsteps in your beautiful home?”

The table stilled.

Just for a moment.

Elara felt it immediately—the tightening in her chest, the sudden heat beneath her skin. Adrian’s hand withdrew from her knee, and a faint shiver ran through her despite herself.

“Well,” Vivienne said, smiling warming, her tone light and unassuming, “you’ve been married nearly five years now, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Adrian replied smoothly, speaking before Elara could respond.

“And Elara is still so young,” Vivienne continued, her eyes bright, “but time does move quickly.”

Robert chuckled. “Especially when you’re enjoying married life.”

There was a pause.

Images collided in Elara’s mind: the quiet, narrow hallways of Ashcombe, each house holding just six children, and a small boy with wide eyes waving goodbye far too bravely—her little brother.

Noah.

He was eight. Too young for Ashcombe. Too young to be away from the only family he had left.

Adrian had insisted it was for stability. For education. For structure.

He’ll be better there, Adrian had said.

Elara’s smile stayed in place, but her chest tightened anyway. She had nodded, agreed, obeyed—but in her mind, his small hand waved goodbye, braver than it had any right to be. And the ache of it pressed against her ribs, quiet but relentless.

“We do have Noah,” Vivienne said, as though remembering something pleasant. “Your brother, dear. Such a sweet boy.”

Adrian’s jaw tightened imperceptibly.

“Yes,” Elara said quickly. “Noah is still very young.”

“But surely,” Mrs. Lambert pressed, “you and Adrian have discussed having one of your own?”

The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate.

Adrian’s eyes held hers.

Waiting.

Elara felt the weight of it—the unspoken expectation, the invisible rules pressing down. Her fingers tightened in her lap. She forced herself to breathe.

“I’m still young,” Elara said at last, her voice gentle, rehearsed. “And I’d like to enjoy this time with Adrian first. Just us.”

She turned toward him as she spoke, eyes scanning his face for even the smallest sign of approval. Her fingers flexed lightly against the tablecloth.

Adrian’s lips curved into a small, composed smile.

“There’s no rush,” he said. “We’re very happy as we are.”

Relief washed through the table, subtle but undeniable. Elara’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly, a quiet release she didn’t allow herself to notice.

Mrs. Lambert inclined her head approvingly, her smile warm. “Of course. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Mara observed carefully, noting the way Elara exhaled slowly, as though she’d been holding her breath far too long. The tight line of Adrian’s jaw softened just slightly in her presence.

***

The drive home was quiet.

Too quiet.

The city lights blurred past the windows as the car moved smoothly through the night. Elara sat beside Adrian in the back seat, hands folded tightly in her lap. She stared straight ahead, her reflection ghosted in the glass.

Adrian’s jaw was tight, his posture rigid. He said nothing, and the silence pressed against her chest. The memory of Vivienne’s words lingered—the questions about children, the subtle expectation in her tone.

Mara sat in the front passenger seat, gaze forward, senses sharp. She didn’t need to turn to feel the shift between the couple. Fear had a texture. So did tension.

Elara flinched when Adrian shifted slightly in his seat, the movement deliberate, almost controlled. She kept her hands clasped, heart tightening.

Mara noted it instantly, cataloging the unease, storing it. Something had passed between them at the table, something unspoken. She didn’t need to know the details to recognize its weight.

The ride continued, smooth and silent, the air between the three taut as a wire.

They arrived home without a word spoken.

Inside the penthouse, Adrian removed his jacket, handing it off to no one—staff had already retired for the night. The space felt larger now. Emptier.

“Ms. Quinn,” Adrian said, voice low and precise. “Step back for the night. Resume your assignment first thing tomorrow.”

Mara inclined her head, expression neutral. “Yes, sir.”

Elara stood a few feet behind him, eyes downcast, fingers twisting together. Mara noted the posture without comment—an instinct she couldn’t ignore.

The city outside the windows pulsed quietly, mirrored in Mara’s calm, calculating eyes and Elara’s tense reflection. The penthouse was silent except for their measured breaths. Mara filed every subtle detail away, preparing herself for the next day.

“Good night, Mr. and Mrs. Cross,” she said, her tone professional, unwavering.

Elara didn’t look up.

As Mara stepped into the elevator, unease settled heavy in her chest. She told herself she was overanalyzing. She had no evidence. No authority.

But her instincts were loud.

The doors closed.

Mara stood in the quiet of the elevator, jaw tight. She replayed the evening in her mind: the question at the table, the silence, the way Elara had shrunk inward, the way Adrian’s control tightened when it was challenged—even indirectly.

By the time the elevator reached the ground floor, Mara knew one thing: whatever happened behind that penthouse door tonight, Elara would face it alone.

That didn’t sit right.

She exited the elevator, shoulders squared, already counting the hours until morning.