Chapter 6: Dinner with the In-Laws

The crystal chandelier hanging over the center of the private dining room at L’Argent hummed with a quiet, expensive opulence. Waiters in white gloves glided across the plush velvet carpet, pouring sparkling water into crystal stems while the muted sounds of the city's elite hummed in the background.

Celin sat trapped between her father, Aaron Ventura, and a wall of suffocating high-society expectations. She wore a silk emerald dress her mother had practically forced her into—a far cry from her comfortable studio flannels. Across the mahogany table sat her mother, Norma, looking like a portrait of cold elegance, positioned perfectly next to Ingrid’s parents, Baron and Baroness Bergman.

And right beside Celin sat her wife.

"The merger between our shipping logistics and your family's steel foundries is moving seamlessly, Baron," Aaron Ventura boomed, raising his wine glass with an aggressive, predatory grin. He turned his heavy, calculating gaze onto Celin and Ingrid. "But of course, the real crown jewel of this venture is the beautiful union of our daughters. Look at them. A perfect match."

Celin felt a sudden spike of nausea. She tightly gripped her linen napkin beneath the table line.

"Indeed," Baroness Bergman agreed, her sharp, aristocratic eyes sliding over Celin like a microscope checking for imperfections. "Though I must admit, Ingrid, we were quite surprised by the suddenness of it all. You have always been entirely married to your tenure. To hear you had eloped over a weekend with young Celin... it was quite uncharacteristic."

The table went completely still. Celin froze, her breath catching in her throat. She looked at her plate, her mind racing. If either family suspected for a split second that this marriage was nothing more than a legal transaction to clear her inheritance and bail out the Bergman manufacturing wing, the contract would be voided instantly.

Before Celin could stammer out a forced excuse, a warm, slender hand slid smoothly over hers on top of the mahogany table.

Celin blinked, her eyes flying wide as Ingrid’s long, cool fingers gracefully intertwined with her own. Ingrid didn't just touch her hand; she squeezed it gently, her thumb tracing a slow, reassuring stroke across the back of Celin's knuckles. The heat of Ingrid's palm was a stark contrast to the freezing atmosphere of the room.

"When you find a structural blueprint that is entirely flawless, Mother, you don't delay the construction," Ingrid said, her low, smooth voice completely commanding the table's attention. She turned her head toward Celin, her severe facial features softening into an expression that looked so entirely, deeply tender it made Celin’s heart execute a violent, confused thud. "Celin’s mind is brilliant. The moment we began discussing our shared passions, I knew a traditional, prolonged engagement would simply be a waste of time. I wanted her as my wife immediately."

Celin’s jaw nearly dropped. Ingrid was delivering the performance of a lifetime. The absolute warmth radiating from her hazel eyes was so incredibly convincing that Celin felt a dizzying rush of heat rise straight to her cheeks.

"Is that so?" Norma Ventura mused, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips as she watched Ingrid trace circles on Celin's hand. "Well, Celin has always been stubborn. It’s comforting to see she has finally met someone who can match her intensity. You two seem exceptionally close."

"We are," Ingrid murmured, her gaze lingering on Celin for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before she looked back at the parents. "In fact, our domestic life has been entirely harmonious. Celin inspires me."

Celin swallowed hard, forcing her vocal cords to work as she squeezed Ingrid's hand back, leaning into the lie. "Yes. Ingrid is... incredibly supportive. I couldn't ask for a better partner to help me navigate my final thesis year."

"Good, good," Aaron Ventura laughed, clearly satisfied that his business alliance was secure. He launched into a lengthy discussion about real estate valuations, drawing the attention of the older Bergmans back into the realm of corporate strategy.

The moment the parents' attention shifted, Celin let out a slow, shaky breath. She tried to subtly pull her hand back, expecting Ingrid to immediately drop the touch now that the immediate threat of suspicion had passed.

Instead, Ingrid’s fingers tightened slightly, holding Celin’s hand firmly in place on the table.

Celin shot her a sharp, questioning look. Ingrid didn't turn her head, continuing to look straight ahead at her father, but her thumb kept up that steady, slow, rhythmic stroke against Celin's skin. It was grounding, warm, and entirely confusing. Was she still faking for the sake of the room, or was something else shifting beneath the surface?

The dinner progressed through five agonizingly long courses. Throughout it all, Ingrid maintained the physical connection, her hand never leaving Celin's. When Celin reached for her wine glass, Ingrid's touch would shift to her forearm, or her knee would lightly brush against Celin's beneath the table, keeping up the flawless illusion of a deeply affectionate, coordinated couple.

By the time the final billing was settled and the families stood up to leave, Celin felt completely overwhelmed. Her skin felt hyper-sensitive everywhere Ingrid had touched her.

"We will take our own vehicle," Ingrid announced smoothly as they stood under the velvet canopy of the restaurant's valet entrance, the cool night air hitting them. "Celin has a long night of drafting ahead of her, and I have lectures to prepare."

"Of course," Baroness Bergman nodded, kissing Ingrid’s cheek coldly before stepping into a waiting limousine. "Don't be strangers, children."

The moment both of their families' luxury cars pulled away into the city traffic, the heavy silence of the night settled over them.

Ingrid immediately released her hold on Celin's waist, stepping back. The soft, tender expression that had warmed her hazel eyes all evening vanished instantly, replaced by her familiar, impenetrable wall of clinical professional indifference. She walked toward her matte-black sedan, her heels clicking sharply against the wet pavement.

Celin stood under the canopy for a second, feeling a sudden, strange chill where Ingrid’s warmth had been just moments prior. The whiplash was dizzying.

She walked over to the passenger side, sliding into the leather seat as Ingrid started the engine. The car pulled out into the street, the silent city streets flashing past them.

"You performed well tonight, Celin," Ingrid said quietly, her eyes focused entirely on the road ahead. "Your family observed no anomalies. The contract remains secure."

Celin leaned her head against the headrest, staring at the glowing dashboard. "You're really good at that," she whispered, her voice laced with a trace of exhaustion and frustration. "The hand-holding. The way you looked at me. For a second, I almost forgot you completely destroyed my layouts on Monday morning."

Ingrid’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. She didn't look at Celin, her profile sharp and unreadable in the dark interior of the car. "It was necessary for the survival of our arrangement. If we do not project absolute certainty, they will dissect us. Do not confuse the execution of a strategy with reality, Miss Ventura."

Miss Ventura. The formal name felt like a slap after hours of being called her wife.

"Right," Celin muttered, turning her gaze back out to the dark window. "Strategy. I'll remember that next time."

As the sedan glided toward the downtown penthouse, Celin looked down at her bare fingers, still feeling the phantom warmth of Ingrid’s hand locked in hers. The lines between the contract and reality were supposed to be perfectly clear, but as they pulled into the secure underground garage, Celin realized the boundaries were becoming dangerously blurred.