41

Giselle had taken extra care with her appearance, the idea of being beautiful for the evening made her excited for no reason. She looked forward to the drama on the dinner table. She descended slowly, her floral patterned dress rustling and sweeping against the steps.

Her hair was swept into a high ponytail that accentuated the line of her jaw. There was no hesitation in her stride, no downward cast of her eyes.

Richard was already standing near the sideboard, a glass of scotch in his hand. He froze as she entered the dining room. He was stunned to say the least. He had seen her beauty before, but this was different. This was regal. This was too much to take in.

Giselle didn't wait for him to pull out a chair. She marched to the end of the long table—the seat traditionally reserved for Chase—and pulled it back with a decisive scrape sound. She sat down, spreading her gown with the calm elegance of a queen.

"Good evening, Richard," she said, her voice smooth and cool.

Before Richard could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway. Chase appeared, still wearing his tennis whites, his face twisted in a lingering scowl. He stopped dead when he saw Giselle sitting in his chair.

"What the hell are you doing?" Chase barked, gesturing at the seat. "That’s my chair, Giselle. Move."

Giselle didn't even blink. She picked up the linen napkin and flicked it open across her lap. "Is it? I didn't see your name engraved on the wood, Chase. And frankly, the view from here is much better."

"Dad, tell her to move!" Chase snapped, looking at Richard.

Richard remained silent, his eyes fixed on Giselle. He was fascinated by the sheer audacity of her posture.

"Fine," Chase spat, his face flushing a deep, angry red. "If you want to play house by yourself, go ahead. I’m not having dinner with a lunatic. I’m going out."

He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, the front door slamming moments later.

Giselle didn't watch him go. She looked at Richard, who finally moved to his own seat at the opposite end of the table. He sat down heavily, his gaze searching her face.

"You've changed, Giselle," Richard said, his voice a low vibration in the quiet room. "The woman who left this house wouldn't have dared to breathe in that chair, let alone claim it. Why?"

Giselle offered him a small, chilling smile. "I learned from the best, Richard. I learned from you."

Richard’s brow furrowed. "How exactly did I teach you to be this... abrasive?"

"You taught me that power isn't given, it's taken," she replied. She reached for the water goblet, her movements fluid and precise. "You taught me that in this family, if you aren't the one holding the whip, you're the one being lashed. I’ve decided I don't care, Father-in-law."

"Is that what this is?" Richard asked, leaning forward. "A power play? Are you acting this way because of what happened? Because I rejected your... advances? Giselle, you need to understand—"

"Understand?" Giselle interrupted, her voice cutting through his. "Yes, I understand perfectly. I understand that I was foolish enough to look for warmth in the forbidden. I’ve forgiven myself for being so stupid, Richard. Truly. I’ve moved on from that lapse in judgment. I suggest you do the same, Father-in-Law."

Richard flinched at her tone. The "Father-in-law" at the end of her sentence felt like a slap. He was used to her being a soft, pleading thing; this cold side of hers was far more difficult to navigate. He felt a prickle of discomfort, an uncharacteristic loss of control, but he forced it down with a smile.

"Amelia!" Richard called out, his voice sharp. "Serve the dinner."

Amelia scurried in, placing plates of herb-crusted lamb and roasted vegetables before them. The clinking of silverware was the only sound for several minutes. Richard watched her eat—she was delicate, but there was an efficiency to her movements that hadn't been there before. she was almost a complete different human being, the happiness in her eyes were no longer there.

"Why do you keep triggering him?" Richard asked eventually, gesturing towards nothing in particular. "Aren't you scared that you might push him to do something rash? Chase has a temper, Giselle. You're playing a very dangerous game you know, I would not always be around to step in."

Giselle paused, a piece of lamb halfway to her mouth. She looked up, her eyes dark and unreadable. "Am I supposed to be scared of my beloved husband, Richard?"

The way she spat the words "beloved husband" made Richard shift in his seat. It sounded like a mockery of some sort.

"I didn't say that," Richard muttered. He did not know how to react

"Chase can't hurt me anymore," she said, setting her fork down. "He can yell, he can break things, he can bring his tawdry little flings into the guest room—it doesn't matter. I am no longer the willing doll he used to have. You can't break something that has already hardened to stone."

Richard looked at her, truly looked at her. The light from the candles glittered off the jewelry at her throat. "You are stunning tonight, Giselle. I'll give you that. The neckpiece suits you."

"I know I am already beautiful, Richard," she said, dismissing the compliment as if it were a weather report. "But for what it's worth, I am tired of being a beautiful stay-at-home wife. It’s a stagnant existence."

Richard raised an eyebrow. "And what do you suggest? A hobby? I believe the garden club is looking for members."

"I want a job," Giselle said flatly. "In the family business. The Hemingway Group."

Richard actually laughed, a short, disbelieving sound. "A job? Giselle, be serious. You have no experience in corporate acquisitions or international trade."

"The business is the only reason I am still married to your stupid son," she countered, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I am a part of this family, and I want a seat at the table where the real decisions are made. Not just the dinner table."

"Hemingway women are not allowed to work," Richard said, his voice regaining its granite-like authority. "It is a tradition. They need to be pretty, they need to host galas, and they need to let the men take care of them. You have everything you could ever want. Why complicate it?"

Giselle leaned over the table, her eyes locked onto his. "I am not a domestic animal, Richard. I am not a pet dog that needs to be adorned with fine things just to sit on a cushion and wait for a pat on the head. I have a degree that has been gathering dust while I was busy making sure Chase’s shirts were pressed. I want to work. I want a purpose that doesn't involve picking out flower arrangements."

Richard stared at her, caught between the urge to shut her down and a growing, dark fascination with her resolve. He had spent his life surrounded by "pretty" women who wanted nothing but his credit card. It made him wonder what had come over her really?

"I will think about it," he said finally.

Giselle didn't smile. She didn't thank him profusely. She simply nodded once and stood up, her gown cascading around her.

"Thank you," she said. She turned to leave the table, her plate still half-full.

"Won't you finish your dinner?" Richard asked, surprised. "We haven't even had the wine."

Giselle paused at a point, looking back over her shoulder. The light caught the sharp angle of her cheekbone.

"You need the food more than I do, Richard," she said coolly. "Eat. Perhaps the protein will help you think. I'd like a faster decision than usual."

She disappeared into the hallway, leaving Richard alone in the cavernous dining room. He looked at the empty chair at the end of the table, then at his own plate. He felt a strange, restless energy brew through his veins.

Richard felt belittled, like he was nothing, not even the most dangerous person in the room and it took the alluring audacity of this beautiful woman to make him feel that way.

He picked up his fork and tried to eat out of his plate but his appetite was gone. He was too busy wondering how he was going to handle Giselle.