My Girlfriend

Dahlia

After what happened, we were led to the main dining hall of the Hollis manor; it was built for intimidation.

Soaring double-height ceilings carved from dark, polished oak stretched overhead, anchored by a massive crystal chandelier that hung like a frozen waterfall. The light it cast was sharp and cold, gleaming off silver cutlery, hand-painted porcelain, and the dark mahogany table that could easily seat thirty people. Tonight, only four places were set.

I walked into the room with my arm looped through Rafe’s. Underneath the fine silk of my long-sleeved dark dress, my muscles were coiled tight. Beneath my hand, I could feel the rigid, unyielding tension in his forearm. We were presenting the image of a man and his fixated lover, but to anyone trained in body language, we looked like two predators locked in a high-wire negotiation, waiting to see who would slip first.

Sitting near the far end of the table was Orin Hollis, Rafe’s older brother. He had the same sharp, striking dark hair and aristocratic bone structure as Rafe, but none of Rafe’s terrifying composure. Where Rafe’s power was a still, suffocating weight, Orin’s was aggressive and sloppy. He sat slumped back in his leather chair, a crystal tumbler half-filled with dark amber liquor resting in his palm. His heavy-lidded eyes tracked us from the moment we crossed the threshold, settling on me with open, deliberate disdain.

"Well, well," Orin drawled, his voice carrying a bitter edge as he swirled the ice in his glass. "Look what swept in from the storm. Rafe, I see you’ve finally brought your latest distraction to dinner. Though calling her a distraction seems rather generous. She looks more like a private detective you picked up off the street corner."

I felt Rafe’s muscle flex beneath my fingers, but his posture didn't shift by a millimeter. He didn't pick up his pace, nor did he look at his brother.

"Mind your manners, Orin," Rafe said, his voice dropping into that flat, dangerous register that made the ambient noise in the room seem to die down. "Dahlia is my guest."

"Guest?" Orin let out a short, sharp bark of laughter that echoed off the mahogany paneling. "She’s been glued to your sleeve since you walked through the foyer, yet she hasn't looked you in the eyes once. What’s the matter, darling? Is the acting contract not paying enough for genuine eye contact, or are you just waiting for his wallet to fall out of his coat?"

He was probing, searching for a reaction, testing to see if the rumors of our sudden, intense attachment were real or manufactured.

I leaned slightly closer to Rafe, letting my hand slide down his arm until my fingers brushed the edge of his wrist in a small, deliberate gesture of possessiveness designed to look involuntary.

"Mr. Hollis," I said softly, addressing Orin with a slow, sweet smile that carried zero warmth. "When a woman is with a man like Rafe, she doesn't need to stare into his eyes constantly to know he's holding all the power in the room. Some of us prefer subtlety. Though I suppose, given your reputation, subtlety has never been a requirement for you."

Orin’s smirk vanished instantly. The color flared in his neck, his fingers tightening so hard around his crystal tumbler that I thought the glass might shatter. He opened his mouth to snap a response, his chest heaving, but the sound died in his throat.

A sharp, metallic click echoed through the vast room.

At the head of the table, Maelis Hollis had set her sterling silver fork down against the rim of her porcelain plate.

The small, mundane sound cut through the rising argument like a guillotine. Absolute silence descended on the hall. Even Orin shut his mouth, instantly sitting up straighter and setting his glass back onto the white linen tablecloth.

Maelis in her late seventies. Wrapped in a high-collared black velvet gown, her silver hair pulled back into an immaculate, unforgiving chignon, she looked like she had been sculpted from solid marble. Her face was lined with age, but there was no softness in those lines—only decades of cold authority and absolute rule.

Slowly, deliberately, her pale grey eyes drifted across the table and locked onto me.

It was like being pinned beneath a microscope. She didn't judge my clothes, my posture, or my jewels. She studied the structure of my face—the curve of my cheekbones, the shape of my chin, the exact arch of my brows. She examined me with a cold, terrifying intensity, like an executioner double-checking the height of the blade.

Seconds stretched into an agonizing eternity. The clock in the corner ticked with heavy, hollow thuds. My pulse began to thunder against my ribs, but I kept my chin level, refusing to break her stare. I was a professional. I had faced down powerful men, corrupt executives, and furious spouses. But the sheer revulsion burning beneath Maelis’s clear grey eyes made the blood run cold in my veins.

Maelis slowly raised one trembling, diamond-encrusted hand, resting her knuckles against the white linen. The color drained entirely from her thin lips, leaving her face pale as bone.

"You," Maelis whispered.

Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried a brittle, razor-sharp chill that sliced right through the warm air of the dining room.

I froze, my fingers tightening on Rafe’s sleeve before I could stop myself.

"Grandmother," Rafe began smoothly, shifting his weight to step half an inch in front of me, shielding my frame. "This is Dahlia Mercer—"

"Be quiet, Rafe," Maelis cut him off without altering her tone. Her authority was absolute, carved from decades of ruling this family with an iron fist.

Her unblinking eyes remained riveted to my face. The hatred in her expression wasn't fresh; it was old, deeply rooted, and sickeningly violent.

She stood up slowly, her frail frame rigid, her knuckles pressing heavily into the edge of the mahogany table to steady herself. The heavy velvet of her gown rustled against the floorboards like dry leaves.

"You look exactly like someone I hoped never to see again," Maelis whispered.

A heavy, suffocating silence settled over the room. Orin stared at his grandmother in genuine shock, his jaw slightly slack. Rafe beside me went completely, unnaturally still.

My mind raced through a hundred possibilities, pulling at every fragment of information I possessed, but my secret motivation remained locked away behind my composure. I didn't show my hand. I didn't break character.

"I'm afraid you must be mistaken, Mrs. Hollis," I said softly, keeping my voice smooth, respectful, and entirely blank. "I’ve never had the privilege of stepping foot on this estate before today."

Maelian offered no answer or an explanation, a name, or an apology. She simply turned her back on us and walked out of the dining hall, the heavy doors closing behind her with a definitive, echoing thud.