Chapter 7 Callous Desires 

Tim just stood there, his striking, handsome face unreadable, yet his eyes, those piercing, mesmerising brown eyes, seemed to press down on Ethan like he was peeling back each layer of Ethan’s shielded heart. Silence stretched tight for a beat, strained with something left unsaid. Ethan parted his lips to speak, but Tim beat him to it.

With a sudden softness, Tim’s gaze eased. A smile curved across his lips that kind of smile that disarmed, that melted tension without permission, that carried both warmth and danger. Placing a hand lightly against his chest, he said, his voice velvet-smooth,

“Oh… I’m only teasing. Forgive me. I was held up a little longer than I intended.”

Chloe exhaled so sharply it sounded like relief. “Oh, it’s nothing, Mr Dorian!” she gushed, waving her hand dramatically before pointing an accusing finger at her brother. “My brother here can just be a little… edgy sometimes.” She gave Ethan a playful jab in the side.

Tim chuckled low, almost under his breath. “I can tell.”

Ethan’s eyebrow arched, sharp as a blade. But he held his tongue, hiding the retort on the tip of his tongue.

“This way, please,” Tim said, turning smoothly. He led them down a side corridor where the chaos of the event faded into velvet-lined quiet. A private dining room became available — low chandeliers dripping gold, a mahogany table that ran long with crystal glasses, fine china, and plates so elegantly set they seemed painted on. Candles flickered, casting warmth onto white walls that were lined with framed sketches of past fashion collections. Intimate, exclusive — a room meant to strip away the noise of the outside world.

Like the gentleman he was raised to be, Tim pulled out Chloe’s chair first. She blushed furiously, her ginger curls bouncing as she sank into the seat. She turned toward Ethan with wide eyes, mouthing a silent Can you believe this is happening?! Ethan responded with a slow eye roll, though his lips twitched — the faintest threat of a smile.

Once they were all seated, a waiter entered. He bowed slightly to Tim, then to the guests, before signalling the arrival of the courses. Silver cloches were lifted in unison to reveal dishes — pan-seared scallops over saffron risotto, roasted duck glazed with honey, truffle-drizzled vegetables, and a dessert tray promising chocolate soufflé to follow.

“Chef Ford, ladies and gentlemen,” Tim said with a gracious nod toward the chef, who appeared briefly in the doorway, proud but humble.

“Bon appétit,” the waiter said before retreating, leaving the trio in candlelit silence.

For a moment, the only sounds were the clink of cutlery against porcelain, the faint strains of music drifting from somewhere far beyond the doors. Chloe, starstruck beyond belief, had suddenly lost her voice. The woman who had screamed Tim’s name in front of hundreds was now reduced to nervous glances at her plate, her cheeks crimson.

Ethan, on the other hand, ate in silence — deliberate, restrained. Yet, despite himself, his eyes betrayed him. Every so often, they flicked up toward Tim. Toward the way the soft glow of the candles traced his cheekbones. Toward the effortless poise in the way he held his fork.

And Tim noticed. Oh, he noticed.

A smile ghosted across his lips, barely-there, meant for no one to catch — except Ethan did. And when their eyes met, only for a fleeting heartbeat, the air between them shifted.

Tim pretended not to. Ethan pretended not to, but both of them knew.

Unknown to Chloe, who was still trying not to hyperventilate in her chair, and to Ethan, who kept his expression stoic as ever, this dinner had never been about chance.

It was a move — a calculated strike in a game of revenge Timothy Hemsworth Dorian had been writing in his heart for fifteen long years.

Every detail tonight — their invitation, their placement at the fashion hub, even this so-called “lucky draw” — was no stroke of luck. It was written in his book of vengeance, a carefully laid thread in the web he had spun for the Wellmans.

For years, Tim had studied them. He had their photos, their habits, their movements, all neatly documented by the investigator he kept on retainer. He knew Madison Wellman’s favourite wine. He knew her daughters’ scandals, their shallow attempts at attention. He knew which political rooms she wanted Ethan in, which donors she charmed with her ruthless smile.

And more than that, Tim knew her weakness.

It wasn’t her image. It wasn’t her reputation. No, it was Ethan Wellman. Her only son. The golden boy. The heir. The winning card she clutched to her chest like her own crown jewel.

And so Tim had resolved long ago that he would strike through him.

Ethan would be the instrument of her undoing.

But what Tim hadn’t prepared for, what shook him now as he sat across the candlelit table, was the reality of the man in question. Because Ethan Wellman in photographs had been impressive. Ethan Wellman's reports had been promising, but Ethan Wellman in person was devastating.

Tall, broad-shouldered, ocean-eyed. Masculine in every sense, but with a softness buried beneath, revealed only in the way his gaze flickered when he thought no one noticed. His jet-black hair curled naturally, tamed yet untamed in a way that made Tim’s fingers itch with a thought he shouldn’t be thinking. His lips parted gently each time he raised his fork, and Tim found himself noticing — noticing too much.

And damn it all, Ethan was exactly his type.

Tim caught himself, fingers tightening subtly around the stem of his glass. No. He refused to indulge in that thought. He reminded himself that this man was not just anyone. He was the blood of the witch. The son of the woman who had destroyed his family, who had left his mother coughing her life away in a roach-infested flat while the world spat on her name.

Ethan Wellman was the child of his enemy.

So Tim lifted his chin, smoothed his expression into the perfect mask, and reminded himself of his vow that no matter what flickered in his chest tonight, no matter how arresting those blue eyes might be, no matter how dangerous this attraction was beginning to feel.

He would not waver because this wasn’t romance. This was war, and Ethan Wellman… would be his greatest weapon.

“Your collections are absolutely breathtaking! Beautiful and divine,” Chloe said, her voice bubbling with delight, her eyes wide with admiration. The words spilt out of her before she could catch them, snapping Tim from the thoughts that had been swirling quietly in the back of his mind.

Tim shifted his gaze toward her, the corners of his lips curving into a polite smile. “Oh? Thank you. I’m glad someone likes them.” His tone was measured, soft, yet carried that velvety richness that drew people in without effort.

“Like them?” Chloe blurted out, her hands flying up in disbelief. “Hell no. I love them.” Her grin stretched wider, cheeks flushed with excitement. “I’ve been following your work for years now. You’re an inspiration to young designers everywhere, Mr Dorian.”

Tim chuckled lowly, reaching for his glass of wine. He swirled the ruby liquid with a casual elegance, the flickering candlelight catching the facets of his ring as he lifted the glass. “Really now?” he asked, arching one perfectly groomed brow as he took a sip, his gaze never quite leaving her face.

Chloe nodded eagerly, leaning forward as though sharing a secret. “Yes, Mr Dorian. Look at what you’ve achieved in just five years! The tabloids said you launched your career practically in your teens and officially debuted at twenty. And now?” She sighed dreamily. “Now you’re a phenomenon. A fashion god walking among mortals.”

At her last words, Ethan let out a quiet scoff, sharp enough to cut through the glow of Chloe’s praise. He masked it with a sip of his drink, but not before Chloe’s head whipped toward him, her eyes narrowing into a glare.

“Ethan,” she hissed under her breath, clearly mortified.

Tim noticed the exchange. He noticed everything. But instead of bristling, a smile tugged at his mouth, subtle and deliberate, as if the small disruption amused him. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, rich, smooth as velvet, filling the intimate space between them.

“Firstly, Chloe,” Tim said gently, his tone tinged with warmth, “you must call me Tim. Mr Dorian is far too stiff, something I reserve only for my formal partners in business.”

Chloe’s eyes lit up, as if he had just given her a gift she’d been longing for. “Tim,” she whispered, savouring the sound of his name on her tongue. Her cheeks bloomed with colour, and she leaned back into her chair, beaming like she’d been personally blessed.

Tim chuckled internally, the sound silent but alive in his chest. Adorable, he thought, studying her earnest expression. Innocent. Uncomplicated. A reminder of how easily people gave themselves over to charm.

“And secondly,” Tim continued, setting his glass down with a delicate clink, his beautiful smile unfurling slowly like a secret revealed, “I don’t know about being called a god.” His gaze softened, though there was a glimmer of something hidden behind it. “I do what I can, nothing more.”

For a moment, the table was bathed in quiet admiration — Chloe’s face radiant with unshaken awe, Ethan’s silence sharp as a blade waiting to strike, and Tim sitting poised between them, carrying the ease of a man who wore masks as naturally as breath.

Then, before Chloe could open her mouth again, Ethan’s thick, manly voice cut through the air like a blade.

“Pain.”

The word hung there, heavy, echoing louder than the music that floated faintly in from the ballroom outside.

Both Tim and Chloe snapped their eyes to him. Ethan sat casually, wiping the corner of his mouth with his napkin, but his gaze, steady, unblinking, was locked onto Tim.

Tim’s brow arched, his expression still unreadable, though intrigue flickered in his eyes. “Excuse me?” he asked, his voice calm, rich, threaded with just enough curiosity to mask the sharpened edge beneath.

Ethan didn’t falter. He lifted his glass, swirling the wine lazily before repeating, “Pain. Or perhaps… sadness.”

Chloe turned to her brother in disbelief, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “Ethan! What are you even saying?”

He ignored her, leaning back in his chair with an almost smug ease, still holding Tim’s gaze. “Your collections, Mr Dorian,” Ethan said, his voice smooth but laced with something that dared Tim to challenge him.

Tim let the formality linger for a beat before replying, “And what about my collections, Mr Wellman?” His words rolled out slowly, deliberately, a test of their own.

Ethan’s lips tugged into a smirk. “At least the ones I saw tonight… they tell a story, don’t they? It’s like you’re trying to speak to the audience—not with words, but with every thread, every stitch.”

Tim shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other with elegance, his gaze never wavering. For the first time that evening, something sharpened behind his charming smile. “Go on,” he said, voice softer now, almost coaxing.

Ethan leaned forward slightly, his ocean-blue eyes glinting under the warm light. “And all I could feel from those pieces was pain. An emotion that runs deep. One would think you were designing not for the living… but for the lost.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Chloe gasped and snapped, “Ethan!” Her cheeks burned red with embarrassment. “That’s rude. Apologise—right now!” She glared at him furiously through gritted teeth.

But Tim… Tim didn’t flinch. He simply kept his gaze locked on Ethan, a faint smile playing on his lips, as though the words had only confirmed something he already knew. Because Ethan was right. And what impressed Tim, though he’d never admit it, was that only someone with a keen, restless mind could cut through the glamour and see the story sewn beneath the fabric.

Still, Tim wasn’t about to let Ethan think he was the only one who knew how to read a room. If Ethan wanted to play this game, Tim would show him who set the rules.

Tim leaned back slightly, turning his face toward Chloe but keeping his eyes pinned on Ethan, the weight of his stare almost a challenge. “It’s fine,” Tim said, his voice calm as velvet. “Everyone is entitled to their opinion. And I see here that your brother has a critic’s eye.” He raised a hand gently, as though dismissing the tension. “I don’t take comments lightly. In fact, I welcome them.”

Then, shifting ever so slightly, his tone dropped into something more personal, something pointed. “But the truth is, Mr Wellman… most times, we don’t see things as they are.” Tim’s smile deepened, his gaze boring into Ethan’s. “We see them as we are. We project. When certain emotions grow too heavy, too unbearable, we cling to whatever reflects them back to us. Art. Music. Fashion.”

He leaned forward now, elbows resting gently on the table, his eyes locked onto Ethan’s like he was peeling him open. “So, if what you saw tonight was pain, or loss…” His words slowed, deliberate, as though meant only for Ethan. “…perhaps it isn’t my work you’re seeing. Perhaps it’s a mirror. Perhaps you feel lost. Or trapped in a world you can’t fully belong to. Constricted by your own fears. Or worse…” Tim paused, letting the silence slice the air before finishing, “…the guilt of hurting someone you love.”

The words struck like thunder. Chloe’s eyes darted between them, stunned, the tension wrapping around the table until it was almost unbearable.

“How dare you?” Ethan barked suddenly, his voice louder, sharper, his composure cracking for the first time that night. His fists clenched against the tablecloth, knuckles whitening.

Tim, however, remained perfectly composed. That same infuriating smile lingered on his lips, his posture unshaken. He looked at Ethan with the calm of a man who knew he had just tugged at the wrong thread and enjoyed watching it unravel.

Inside, something dangerous stirred in Tim. Oh, I am going to have fun with you, Ethan Wellman.