Chapter Eight

I finally finished pulling on a pair of simple dark jeans and a cozy, oversized cream sweater. It was basic, comfortable, and most importantly, it covered every single inch of my skin. After checking the hallway to ensure the coast was entirely clear, I braced myself and walked downstairs.

When I stepped into the bright, sunlit breakfast room, the contrast was jarring. My mom, James, and Christian were already seated around a smaller, round marble table.

My mother looked like she had lived in this world of extreme wealth for ages. She belonged so swiftly, draped in a silk robe, sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup, and laughing softly at something James was saying.

The moment she sighted me, her face lit up. "Darling! Good morning!"

"Good morning," I murmured, keeping my voice steady as I navigated the room, deliberately keeping my eyes off the towering figure sitting to her left.

"Look at you, sleeping in," my mom teased, a playful grin on her face. "I guess you're already getting used to the luxury of this place since you woke up so late. Usually, you’re up by seven."

"The bed was just really comfortable," I lied smoothly, pulling out a chair across from James.

"I'm glad to hear it," James said warmly, setting down his newspaper and offering me a kind smile. "How was your first night under our roof, Hattie? I hope everything was to your liking."

A bitter, sarcastic laugh immediately erupted in my head. My first night? Oh, it was spectacular, James. If you don't count your son blackmaling me into a party at dinner, cornering me outside my bedroom doors to call himself my new 'daddy,' or using a master key to invade my space and watch me stand completely naked in my own room this morning.

I could literally imagine the look of absolute horror on my mother's face and the pure shock on James's if I actually let those words slip past my teeth. I wanted so badly to throw a sharp, biting taunt right across the table. I wanted to look James dead in the eye and say, 'Your son is a pervert who just complimented my chest.'

Instead, I gripped my cloth napkin tightly under the table, forcing my well-trained facade of perfect behavior back into place.

"It was very quiet, thank you," I said, offering James a polite, practiced smile. "I slept perfectly."

From across the table, a low, barely audible chuckle rumbled through the air.

I didn't even have to look up to know that Christian was staring at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the wicked, mocking smirk stretching across his face as he casually cut into his breakfast, completely amused by how easily I was hiding the truth behind my good girl routine.

“And what about you, Christian?” my mom asked, turning her bright, eager smile toward him. She leaned forward, her jewelry clinking softly against her porcelain cup as she adopted a teasing tone. “How was your night? I hope Hattie wasn’t a loud snorer, considering your rooms are directly opposite each other.”

I nearly choked on my own saliva. My eyes snapped open wide, and I stiffened in my chair, my fork hovering dangerously close to my plate. Are you serious, Mom? Of all the things she could have brought up, she had to talk about the proximity of our bedrooms.

Christian slowly set his knife down against the marble table with a quiet, deliberate click. He leaned back in his chair, draping an arm lazily over the back of it as those deadly, dark sea-blue eyes shifted from my mother straight onto me.

The mocking smirk on his face widened, full of a wicked, private amusement that made my blood run entirely hot.

“Oh, no, Chanelle, don’t worry. She was perfectly quiet,” Christian murmured, his deep, rumbling voice dripping with a lazy charm that sent an unwanted shiver down my spine. He kept his piercing gaze locked dead onto my flushed face, his eyes glinting with the memory of what had actually happened just twenty minutes ago. “In fact, I barely even noticed she was there until this morning. She’s surprisingly... viewable.”

I gripped the edge of the marble table so hard my knuckles turned completely white. He was doing it on purpose, walking a razor-thin line between a normal conversation and a blatant, perverted taunt right in front of our parents.

"See? I told you he’s a gentleman," my mom gushed, completely missing the dangerous undertone as she patted James's hand happily. "They're going to be the perfect siblings."

"Glad to hear it, son," James chimed in, completely oblivious as he folded his newspaper. "I'm happy you two are already adjusting."

Underneath the table, I kicked Christian's shin as hard as I possibly could. My sneaker connected with his solid, muscular leg with a dull thud.

Christian didn't even flinch. He didn't even blink. Instead, his smirk only deepened, and he slowly reached for his glass of orange juice, raising it slightly in my direction like a silent, mocking toast.

Breakfast couldn’t end fast enough. The second the plates were cleared, I practically bolted from the table, offering a quick, rushed excuse about wanting to finish setting up my space before the day slipped away.

Safely back inside my bedroom, I spent the next few hours aggressively unpacking. I put away every single article of clothing, organized my textbooks in perfect, neat rows on the built-in shelves, and deliberately pushed the erotic paperback he had read out loud into the absolute deepest, darkest corner of my nightstand drawer.

Time flew by, and the bright morning sun eventually dissolved into a moody, deep amber evening. The shadows of the cypress trees outside lengthened, stretching across my bedroom floor.

At exactly seven forty-five, a heavy, confident knock sounded against my door.

My stomach dropped instantly. I walked over and pulled it open just a crack, hiding behind the solid wood. Christian was standing out in the hallway. He had swapped his casual clothes for a clean, dark designer jacket that made his broad shoulders look even wider, and his messy, jet-black hair was perfectly styled.

"You ready?" he asked, his deep voice smooth as he leaned one hand against the wall above my head.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Ready for what?"

"The party, Snow," he said, tilting his head with a slow, impatient raise of his brow. "It's almost eight."

"I'm not going," I stated flatly, trying to sound as unmoving as possible. "I already told you last night and at breakfast. I don’t like tight spaces, I don't like loud crowds, and I have a ton of prep reading to do."

Christian didn't argue. He didn't even look angry. Instead, a dangerous, knowing glint flared in his eyes.

He slowly turned his head toward the massive stairwell at the end of the corridor.

"Dad! Chanelle!!” Christian shouted, his deep voice booming effortlessly through the quiet hallway.

My eyes went wide with sheer panic. I reached out, grabbing his forearm to stop him. "What are you doing?!"

"Just informing them that you're changing your mind," he murmured down at me, his mouth pulling into that signature, wicked smirk. He didn't look down at my hand on his arm, but I could feel the muscle beneath his skin tighten. "I'm sure Chanelle would love to come up here and help you handle your... anxiety. Or maybe my dad can explain to you again how the maids already did all your heavy lifting."

"Stop it!" I hissed, frantically looking down the empty hall to see if anyone was coming. He was weaponizing my mother's desperation for a perfect family against me, and he knew exactly how much I hated causing a scene.

"Are you going to get dressed," Christian whispered, leaning down just enough so his cold, minty breath brushed against my cheek, "or do I need to call them up here to help you choose an outfit?"

I rolled my eyes so hard it physically hurt, a heavy, defeated groan escaping my lips. He had won. Again. He knew exactly which buttons to push, and the thought of my mother fluttering into my room with her anxious, overly eager energy was enough to drive me insane.

"Fine!" I snapped in a harsh whisper, forcefully ripping my hand away from his solid forearm. "Stop yelling. I'm going."

Christian’s smirk widened, victorious and entirely wicked. He slowly leaned back against the wall, crossing his massive arms over his chest as he looked down at me. "Good choice, Snow. I hate being kept waiting."