Chapter 13: Power Display
The jade charm felt like a heartbeat against Leila’s skin, a cool, secret rhythm beneath the heavy brocade of her new dress. It was crimson, the color of wedding garments, and too formal for a simple maid. Yet here she was, being guided not to the servants’ entrance at the back of the grand banquet hall, but to the main double doors, Ron’s hand a firm brand on the small of her back.
The hall was a vision of terrifying opulence. Dragon motifs coiled up black lacquer columns. The chandelier was a fractured constellation of light, casting prismatic shards over the assembled elite of Shanghai. The air was a thick soup of sandalwood, star anise, expensive perfume, and the greasy, rich scent of roast duck and abalone. A low, polite murmur hummed beneath the classical guzheng music, a sound that died abruptly as Ron entered with Leila at his side.
Every head turned. Silk gowns rustled. Glasses paused mid-sip.
Ron ignored them all. He led her straight to the head table, raised on a shallow dais. His brother Feng was there with his wife Yi, who offered Leila a small, tense smile. The Second Tai-tai, Feng’s mother, sat rigidly, her eyes like chips of flint as they raked over Leila’s dress, her hair, the emerald fire on her finger.
Ron pulled out the chair to his immediate right. Not a seat further down. The place of honor.
A shocked whisper rippled through the crowd, louder than the music.
“Sit,” Ron said, his voice a quiet command meant only for her.
Leila sat, her body stiff. She felt like a vase placed on a pedestal, beautiful but utterly exposed, waiting for someone to knock her over. The table was a landscape of porcelain and gold. She kept her hands folded in her lap, clutching the jade charm through the fabric.
The banquet began. Speeches were made. Toasts to family, to prosperity. Ron drank his whiskey neat, his attention seemingly on the various business associates who approached the table to pay respects. But his left hand was under the table, out of sight.
It found her knee first, a warm, heavy weight. Then it began to slowly, deliberately, push the crimson fabric of her dress upward. Leila froze, her breath catching. She dared not move. She dared not look at him.
His fingers traced the inseam of her thigh, higher and higher, through the thin layer of her stockings. The music, the speeches, the clink of cutlery—it all blurred into a distant hum. Her entire world narrowed to that creeping, possessive touch. Her skin prickled with heat. A strange, aching warmth began to pool low in her belly, a sensation both terrifying and compelling.
His fingertips brushed the damp silk of her underwear. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped her lips. Feng, seated beside her, glanced over. Ron’s expression remained impassive, a polite mask as he nodded at something a gray-haired industrialist was saying.
His finger slipped beneath the elastic, into the hot, slick flesh between her legs.
Leila’s vision blurred. She clutched the edge of the table. He explored her with a brutal, clinical intimacy, his thick finger circling a place so sensitive it sent jagged bolts of lightning up her spine. He found a swollen nub and pressed, a rough, rhythmic pressure that made her hips jerk minutely. She was dripping, a shameful, hot wetness that coated his finger. He worked her open, pushing inside her with one digit, then two, the stretch a shocking fullness. He fucked her with his fingers under the table, his pace steady and relentless, as a poet recited verses about autumn leaves.
Tears of confused pleasure stung her eyes. She was panting softly, her chest rising and falling under the brocade. No one at the table seemed to notice. Or if they did, they were wise enough to pretend.
The speeches droned on. Ron’s hand moved, a hidden engine of her unraveling. He croaked a finger inside her, hitting a spot that made her see white for a second. Her cunt clenched around his invading fingers, pulsating in time with her hammering heart.
A woman’s voice, sharp and cultured, cut through Leila’s haze. It came from a socialite at a nearby table, a woman in peacock-blue silk with lips like a wound. She wasn’t looking at Leila, but her comment, aimed at her companion, was perfectly audible.
“...a novelty, I suppose. But really, to parade a used whore at the head table? It’s vulgar. My father says the Ngi taste is slipping since the old man died. Breeding tells, doesn’t it? You can dress a stray in brocade, but it’s still just a—”
Ron’s fingers withdrew from Leila suddenly. The loss was a shock, leaving her throbbing and empty. He placed his wet hand on the tablecloth, a deliberate, vulgar gesture. He didn’t raise his voice.
“Feng.”
His brother was already leaning in. “I heard.”
“The woman in blue. Lin Hui. Her father is Lin Bao, correct? Textiles. Pharmaceuticals.”
“Yes.”
“By tomorrow morning, I want their primary factory liens called. All their shipping contracts with our ports voided. Leak the audit findings on their chemical dumping to the environmental minister. I want their stock worthless by the closing bell.”
His words were calm, precise, and utterly final. Feng simply nodded, pulling out his phone and typing a quick message.
A chilling silence had fallen around their table. The socialite, Lin Hui, had finally noticed the focus of attention. Her confident smirk faltered.
Ron stood up. He didn’t need to tap a glass. The entire hall went quiet. He put his damp hand on Leila’s shoulder, a claiming, dirty touch in full view of everyone.
“You are all here as guests of the Ngi family,” he said, his voice carrying effortlessly in the hushed room. “You enjoy our hospitality. Our protection. Our business.” He paused, letting the weight of that sink in. “This woman,” he said, his grip tightening on Leila, “is Leila Tan. She is carrying my heir. She wears my mother’s jade. She wears my ring.”
He looked directly at Lin Hui, whose face had gone ashen.
“The next person who disrespects her,” Ron continued, his tone dropping to something intimate and lethal, “will not find their business in ruins. They will find themselves buried in it.” He let the threat hang, a pall over the fragrant steam from the dishes. “Now. I have an announcement. The wedding will be in three weeks. Here. You are all expected to attend and offer your congratulations.”
He sat down. The silence held for three more seconds before a frantic, approving murmur swelled. Toasts were raised toward Leila, faces now wreathed in forced smiles.
Leila sat trembling, Ron’s wet handprint cool on her shoulder. The ache between her legs was a raw, insistent throb. The socialite in blue was quietly ushered from the hall, sobbing.
Ron leaned close, his breath hot against Leila’s ear, his voice a gritty promise only she could hear. “See what I do for you? See how I make them kneel?” His hand returned to her thigh, under the table, more invasive than before. “You’re dripping down your thighs because of me. Your cunt is making a mess and these fucking people are toasting your health.”
He pushed three fingers into her this time, a rough, stretching invasion. She cried out, a short, sharp sound swallowed by the resuming music. He fucked her with his hand, his knuckles pressing brutally against her, his thumb grinding on her clit. Her orgasm hit her like a train, a convulsive, blinding wave that ripped through her with silent violence. Her back arched subtly; her knees slammed together, trapping his hand. She shook, seeing spots, a low moan trapped in her throat.
As she pulsed around his fingers, he brought them to his mouth and licked them clean, his eyes locked on hers, watching her disgrace with dark satisfaction.
“Good,” he murmured. “Now eat something. The baby needs strength.” He turned to his plate as if nothing had happened, picking up his chopsticks, leaving her shattered, exposed, and utterly owned in the glittering, terrified silence of the room.