Chapter 13: Last Supper
The fabric of her dress was a whisper against her skin, a sheer black georgette that revealed more than it concealed beneath a tailored blazer she intended to remove at the dramatic moment. Victoria checked her reflection one last time in the restaurant’s darkened window. The smirk was perfect—confident, slightly mocking, an armor she had spent two months forging from failed schemes and simmering humiliation. She knew Beau preferred bourbon, not Scotch. Knew Seraphina had a allergic reaction to capers. Knew which topics made Beau’s jaw clench and which made Seraphina’s eyes frost over. Information was ammunition. Tonight, she would fire the first shot.
Pushing the door open, she expected to see them waiting, irritated by her lateness. The host stand was empty. A low murmur of conversation and the soft clink of crystal flowed from the dining room. She checked her phone: 8:35 PM. Perfect.
A hostess materialized. “Can I help you?”
“I’m meeting a party. Montgomery? Monreau?” Victoria said, letting impatience bleed into her tone.
“Ah, yes. Right this way.”
The hostess led her through the discreet, candlelit space. Victoria’s heels sank into plush carpet. She saw no sign of them at any of the intimate tables. A thread of unease pulled taut in her stomach. This was wrong.
They arrived at a secluded booth in a private alcove, shielded by a partial wall of frosted glass. The table was set for three. A single candle flickered at its center. It was utterly, disconcertingly vacant.
“Your party reserved the alcove for the evening. Can I start you with a drink while you wait?” the hostess offered.
“No. I’m fine.” Victoria’s smirk felt brittle. She slid into the booth, choosing the seat facing the room. A tactical position. She placed her clutch on the table, a sharp, black punctuation mark. She willed her spine straight. This was a test. A power play. She wouldn’t fidget.
Minutes bled past. She studied the abstract art on the wall: violent splashes of crimson over cool gray. It felt accusatory. She ordered a martini, just to have something to do with her hands. The gin was ice-cold and did nothing to settle her nerves.
At 9:05, a waitress approached with a practiced smile. “Are you ready to order, or would you like more time?”
Victoria opened her mouth, the prepared lie about her tardy companions forming on her tongue. “My guests should be—”
“She will have the merlot. The ’17 Silver Oak. And you can get us a couple of WhistlePig ryes, neat.”
The voice was smooth as the silk that had bound her wrists in her own fevered fantasies. Seraphina appeared at the edge of the table as if coalescing from the shadows. She wore emerald green silk that clung to every curve, her strawberry hair loose and gleaming. She didn’t look at Victoria. She only watched as Beau, appearing just behind her, pulled out her chair.
Seraphina slid into the seat beside Victoria, not across from her. Close enough that Victoria could smell her perfume—jasmine and something dangerous.
Beau took the seat on Seraphina’s other side, completing a wall of two against one. His hand came to rest on the small of Seraphina’s back, a casual, possessive gesture. He wore a dark jacket over a black shirt, no tie. His eyes, when they finally landed on Victoria, were like stones at the bottom of a deep well.
“How nice of you to wait for us, Victoria,” Beau said, his Southern accent a velvet-wrapped blade.
The two exchanged a look—a silent, complete communication that excluded her entirely. It was more intimate than a kiss.
The waitress, sensing the tectonic shift in the atmosphere, vanished.
Victoria’s martini sat sweating between her fingers. Her research, her carefully catalogued lists of favorites and hatreds, felt like childish notes. They had orchestrated this. Her lateness was not an affront; it was a scripted part of their play, and she’d delivered her line perfectly.
“You’re late,” Victoria said, aiming for breezy accusation. It came out thin.
“We’re right on time,” Seraphina corrected, finally turning her head. Her blue-green eyes scanned Victoria’s dress, the sheer sleeves, the deep V of the neckline. The appraisal was clinical. “I see you dressed for attention. A shame there’s no one here to give it to you but us.”
Beau signaled the returning waitress with the bottle of merlot. He took the proffered corkscrew and opened it himself, the procedure swift and efficient. He poured a generous amount into Victoria’s waiting wine glass, pushing it toward her without a word. Then he accepted their whiskeys, handing one to Seraphina.
“To new arrangements,” Seraphina said, lifting her glass. Her smile didn’t touch her eyes.
They drank. Victoria had no choice but to follow, the rich, oaky wine tasting like ash on her tongue.
“We’ve ordered for the table,” Beau stated, setting his glass down. “The chef is preparing a tasting menu. We assumed you wouldn’t mind, given your demonstrated preference for having choices made for you.”
The supply closet. The cold edge of the copier. His voice in the dark. Submission or ruin.
“I have preferences,” Victoria countered, the brat in her rallying.
“We know,” Seraphina said. She leaned in slightly. “You prefer Malbec over Merlot. You think Beau’s accent is contrived when he’s tired. You believe my success on the Henderson account was luck, not skill.” She plucked an invisible piece of lint from her own sleeve. “Your research was thorough. Just superficial.”
A cold dread seeped through Victoria’s veins. How?
Beau took a slow sip of his rye. “Did you really think we wouldn’t monitor your searches? The company VPN is a fascinating diary. ‘How to seduce a dominant man.’ ‘Psychological profiles of pleasure dominants.’ ‘Is Seraphina Monreau allergic to any foods?’” He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “You’re predictable. It’s your greatest weakness.”
The first course arrived—oysters on a bed of ice with a mignonette. Victoria stared at the glistening shells. Her plan, her grand seduction, lay in pieces before it had even begun. They had been inside her head for weeks.
“The thing about brats,” Seraphina said, selecting an oyster, “is they confuse provocation for power. They think annoyance is a form of control.” She tipped the shell, swallowed the contents, and licked a single drop from her full lower lip. “It’s not. It’s just a signal. A flashing light that says, ‘I need to be controlled.’”
“I don’t need anything from you,” Victoria spat, heat flushing her chest.
“Then leave.” Beau’s challenge was quiet. Absolute. “Get up. Walk out. Go back to your lonely condo and your scheming. See how far it gets you.”
Her muscles locked. She couldn’t move. The threat from the closet wasn’t just a threat—it was a prophecy. To walk away was to choose ruin. To stay was to accept their terms. There was no third option. They had boxed her in with the precision of a chess endgame.
She picked up an oyster. The brine scent hit her. She ate it, the act a silent, bitter surrender.
Seraphina’s knee brushed against hers under the table. It was not an accident. “Good,” she murmured, just for Victoria.
The meal proceeded. Course after exquisite course appeared and was cleared. They spoke around her, of work, of a planned trip to Big Sur, of the symphony. It was a display of normalcy, of a shared life so complete it had no seams. Victoria was a ghost at the feast, seen only when they chose to address her.
With the arrival of a dark chocolate torte, Beau finally turned the full force of his attention back to her. “The deadline for your decision was tonight. You’re here. That is your answer.”
“You haven’t heard my terms,” Victoria tried, a last, desperate gambit.
“You have no terms,” Seraphina said, wiping her mouth with a linen napkin. “You have rules. Our rules. The first is this: you belong to us. Your obedience, your defiance, your clever little schemes—they are ours to receive and ours to correct. They are a service you provide for our entertainment.”
“And what do I get?” Victoria’s voice was a scrape.
Beau reached into his jacket pocket. He placed a small, black velvet box on the table between them. Not a ring box. Something flatter. “Open it.”
With trembling fingers, she did. Inside, on a bed of velvet, lay a wristwatch. It was elegant, slim, with a black leather band and a simple mother-of-pearl face. It was also undeniably, unquestionably a woman’s watch.
“A reminder,” Beau said. “Of where your hands do not belong without express permission.”
It was the watch she had touched in his office. The watch Seraphina had cleaned with her tongue. A wave of nausea and heat crashed through her. This was their collar. Not leather, not metal, but a beautiful, ticking restraint.
“Put it on,” Seraphina instructed.
The entire restaurant seemed to hold its breath. Victoria lifted the watch. The leather was cool. She fastened the clasp around her left wrist. It fit perfectly.
“Stand up,” Beau said.
She did. They remained seated, looking up at her. The dynamic was clear. They commanded. She complied.
“The blazer. Take it off.”
Her hands went to the lapels. She shrugged it off, letting it fall over the back of her chair. The sheer dress was fully revealed now, her body a silhouette against the candlelight.
Seraphina rose then. She stepped close, her gaze traveling over Victoria’s exposed skin. She didn’t touch her. “You wanted our attention. You have it. From now on, you will have more of it than you ever desired. You will report to our home Saturday morning at ten. You will be dressed for training. Not for dinner.” She picked up Victoria’s blazer and handed it to her. “The evening is over. We have things to do.”
Beau threw a stack of bills on the table, well over the amount of the check. He stood, taking Seraphina’s hand. They left the alcove without a backward glance.
Victoria stood alone, the watch heavy on her wrist, the ghost of their presence clinging to her like smoke. The brat in her was screaming, scrambling for a retort, a way to shatter the moment. But the woman, the one who craved the very dominance she fought, was silent. She had gotten exactly what she wanted. The terror of that realization was the most exquisite thing she had ever felt.
She slid her blazer back on, a poor shield. As she walked out, the eyes of other diners felt like physical touches. She was sure they all knew. They could all see the watch, the invisible chain it represented.
Outside, the cool night air did nothing to clear her head. She looked down at her wrist. The mother-of-pearl face gleamed in the streetlight. It was the most beautiful and degrading thing she had ever owned.
A text buzzed in her clutch. From an unknown number.
Address: 1247 Crestview Drive. 10 AM. Do not be late. Do not eat breakfast. -S & B
She stared at the message, then back at the watch. The second hand moved with a relentless, silent sweep. Counting down.