The descent down the grand staircase was a silent, tense affair. Naomi's heels clicked against the marble with each careful step, the sound echoing in the vast, empty space. Xavier moved ahead of her, his long stride unhurried and confident, not once looking back to see if she was following. He didn't need to. The invisible leash around her throat ensured she would.
Outside, the morning air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of the manicured gardens. A sleek black sedan was already waiting, its engine a low, powerful purr. The driver stood at attention beside the open rear door, his face a blank mask of professionalism. Xavier climbed in first, sliding across the leather seat with an easy grace, making no move to assist her. Naomi ducked her head and followed, the door closing behind her with a soft, expensive thud that sealed them in their quiet, tense bubble.
The car began to move, gliding smoothly down the long, winding driveway. The imposing black walls of the mansion receded in the rearview mirror, the wrought-iron gates opening automatically to release them into the world beyond. Once they hit the main road, the city began to swallow them, the quiet suburbs giving way to the bustling streets and towering skyscrapers of the urban centre.
Xavier pulled out his phone, his thumb immediately flying across the screen. He didn't look up, didn't acknowledge her presence in the slightest. It was as if she were a piece of luggage, occupying space but of no particular interest.
Naomi sat rigidly on her side of the car, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The diamond necklace felt cold and heavy against her throat, a constant, glittering reminder of her status. She stared out the tinted window, watching the city blur past, but she wasn't really seeing it. Her mind was a whirlwind of nervous energy. Where were they going? What was going to happen? Was this another punishment? A test? The not knowing was almost worse than the certainty of his cruelty.
The drive felt like an eternity, but eventually, the car began to slow. They pulled up in front of a building that screamed money. It was a restaurant, but calling it that felt like an understatement. The facade was all glass and polished stone, the name etched in elegant gold lettering above the entrance. Halo.
Even from inside the car, Naomi could see the well-dressed patrons through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the soft glow of chandeliers, the immaculate white tablecloths. It was the kind of place she had only ever seen in magazines, the kind of place where a single meal probably cost more than most people's monthly rent.
The driver was already out, opening the door with practiced efficiency. Xavier stepped out first, straightening his suit jacket with a casual, unconscious gesture. Then, before Naomi could even fully exit the car, his arm was there, wrapping around her waist with a firm, possessive grip.
He pulled her flush against his side, her body pressed into the hard, unyielding wall of his chest. She could feel the warmth of him through the expensive fabric of his suit, smell the clean, masculine scent of his cologne. It was a public display of ownership, a clear, physical statement to anyone watching: this woman is mine.
They entered the restaurant together, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. The soft hum of conversation seemed to dim, replaced by a wave of whispers that rippled through the room like a stone thrown into a still pond. Naomi felt the weight of dozens of eyes upon them, a physical pressure that made her skin prickle.
"What is the CEO of Thorne Industries doing here?" she heard a woman murmur to her companion, her voice barely a whisper but carrying clearly in the sudden hush.
"Who is that with him?" another voice asked, this one male, laced with curiosity.
Then, the answer came, a sharp, knowing hiss from somewhere to her left. "Don't you know? That's his wife."
"He got married about a month ago," another voice confirmed, a note of disbelief in the tone. "Kept it completely quiet. No photos, no announcement. Nothing."
The whispers continued, a low, incessant buzz that followed them like a swarm of wasps. Naomi's cheeks began to burn with a deep, humiliating flush. She felt exposed, stripped bare by their collective gaze.
She was on display, a curiosity, a scandal wrapped in a diamond necklace and a black dress. She wanted to shrink away, to disappear into the floor, but Xavier's arm around her waist was an unyielding band of steel, holding her in place for all to see.
Xavier, however, paid the whispers no mind whatsoever. His expression remained utterly impassive, his gaze straight ahead, as if the whispers were nothing more than the buzzing of insignificant insects. He walked with a calm, authoritative stride, guiding her through the maze of tables towards a prime spot in the centre of the room. It was a table that commanded attention, positioned so that anyone who mattered would see them.
He pulled out her chair for her, a gesture so unexpectedly chivalrous it threw her off balance. She sat down quickly, murmuring a soft, barely audible thank you, and he pushed the chair in before settling into his own seat across from her. He picked up the menu, scanned it for exactly ten seconds, and then set it down as a waiter materialised at his elbow.
"Three croissants. Eggs Benedict for two. Smoked salmon," Xavier said, his voice clipped and authoritative, not a please or thank you in sight. "Make it quick."
The waiter, a young man with a perfectly pressed uniform, nodded quickly, his eyes flicking nervously between Xavier and Naomi before he scurried away.
Naomi sat there, feeling incredibly self-conscious. The whispers hadn't died down; if anything, they had intensified now that they were seated. She could feel eyes on her from every direction, analysing her dress, her jewellery, her face. She was acutely aware of every inch of her body, of the way the dress clung to her curves, of the slit that exposed her leg, of the low neckline that displayed her cleavage. She felt like a specimen under a microscope, and the humiliation was a slow, burning fire in her chest.
Xavier, in stark contrast, was completely unfazed. He had pulled out his phone again and was scrolling through it, his thumb moving with the same rhythmic precision as before. He didn't look up, didn't acknowledge the whispers, didn't seem to care that he was the centre of attention. He existed in his own bubble of power, and the opinions of the room's occupants were beneath his notice.
"Stop fidgeting," Xavier said, his voice a low, irritated rumble. He didn't look up from his phone, his eyes still fixed on the screen.
Naomi flinched, the reprimand hitting her like a slap. She hadn't even realised she was doing it, but now that he'd pointed it out, she became acutely aware of her own hands, which had been nervously smoothing the fabric of her dress on her lap. She immediately stilled, forcing her hands to remain flat and motionless. The burning in her cheeks intensified.
"And try to look like you're actually happy to be here," he added, his tone laced with a cold, mocking amusement. He still didn't look up.
The words were a dagger, twisted with cruel precision. Happy? How could she possibly look happy? She was sitting in a restaurant full of strangers who were whispering about her like she was a sideshow attraction, chained to a man who had violated her in every possible way, wearing a dress and jewellery that felt like a costume in a play she hadn't auditioned for. But she knew better than to argue. She forced her lips into a small, tight smile, a painful, unnatural expression that probably looked more like a grimace than anything else.
Just then, the waiter returned, carrying a large tray laden with their order. He set down the plate of flaky, golden croissants, followed by two beautifully presented plates of Eggs Benedict, the hollandaise sauce a perfect, glossy yellow. Finally, he placed a platter of smoked salmon, thinly sliced and artfully arranged, in the centre of the table.
"Eat," Xavier said, finally setting his phone down on the table beside him, his gaze finally lifting to meet hers. It was a command, not a suggestion, and the cold, expectant look in his eyes made it clear that defiance was not an option.
Naomi's fork and knife remained untouched on the table, her hands lying flat and motionless in her lap. But her eyes, traitors that they were, were fixed on Xavier. She watched in a sort of stunned, reluctant awe as he began to eat.
It was mesmerising, in a horrifying kind of way. His large hands, the same hands that had bruised her wrists and torn her clothes, now handled the silver cutlery with a delicate, effortless precision that seemed almost surgical. He picked up his knife and fork and, with a single, smooth motion, cut the golden croissant perfectly in half down the middle. The two halves fell apart to reveal the flaky, buttery layers inside, steaming slightly in the cool air-conditioned room.
He didn't stop there. Using his fork, he lifted a thin, delicate slice of the smoked salmon and laid it across one half of the croissant with an artist's careful placement. Then came the Eggs Benedict. He slid his fork beneath the perfectly poached egg, the hollandaise sauce glistening like liquid gold, and transferred it onto the salmon with a motion so smooth it didn't disturb a single strand of the sauce. Finally, he took a small spoon and scattered the remaining hollandaise from his plate over the entire construction, a final, deliberate garnish.
It was a ritual. A precise, practiced ceremony of consumption that spoke of a lifetime of expensive dinners and rigid etiquette. And then he ate. He brought the fork to his lips and bit into the creation with a graceful, unhurried chew, his jaw moving smoothly, his posture never slouching, his eyes never darting. He might as well have been dining alone in a private room.
Naomi sat there, her mouth slightly open, staring at him like he was a creature from another planet. She had grown up in a wealthy household. She had been to fancy dinners, had been taught which fork to use and which glass was for water and which was for wine.
But she had never seen anyone eat with such effortless, intimidating perfection. It was like watching a performance, a one-man show of refinement and control that extended to every single aspect of his existence, even something as simple as eating a breakfast pastry.
And then his command from moments ago echoed in her mind, a cold splash of reality that snapped her out of her daze. Try to look like you are actually happy to be here.
Right.
She was supposed to be his wife. His happy, obedient, perfectly polished wife. And happy, obedient, perfectly polished wives did not sit at tables gawking at their husbands like they were performing a magic trick. They ate. They smiled. They participated in the sickeningly perfect charade.
With a shaky hand, Naomi reached for her own cutlery. The silver was cool and heavy in her grip, a stark contrast to the warmth spreading across her cheeks. She picked up her knife and fork, mimicking the way he held his, and turned her attention to the croissant on her plate. It looked back at her, golden and innocent, a simple pastry that now felt like a test she was sadly unprepared for.
She cut it in half, just as he had done. The knife slid through the flaky exterior with a soft crunch, the two halves separating neatly. Good. So far, so good. She glanced up at him through her lashes, a quick, nervous check to make sure she wasn't already failing. He wasn't looking at her. He was already constructing his next bite, his focus entirely on his own plate.
Empowered by his inattention, she continued. She lifted a slice of the smoked salmon with her fork, her hand trembling slightly as she transferred it to the croissant. The pink flesh looked delicate and translucent against the golden bread.
Next came the Eggs Benedict. This was the tricky part. She slid her fork beneath the poached egg, holding her breath, and lifted. The egg wobbled dangerously on the tines, the white threatening to slide off, the hollandaise sauce dripping in a slow, golden trail. She moved it quickly, dropping it onto the salmon before it could make a mess. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't the neat, artful stack Xavier had created. It was more of a... collapsed pile. But it was there.
She scattered the remaining hollandaise sauce with her spoon, the motion clumsy and uneven, and then looked down at her creation. It was a mess. A lopsided, sauce-dribbled mess that looked nothing like the elegant, magazine-worthy sandwich on his plate. A fresh wave of self-consciousness washed over her, and she had to fight the urge to push the plate away and hide under the table.
But she didn't. She picked up her fork, pierced the messy, beautiful disaster she had made, and brought it to her lips. She took a bite.
The flavours exploded in her mouth, rich and buttery and savoury, the flaky croissant contrasting perfectly with the silky egg and the salty salmon. It was, objectively, delicious. But it tasted like ash and anxiety in her mouth, each swallow a conscious effort of will. She chewed slowly, deliberately, forcing herself to mimic his graceful, unhurried pace, even as her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs and the whispers of the surrounding diners continued to buzz in her ears like a swarm of invisible bees.
She was eating. She was participating. She was playing her part. And somewhere, in the back of her mind, a small, bitter voice whispered that this was her life now. A performance, a construction, a carefully curated lie served on a silver platter, three croissants at a time.