"You're still standing? The food will get cold if you take too long to sit."
His voice carried down the length of the table, smooth as aged whiskey. Not angry—worse. Calm. Factual. Terrifying in its restraint.
Ophelia folded her arms across her chest, a shield against his unnerving gaze. "Oh, I'm sorry. You'll have to forgive me. One second ago, I was celebrating my scholarship, planning my escape from hell. Next second, I'm dragged out of my house and told I 'belong' to some stranger. Forgive me if punctuality wasn't high on my list."
The smirk that tugged at his lips was pure cruelty, amusement carved into perfection. He found her suffering funny, and the thought made her want to hurl the nearest silver platter at his head.
"Sit," he said simply, gesturing to the chair beside him. "Don't make me repeat it."
Not at the far end, where distance might dull the danger. No—right beside him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, the gravity of his presence.
Her feet itched to bolt. Her pride screamed to stand her ground. But her stomach betrayed her, rumbling loud in the silence. With her chin lifted in defiance, she crossed the room and sat. A strategic retreat, nothing more.
Maria appeared instantly with a plate: eggs, fruit, pastries too perfect to be real. Ophelia eyed it like poison. "What is this? My consolation prize? A bribe to make me forget you stole my freedom?"
Darren cut into his omelet, not even sparing her a glance. "It's breakfast. People usually eat it in the morning." His tone was flat, bone-dry, making her words sound childish.
She blinked. He was mocking her. Infuriatingly so.
"Well," she snapped, "pardon me if I don't have much of an appetite while dining with the man who stole my house. What's next? You going to repossess my shoes?"
Finally, his gaze slid to hers, slow and deliberate. It stole the air from her lungs. His eyes were fathomless—dark, endless, like ink poured into water. Eyes that saw everything and gave nothing back.
"Tell me, Ophelia," he said softly, conversational, almost lazy. "How many men have you spoken to like that?"
Her pulse kicked hard. "Enough to know most don't like it."
"Hmm." His dimples appeared again as he leaned back, studying her as though she were a rare specimen. "And yet, here you sit. Untouched. Unbroken. A wildcat with claws that don't scare anyone. Fascinating."
He said it like a compliment, like her defiance amused him instead of angering him.
"I'm not here to entertain you," she bit out, stabbing her fork into the fruit with unnecessary force. The mango was sweet—but it turned to ash on her tongue.
"Oh, but you are." His certainty wrapped around her like chains. He didn't just say it. He believed it. She was his. His captive, his amusement.
She set her fork down, meeting his gaze head-on. "Let's get one thing straight. I'm not your plaything. I don't care how many men in suits you command, or how many guns you keep under your pillow. I didn't choose this. And I sure as hell won't smile and simper for you just because you think dimples and money excuse kidnapping."
Something flickered in his eyes then—something that almost looked like admiration.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, lowering his voice until it was a velvet threat. "Careful, cariño. You'll make me believe you like the fight."
Heat shot up her cheeks. She hated him for making her flush. Hated herself more for the curl of heat low in her stomach. She grabbed her water and drank deeply just to buy herself silence.
Darren didn't press. He ate instead, calm and unhurried, as though time bent around his whims. The silence stretched, heavy and charged, every nerve in her body wired to his nearness. She told herself it was fear. Only fear.
When she finally set her glass down, sarcasm returned like armor. "So what now, Señor Delgado? Do I get a schedule? Mondays I scrub your floors, Tuesdays I fetch your coffee, Wednesdays I try on designer dresses for your amusement?"
His chuckle was low, rich, sending goosebumps racing over her arms. "You've got fire. I like that. Most people learn silence keeps them alive. But you? You'd rather burn than bow."
Her voice sharpened. "I'd rather burn than break."
For the first time, his smirk softened into something sharper. Intent. His gaze lingered on her longer than necessary, peeling back the layers she tried to guard. He wasn't looking at a girl. He was looking at a soul—her soul—and she hated that he saw too much.
Then he leaned back, napkin falling to the table, and stood. Towering, controlled, dangerous.
"You think you're here because of your stepmother's debts?" His voice was mild, almost casual, but the question landed like a knife between them. His gaze lingered, dark and unreadable. "Interesting."
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. She hated the silence he left her in. Hated the way her chest tightened with questions she'd never let him see.
"You'll eat, he said simply. You'll rest. Tonight, you'll have dinner with me again. No arguments."
She bristled. "You don't get to tell me—"
He leaned down. His cologne—dark, expensive—wrapped around her. His words rumbled against her ear, low and dangerous.
"I get to tell you everything, Ophelia. But whether you obey…" A pause, deliberate, intimate. "…that's what makes this interesting."
Her pulse thundered. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to scream. She wanted to—No. No, she wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
So she smiled sweetly instead, venom dripping from every syllable. "Congratulations. You've ruined breakfast. Shall I send you a thank-you card?"
His dimples carved deep, slow and devastating. "You already have, cariño. Just by sitting here."
And with that, Darren Cruz Delgado walked away—leaving Ophelia trembling with fury. And with something far more dangerous, something she refused to name.