Delilah stood so fast her chair toppled backward with a sharp crack against the marble, the sound slicing through the lingering tension like a gunshot.
The entire dining room froze—silverware suspended, breaths held—as every pair of eyes fixed on her, the air thick with unspoken questions.
Every head at the table snapped toward her. Harold paused mid-sip of his whiskey, eyes narrowing. Melissa's fork hovered. Sienna lowered her phone. Danton—poor, wrecked Danton—looked like he might be sick.
But Delilah didn't care. Her gaze was locked on Phei, burning with something raw and frantic and utterly shameless.
In that moment, the facade cracked wide open—years of restraint shattering under the weight of one desperate, forbidden need.
"I need to speak with you," she said again, voice edged with that sharp, imperious tone she used when she wanted the world to believe this was about something trivial. Something boring. Something family-appropriate.
