The disturbance ended just like that—dismissed by him with a few casual words, as though it had never mattered at all.
Amelie Ford's heart, however, plunged straight into an icy abyss.
She understood now.
This was his way of reminding her that even her future marriage lay firmly within his grasp.
She would not be allowed to escape.
While her thoughts drifted in a haze, a sudden, heavy pressure invaded her space beneath the table.
Something crossed the boundary she thought was still hers.
Amelie's entire body stiffened.
The long tablecloth draped low, concealing everything below the table. Between her and Christopher sat at least three other people. The distance should have made this impossible.
And yet—
Her neatly placed feet were abruptly blocked.
It was his shoe.
Even through the hem of her long dress, she could clearly feel it—the unmistakable presence of a man's leather shoe: hard, weighty, and utterly domineering.
It didn't move about frivolously like some careless flirt. Instead, it came down squarely on the trailing edge of her dress, pinning the fabric in place. Then, with deliberate intent, it pressed lightly—but firmly—against the top of her foot.
A silent, hidden restraint.
Exposed beneath a crowded table, in full view of everyone above.
The terror of it was far worse than any spoken humiliation.
Amelie's breath caught in her throat. She didn't dare move an inch.
Instinctively, she tried to draw her foot back.
But he had already anticipated her actions.
With only a slight increase in pressure, his shoe locked her in place, leaving her no room to retreat. The long leg clad in tailored slacks slid closer, forcing her legs together, compressing her space until she was trapped within inches.
The rough fabric brushed against the side of her calf through layers of soft dress material.
There was nothing intimate about it.
Only control.
Like a steel gate slamming shut—cutting off every possible escape.
Heat rushed to her face as shame and fear collided, her cheeks burning crimson.
In this position, even the smallest struggle would knock into the chair, draw attention, expose everything.
He was threatening her.
"Amelie, why aren't you eating? Your face is so red," Third Aunt asked with apparent concern.
Her heart slammed violently against her ribs, so loud she was sure others could hear it.
Clutching the edge of the tablecloth, her fingers turning white, Amelie forced her voice to work. "I—it's nothing. I just feel a little warm."
Her mind was blank.
And then, as if fate enjoyed cruelty, the matriarch spoke.
"Christopher has a weak stomach. This soup should be served while it's hot," Grandmother Hayden said. "Amelie, go pour a bowl for your uncle."
Her head buzzed.
She had to stand.
She had to walk over there.
In front of everyone.
As if sensing her rigid panic, the pressure beneath the table finally eased. At the mention of the soup, the foot pinning her dress slowly withdrew.
But not before he deliberately dragged the edge of his shoe along her ankle bone—slow, precise, and cruel.
The cold hardness sent a violent shiver through her body.
Amelie bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting iron.
She stood.
Her legs were so weak that she nearly stumbled, barely managing to steady herself by gripping the back of the chair.
"Careful now—such a clumsy child," Third Aunt laughed.
Amelie picked up the empty bowl and began to walk toward Christopher.
One step at a time.
With every step, the floor felt unreal, as though she were walking on cotton.
The distance was only a few meters, yet it felt endlessly long.
She finally stopped beside him.
Christopher sat calmly in the main seat, posture relaxed, eyes lowered. There was no trace of emotion on his face—as though nothing at all had happened.
Her hands trembled as she lifted the ladle and scooped up the soup.
She was too nervous.
Her fingers shook uncontrollably.
A drop of scalding liquid spilled over the rim and landed on the back of his hand.
"I—I'm sorry, Uncle!" Amelie gasped, panic flooding her as she instinctively reached for a napkin.
Christopher lifted his hand, stopping her.
He looked up.
Behind the thin gold frames of his glasses, his eyes settled on her with quiet intensity.
The chatter around them seemed to fade away.
Lowering his head slightly, he leaned in—so close that his lips nearly brushed the shell of her ear. His voice was low, meant for her alone.
"What are you shaking for?"
His breath carried the faint bitterness of wine, slipping into her ear.
"Last night, when you were clawing at my back…" His voice dropped even further. "You didn't seem weak at all."