Chapter 67 - 69
Avara POV
Growing up as the only girl between my father and brothers. I’m used to being the chef, cleaner and referee. But today I feel like a housewife. I’m all dressed up for dad’s important visitors with my hair held up in sophisticated chignon with a floral and fitted open-back dress to match as I prance around in heels. I pause when I can hear my father’s foghorn voice greet his guests as he ushers them into the dining room, where I already have the table decked with appetizers.
With the chicken Marbella nearing its final stages, its aroma filling the kitchen with a medley of garlic, herbs, and prunes, I grab the uncorked vintage wine bottle and head out to welcome our guests. Emerging from the kitchen, I step through the large archway into the dining room, only for my grip on the bottle to falter when my eyes land on him.
Landen.
Amid the sea of tailored suits and prim laughter, he stands out like a flame in a darkened room. His gaze locks onto mine with an intensity that sends a chill coursing through me, his lips curling into the devil’s own smile—a smirk that brims with mischief and veiled menace. It lingers for only a moment before he dons the perfect mask of charm, easily falling into conversation as someone approaches him. My father wasn’t exaggerating about the caliber of tonight’s attendees. Among them are a few familiar figures—members of the executive branch in state government—but all of that is eclipsed by Landen’s presence.
My father, ever the commanding host, orchestrates the room with practiced ease, ushering everyone to their seats. I follow in his wake, offering polite smiles as I move around the table, ready to pour wine for anyone who requests it. Of course, the first voice to rise above the hum of conversation is his.
"Wine for me, please, my love," Landen says, his tone smooth, drawing the attention of the table like a magnet.
Before I can respond, one of the men chuckles and leans forward, lifting his glass. "Landen, you don’t deserve such an endearing woman," he remarks, his voice thick with male and misogynistic camaraderie. Laughter ripples around the table in agreement, each chuckle more grating than the last.
Landen flashes a grateful grin, one so dazzling it almost masks the darkness that lingers just beneath the surface. Almost.
The man presses on, emboldened by the laughter. "Especially one so subservient," he adds, his gaze sliding over me with a careless, leering interest. "They certainly don’t make them like that anymore."
For a moment, the air shifts, the warmth of the room replaced by something far colder. Landen’s smile vanishes in an instant, his face hardening like thunderclouds gathering on the horizon. His voice, when it comes, is deceptively calm, yet every word lands with precision.
"No woman is made for a man’s service," he says, the subtle steel in his tone silencing the table. "It is man who should serve her."