Page 76 of Prized Possession

My dad is at one end of the table, my mother at the other. Ewan is seated on Dad’s left side, with Scott beside him. There’s an empty chair between Scott and my mother.

On the opposite side of the table, there are three empty seats, and so I pull Marcus towards them.

Before I can get around the table, my mother stands and stops us. I don’t miss the way her gaze flicks down to where Marcus’ fingers are clasped with mine, or the way her eyes darken and her nose wrinkles.

“Chloe, darling, you take this seat here beside me. That way you can catch up with me, and we can do a bit of wedding planning with Scott,” she says cheerfully, gesturing to the empty seat between her and Scott.

Marcus’ face darkens, his free hand balling into a fist by his side, and he looks to be seconds away from arguing with my mother.

Before he can, my father’s booming voice interrupts us. “Jacob, come and take your seat beside me.”

My brother doesn’t bother to argue, he just keeps his head down as he walks towards my dad’s end of the table. He sways a little, still looking a bit unsteady on his feet.

Miles, for some strange reason, follows behind Jake, looking like he’s ready to catch him if he falls again.

I have no idea why Miles is showing Jake even the tiniest bit of kindness after the way he treated him, but it just confirms to me that Miles is one of the good guys.

Once Jacob has taken the empty seat beside my father, Miles takes the seat next to him, opposite Scott. Which leaves just one seat remaining, and Marcus has no choice but to sit between my mother and Miles, opposite me.

I can tell he’s not happy about it as he’s still not let go of my hand, or made any attempt to move towards the chair.

“I’ll be fine,” I say to him, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze before I reluctantly let go. My skin feels cold, almost like it’s mourning the loss of his warmth.

I lower myself into the chair my mother gestures to, and watch as Marcus walks around the table, pulling out his own seat with a huff.

I have to bite my lip to prevent myself from gasping as the amazing sensations in my pussy become more intense when I’m seated. If it’s possible, I feel even fuller.

I ball my hands into fists, trying to focus on keeping my breathing normal as my heart rate begins to speed up.

Once we’re all seated, only a few seconds later, several members of staff flood into the room. They all have something in their hands, and I can’t keep track of what each of them are doing.

One of them brings wine, filling up everyone’s glass with a deep red vintage, though there’s another person who brings rosé for me and Marcus.

Another person places freshly baked bread rolls onto the mini plates beside us, while someone else brings out tiny pots of handmade butter.

As they’re all moving around with expert precision, not once getting in each other's way, four more servers enter, each carrying two bowls of soup, which they place down in front of all of us at the exact same time.

Once the soup bowls hit our placemats, the man overseeing the whole process, our long-term butler, Bastien, who is standing at the head of the table beside my dad, claps his white-gloved hands to get our attention.

Bastien is an older man, probably in his early sixties, and though he’s worked for my family since I was a child, I know very little about him. I was always told not to talk to the help, and would regularly get into trouble whenever I did.

“Your first course is a luxurious homemade mushroom soup, made with freshly foraged ingredients, and served with a soft, fluffy sourdough roll that was handmade this morning, along with lightly salted butter that was hand-churned by our staff,” he states proudly, the slightest hint of his French accent still present even though he’s lived in England for the majority of his life.

My mother preens beside me, puffing out her chest as she smiles fakely.

“Thank you, Bastien. We pride ourselves in making sure that the staff here make everything from scratch, and that we use all local ingredients. It’s important we support local companies,” she states, talking to nobody in particular.

When the hell did she start using that super-posh voice? Has she always put on a really snooty, high-pitched voice when we have company and I’ve just never noticed?

Whenever I’m forced to attend things like this—and that’s often given my parents love to entertain guests as it gives them the perfect opportunity to show off—I tend to blank the events out, moving through them on auto-pilot. Still, you’d think I’d have noticed my mother using a fake voice.

“That we do, darling. Now, let's eat,” my dad says, giving my mother a large smile.

As we all dig in, I hope like hell we can eat in silence to get this meal over with quicker. I should have known I wouldn’t be that damn lucky.

Scott leans closer to me, and as he’s a bit taller than me, this gives him the perfect angle to leer at my cleavage from above.

His face is closer to mine than I’d care for it to be, but I keep my eyes on my food, trying to let him know I’m not interested in talking to him.

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