Page 8 of August and the Night

"Well, my father died in a car accident. A drunk driver crashed into his car, and my mother took her own life a few years later," I reveal. Her face contorts with immense sorrow, her eyes filling with tears that soon cascade down her cheeks.

This marks the second time she has cried during our date—an unwanted turn of events. Just as I prepare to console her and bring her emotions under control so we can continue our conversation, she rises from her chair and walks toward me. Shocked, I watch as she wraps her arms around me in a tight embrace, murmuring, "I'm so sorry, August. You're incredibly strong to have endured that and still emerge as the strong man I see before me."

Awkwardly, I pat her back, feeling her tears dampen my suit. Is she crying out of guilt? Does she know that her family was responsible for the death of mine? I create some distance between us, focusing on her face. There are no signs of guilt or recognition, only empathy. I'm unsure of what to think; she couldn't possibly be that skilled at deception. Pushing my thoughts aside, I wipe away her tears, thanking her and instructing her to return to her seat so we can continue with dinner. She nods, gracefully resuming her place, and once again holds her chopsticks, toying with her food.

"Eat," I instruct, noticing that she's merely moving the sushi around on her plate. She glances at me, nodding, and begins to eat. However, I'm still dissatisfied with the amount she consumes. Taking my favorite type of sushi with the chopsticks, I feed it to her. She chews with a flushed face, avoiding eye contact. As soon as she swallows, I offer her another piece, which surprises her. This playful exchange continues until she raises both hands in surrender, laughing, and insists that I stop.

"Don't you enjoy the food?" I inquire, and she quickly shakes her head. "It's delicious, but I had a heavy lunch, so I got full quickly," she explains, and I acknowledge her response.

Indulging my curiosity, I ask the question that has been gnawing at me since our conversation began. "Earlier, you mentioned that your father only takes Lily to his parties. Why is that?"

I observe a tinge of shame in her eyes as she glances around the room before admitting, "To be honest, she has always been the perfect one. He loves showcasing her to his business partners, and I always get sidelined. It's alright, though. I'm not bothered by it; that's just the way it is."

The gears in my mind start turning as I process this newfound information. Layla appears to perceive these parties as regular networking events, oblivious to their true nature. It's as if she has no idea what truly transpires at those gatherings, and that makes no sense. She assumes someone needs to be perfect to attend these events, which isn’t the case at all.

"What have you heard about your father's parties?" I ask cautiously, and she ponders for a moment before responding, "Well, I haven't inquired about them in a long time. But when I was younger and asked Lily, she'd tell me it was just dull, balding men discussing land and business."

I nod, assuring her that it's precisely as she described, despite it being the farthest thing from the truth. Her lack of awareness might prove advantageous to me. I rub my temples, feeling a headache coming on from all the confusing information. This is not how I expected our encounter to unfold.

I gaze at her, my source of confusion, before suggesting, "Would you like to try different types of alcohol? I can introduce you to them if you're interested." Layla being slightly tipsy would make it easier to loosen her tongue, which is precisely what I need.

She appears somewhat nervous but nods in agreement. I signal the waiter to come over so I can order the drinks. This is about to become even more interesting.

9

August

I proceed to introduce her to a variety of alcoholic beverages, including champagne, gin and tonic, vodka, martinis, and many more. However, it becomes apparent that Layla only enjoys the martinis, as she grimaces at the taste of everything else. Her palate seems unaccustomed to the intensity of the other alcoholic beverages. It solidifies her earlier claim of never having consumed alcohol before. Surprisingly, even a few sips and a single glass of Martini leave her visibly intoxicated. Her face takes on a permanent flush, and she finds everything utterly amusing. She is completely and undeniably inebriated.

"How are you feeling?" I inquire, observing her closely. She looks at me, her eyes sparkling with mirth, before dissolving into a fit of giggles. Her words slur as she responds, "Good, better than I've felt in a long time."

Furrowing my eyebrows, I decide to delve deeper, determined to extract as much information as possible from her unguarded state. "Why is that, little dove?" I probe, my curiosity piqued. She gazes deeply into my eyes, her drunkenness making her inhibitions crumble, before sputtering, "Well, for starters, this date saved me from having dinner with my father. Thank God for that. And you gave me my first kiss today. I am no longer a twenty-three-year-old who has never been kissed—yippee. Also, this is the first time someone other than Lily has shown genuine interest in me."

My brain struggles to process this flood of information. Layla's revelation throws my previous assumptions into disarray. She doesn't enjoy spending time with her father? I was her first kiss? No one takes an interest in her? None of this aligns with the image I had constructed of her. I thought she was closely connected to her father, a seductress like Lily who aided him in his business endeavors.

The woman in front of me, in her intoxicated state, is dismantling every preconceived notion I had. I realize that I no longer truly know her, and that realization is both intriguing and dangerous. The blabbering mess before me bears no resemblance to the cunning and calculated woman I believed her to be.

"Why don't you like spending time with Arthur?" I ask gently, my voice laced with concern. Fearing she may shut down or evade the question, I observe her closely as she looks away, rubbing her arm as if seeking comfort.

Finally, she speaks, her words slightly slurred by the effects of alcohol, "Um, it's just that he never seems interested in spending time with me either. I always get pushed aside for Lily. He despises hearing about my research, loathes my eating habits and lack of exercise, and is perpetually dissatisfied with my accomplishments. Also, he frequently misses significant event in my life, including twenty of my twenty-three birthdays, as well as both my high school and university graduations."

A seemingly permanent furrow takes hold of my brow as I process this startling revelation. Layla's words stir within me a mix of sympathy and anger. However, one particular aspect stands out—the fact that her father detests seeing her eat. A surge of rage unlike anything I've experienced before settles in my chest. Growing up, I never knew when my next meal would come, and the idea of Layla starving herself to please that despicable man, even though she is my enemy's daughter, fills me with intense disdain. Does he wish to see her waste away? She is already incredibly slim.

Unable to contain my fury any longer, I growl, my voice filled with a mixture of protectiveness and indignation, "On my lap, now."

Layla looks at me with confusion in her eyes, momentarily taken aback by my command. Yet, she quickly realizes the seriousness of my tone and stands on unsteady legs, making her way towards me. As she approaches, I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her down onto my lap. The proximity heightens the tension between us, and I observe desire cloud her eyes. Satisfaction washes over me, knowing that she wants me.

In a gravelly voice, my words tinged with a blend of concern and possessiveness, I inquire, "Earlier, when you mentioned feeling full from a heavy lunch, was that true? Or are you limiting your food intake to please that man?"

She immediately turns to face me, her hands resting on my shoulders for balance, her eyes meeting mine with sincerity. With a hint of vulnerability, she assures me, "Don't worry, August. I have never starved myself for his approval. I have a healthy relationship with food."

Yet, despite her reassurance, the fire in my chest continues to burn. I am supposed to despise this woman, to feel nothing but hatred for her. However, the thought of her discomfort or pain weakens me. I am not content with these conflicting emotions.

I need to see her eat and I do not shy away from telling her just that “Layla, I don’t care if you are full, I am going to feed you now and you just sit pretty on my lap and eat.”

I think she can tell how much I need to see her eat after studying my face because she just nods and opens her mouth for the bite of sushi I am holding next to her face. After a couple pieces, she holds my hand to stop it from picking up anymore sushi and tell me “I promise I am full, I can’t have no more.” I only stop because I notice the discomfort on her face and she kisses my cheek in gratefulness. I feel my heart skip a beat and I hate that it does that.

I should be resolute in my enmity, especially considering her identity as my enemy's daughter. That fact alone makes her my enemy as well, I remind myself. But even as I reiterate this to myself, there's a tug within me, a longing that defies logic. It is an unwelcome sensation, an inexplicable softening of my heart. Since the untimely death of my parents, my heart has been a hardened shell, devoid of any capacity for affection. I had assumed it had died along with them. Yet, this woman, sitting weak and vulnerable on my lap, stirs emotions within me that I neither understand nor welcome. It is disconcerting, especially considering her that she is the daughter of my sworn enemy.

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