Chapter 11 – A Seat at His Table

Anastasia had been invisible most of her life.

A shadow in her father's house, a forgotten daughter in her sister's place.

But last night at dinner, she had realized one thing:

Leonidas did not intend for her to be invisible.

She wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

She sat stiffly in the dining hall the next morning, the weight of the staff's attention pressing down on her.

The long table stretched before her, covered in polished silverware and delicate china, the kind of setting she had only seen in magazines.

She was used to eating alone.

But now, every movement was watched.

A servant quietly poured her tea, another placed a dish in front of her.

She wanted to tell them to stop, to tell them she wasn't some delicate thing to be catered to.

But she said nothing.

Because this wasn't her house.

And no one here was truly on her side.

She Didn't Belong Here

"Madam, will you be needing anything else?"

The woman's voice was polite, but there was something in her tone—something distant.

Anastasia hesitated.

They don't respect me.

She wasn't sure why it bothered her.

She had been unwanted before.

But this was different.

She was supposed to be their mistress.

And yet, they didn't see her as one.

They saw her as temporary.

The replacement wife.

A woman who wouldn't last.

She set her fork down slowly. "No, I'm fine."

The servant nodded stiffly and left.

Anastasia's throat tightened.

She wanted to ignore the feeling curling in her stomach, but she couldn't.

Because the truth was simple—

She had no place in this house.

Leonidas walked in a few moments later.

She felt him before she saw him—the subtle shift in the room, the way the staff suddenly moved with more precision.

He didn't belong in the background.

He never had.

His black suit fit perfectly, sharp against his broad frame, power woven into every inch of him.

His dark hair was tousled, effortlessly neat, and his sharp jaw was freshly shaven.

But it was his presence that filled the space.

He sat down across from her, pouring his own coffee without a word.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

And yet, she felt suffocated by the silence.

"You look like you have something to say," he murmured.

Anastasia hesitated.

She shouldn't say it.

She shouldn't.

But the words were already rising in her throat.

"The staff doesn't respect me."

Leonidas didn't blink.

His spoon stirred the dark liquid in his cup, the faint clinking of metal against porcelain filling the space between them.

Finally, he set the spoon down and leaned back.

"Why does that bother you?"

She stiffened.

"Because I'm supposed to be your wife," she said quietly.

Leonidas' lips curled slightly.

"And yet, you don't act like one."

Her heart stopped.

She clenched her hands beneath the table, her fingers pressing into her palms.

"How exactly," she asked, voice soft but steady, "should I act?"

He watched her for a long moment, his gaze pulling her apart.

Then, he exhaled slowly and said something that sent a shiver down her spine.

"You should stop acting like you don't belong to me."

Her chest tightened.

"I never agreed to this," she whispered.

Leonidas lifted a brow.

"You agreed when you walked down that aisle."

She swallowed hard.

She wanted to argue.

Wanted to fight.

But what was the point?

This wasn't a normal marriage.

And he wasn't a normal husband.

He set his coffee down, watching her carefully.

"You want respect?" he murmured.

She forced herself to hold his gaze.

"Yes."

"Then earn it."

Her breath caught.

Earn it?

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to something quiet, lethal.

"If you want them to see you as my wife, then you need to start acting like my wife."

Her stomach twisted painfully.

Because he was right.

She was still acting like a guest in this house.

Like someone who didn't belong.

Like someone who could still leave.

But Leonidas was making something very clear.

She wasn't leaving.

She exhaled shakily, pushing her chair back.

Leonidas watched her, waiting.

She could feel the weight of his gaze, pressing down on her like a challenge.

She had two choices.

She could keep pretending she wasn't part of this world. Or she could survive.

She swallowed, her hands tightening into fists.

She knew which one her old self would have chosen.

But she wasn't sure if that version of herself existed anymore.

Without another word, she turned and left.

Leonidas didn't stop her.

But as she walked away, she could still feel him.

Watching.

Waiting.

Because he knew she'd be back.q