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She sits beside me, her spine as straight as a telephone pole, her eyes unblinking and fixed on the menu in front of her. Her parents sit opposite us, their faces set in matching expressions of disapproval. I lean back in my chair, letting my gaze drift from one to the other, enjoying the spectacle of their discomfort.

“So,” Mr. Clarke begins, trying to force a smile. “What is it that you do for work?”

I raise an eyebrow.

What an odd question.

I’ll humor him.

“A few things, actually,” I say. “Investments, mostly. Some computer work.”

“Does that pay well?” Mrs. Clarke asks, reaching out and taking up her mug of black coffee. It’s not lost on me that her fingers shake so hard that coffee slops over the side and stains the grimy white tablecloth.

“It does,” I say with a nod. “If you add what I’ve made to what my dad left me, I have, I think, around four and a half million in the bank.”

Mercy, who had just picked up her glass of water to take a sip, gasps.

Or she tries to.

With the water in her mouth, it was more like a badly botched self-drowning attempt. She coughs and sputters, placing the glass of water back on the table with a clink.

I just smile.

Mrs. Clarke shifts in her seat

“Mercy tells me you’ve been… reconnecting,” she says. She chokes on the last word, like it’s bitter and hard to bring up. I wonder if she chokes on her husband’s cock like that.

“Absolutely,” I say. “We happened to cross paths one day, and we started talking. So many old memories came up. We’ve gotten… verycloseover the last few days.”

Mercy clears her throat, and when I look over, I watch in real time as her cheeks flush pink. I can see the pulse jumping in her throat. I reach out, laying a hand on hers, and she jumps, her eyes lifting to meet mine.

“And what about your family?” Mrs. Clarke asks. “What do they do?”

I turn my gaze back to her, my smile fading.

This is where I’m supposed to act heartbroken, right?

“My family is… complicated. As you know, my father died almost 15 years ago now. About 5 years before that, my mom died, so I don’t have much family to speak of. I have a half brother who lives in Cottonwood Falls. He’s a firefighter, and an aunt up in Council Grove,” I say, with a shrug. “But I didn’t invite you here to discuss them.”

Mrs. Clarke’s eyes widen, her breath catching in her throat.

The other shoe is about to drop, and she knows it.

“Why did you invite us here, Draco?” she asks.

I think that’s the first time she’s used my name since she saw me.

I lean forward, my eyes locked on hers.

“I have a reason for inviting you here, Mrs. Clarke,” I say, my voice low. “A very specific reason.”

The table falls silent, the tension thickening like the smoke that drops after a forest fire. I can see the fear in their eyes, the uncertainty. And I savor it, letting the moment stretch, the tension rise.

I am in control here.

And they know it.

I watch as Mr. Clarke’s fork trembles in his hand, a thin sheen of sweat visible on his upper lip, behind the 5 o’clock shadow he wears today. His wife’s eyes dart nervously between Mercy and me, her eyes growing wider and wider. I can see the waves of discomfort rolling off them, and it delights me.