Stella was lost in thought when she became aware of Weston’s gaze upon her. He had been watching her quietly, studying her every move.
She was dressed formally for her interview, her light makeup accentuating her sharp features. It was a rare occasion for her to wear high heels, and she wasn’t accustomed to them. Her discomfort was evident in the way she moved, but there was an unspoken grace about it, as though she wore the heels with a kind of reluctant elegance.
“A penny for your thoughts?” Weston’s voice broke the silence, and he shifted his position, lounging on the couch with a casual ease that only seemed to make him more imposing.
Stella shook her head, a faint trace of frustration creeping into her expression. “Nothing much.”
“Do you want to join their games?” he asked, his tone laced with an unmistakable threat.
She lifted her head, meeting his gaze, her frustration now palpable. But she held back, forcing out a response. “Mr. Ford, how can I help you?”
Weston’s brow furrowed, clearly displeased by her formality. He reached out and lifted her chin, his fingers cold yet commanding. “Why don’t you call me Weston?”
“Sure, Weston,” she replied quietly, her voice betraying none of the conflict swirling within her. Weston released his grip, his expression softening for just a moment.
“Pour me some alcohol,” he instructed.
Stella stood up without hesitation and walked toward the marble counter. Her fingers skimmed over several bottles before she picked one at random—a bottle of champagne. Weston’s eyes flicked over it with a glance of mild disapproval.
“Another one,” he said, his voice steady but firm.
She paused, a slight tension creeping up her spine. “What do you want to drink?”
“Anything will do,” he answered casually, as though it were the simplest request.
Stella’s hand hovered over the bottles, the irony not lost on her. She knew all too well that Weston was anything but casual when it came to his preferences. He would say “anything will do,” but he never truly meant it. During their marriage, it had always been the same. She would prepare a table full of delicacies, only for him to dismiss the dishes that didn’t meet his unspoken standards.
She could still feel the sting of that effort—the frustration of guessing his likes and dislikes, of constantly trying to please him. But now, that effort seemed far from worth it.
Her gaze trembled slightly as she poured the red wine into a glass. “Is red wine alright?”
Weston didn’t respond immediately, his silence saying everything. He wasn’t satisfied with the offer, but he accepted the glass without a word.
Stella returned to her seat, but Weston’s gaze never left her. “Come over. Feed me.”
Her heart skipped a beat. She froze, her mind reeling. He had never asked her to do something so bold, even when they were intimate. The words were almost foreign, as if he were testing her, pushing her boundaries.
Weston seemed to take pleasure in her shocked reaction. He grabbed her hand and pulled her onto his lap, forcing her into an intimate position. His grip on her chin tightened as he turned her face toward the rest of the room.
“Look at how the other women serve the men,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding.
Stella’s gaze shifted reluctantly toward the others in the room. She saw couples feeding each other drinks, sharing food through their mouths, their behavior becoming increasingly intimate and physical. The atmosphere was charged with tension, the air thick with unspoken rules of pleasure and power.
Women who had once been the center of attention were suddenly discarded, passed from one man to another as easily as if they were objects. The scene felt suffocating, alien, and yet strangely familiar, as though this was how Weston viewed her too—nothing more than a tool for his amusement.
Stella felt her stomach churn as she watched, her body frozen in place. Weston turned her back around, his grip unyielding. “Do you know the right way to feed me now?”
Her vision blurred, and she felt as if her limbs were no longer under her control. She had been avoiding this moment, trying to block out the degrading behavior around her. But Weston had forced her to confront it head-on, to see exactly where she stood in his eyes.
Her hands trembled as she lifted the wine glass, her fingers numb. She fought to steady her breathing, her mind still reeling from the overwhelming sense of humiliation.
“I got it…” she whispered, the words barely escaping her lips.
She tipped the glass forward, bringing it closer to Weston’s lips. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at him, trying to keep her composure. “Mr. Ford, will this do?” she asked, her voice tight, though her heart was pounding in her chest.
Weston watched her closely, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. He didn’t answer immediately, but the look in his eyes made it clear he was pleased with her compliance.
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