Chapter 6: A Seat at His Table
The penthouse was starting to feel less like a museum.
Ella had moved a vase.
That was all.
Just one sleek, overpriced vase that had lived on a side table near the window — centered, untouched, clearly placed by someone who valued symmetry more than soul.
She moved it to the dining room, right beneath the hanging pendant light.
Not because she loved the way it looked.
But because she could.
---
Xavier didn't comment on it for three days.
Then, one morning, as he passed by on his way to pour coffee, he paused.
"You moved something."
Ella sipped her tea. "I live here too."
His gaze lingered on the vase for a second too long before he gave a single nod and continued walking.
Progress, she thought, was sometimes measured in silence.
---
The invitations started coming after the third media appearance.
Private brunches. Society dinners. Fashion week previews. Things Xavier would normally decline without reading.
But now they were addressed to Mr. and Mrs. King.
Ella glanced at a small stack of them on the kitchen counter.
"You never go to any of these?" she asked as she made herself a piece of toast.
Xavier, in shirtsleeves and reading the financial pages, didn't look up. "Not if I can help it."
"Why?"
"Because they're not about connection. They're about calculation."
She leaned against the counter, folding her arms. "And we're not?"
He looked up at that.
There was something in his eyes then — something not sharp, not cold, but… searching.
"No," he said finally. "You're not like them."
---
Later that day, she found herself in the King Foundation library.
It was part of the corporate building, three floors below Xavier's private office — elegant, curated, untouched.
She hadn't even meant to wander in, but something about the scent of paper and silence pulled her in like gravity.
It was quiet — not the suffocating kind, but the thoughtful kind.
She ran her fingers along a row of spines. Mostly business and economics. A few politics. And tucked in a far shelf near the corner… poetry.
It made her smile.
And that's where Xavier found her.
He didn't speak at first. Just stood in the doorway, watching.
"You read Neruda?" she asked, pulling a slim volume from the shelf.
"Sometimes. Late nights. After everything else has stopped demanding something from me."
She turned a page. "Funny. That's exactly why I read poetry, too."
He stepped closer.
It wasn't a grand moment. No sudden music. No declarations.
Just… two people in a room full of words.
And for once, there was no script.
---
Back at the penthouse, Ella stood at the stove, brow furrowed in concentration.
"I didn't know you could cook," Xavier said as he walked in, loosening his tie.
"I can't. But I can follow a YouTube tutorial and burn things with flair."
He actually chuckled. "Why didn't you just ask the chef to prepare something?"
She glanced at him. "Because I don't want to feel like a guest in my own life."
That shut him up.
For once, he didn't try to fix her feeling.
He just sat.
And stayed.
And when she placed a steaming plate of slightly overcooked pasta in front of him, he took a bite, winced slightly, and said, "It's edible."
She laughed. "High praise."
And something in the room softened.
---
That night, she didn't go to bed right away.
Neither did he.
They sat in the living room, a muted jazz playlist drifting through the space.
Xavier sipped his whiskey.
Ella curled up on the other end of the couch with a throw pillow and a dog-eared poetry book.
They didn't speak.
But the silence didn't stretch. It settled.
Like maybe they weren't just tolerating each other anymore.
Maybe they were… adjusting.
Maybe, for the first time, the contract didn't feel like chains.
It felt like possibility.