The sound of a helicopter, a brutal, mechanical dragonfly, shattered the fragile peace of the estate. Elara watched from her bedroom window as it descended onto a distant helipad, whipping the manicured hedges into a frenzy. She didn't need to see the passenger to know who it was. The air itself tightened, the serene Hamptons morning now charged with a new, predatory electricity.
Breakfast was no longer an intimate, tense affair between predator and prey. It was a stage set for a triad of power plays. Elara entered the sun-drenched morning room to find Alistair already seated at the head of the table, a newspaper in hand. And there, perched at his right side like a queen claiming her throne, was Victoria. She was dressed in blinding white tennis attire, a stark contrast to her dark, sleek bob and blood-red lipstick. She looked expensive, untouchable, and utterly at home.
"Darling, there you are!" Victoria's voice was a purr, laced with shards of glass. "We were beginning to think you'd gotten lost in this lovely, sprawling maze. It can be so confusing for… newcomers."
Alistair didn't look up from his paper. "Elara, you remember Victoria."
It wasn't a question. It was a placement of her on the board. Pawn.
"How could I forget?" Elara said, her voice steadier than she felt. She took the seat farthest from both of them, the polished mahogany a cold barrier.
"I do hope you don't mind me crashing your little retreat," Victoria continued, her eyes scalding Elara with their faux warmth. "Alistair and I have some tedious merger details to discuss, and I find the sea air so clarifying for business. Don't you agree?"
Elara said nothing. She picked up a crystal glass of orange juice, the condensation cool against her palm. She could feel Alistair's gaze on her now, a physical weight. He was observing, a scientist watching two specimens in a cage.
"I thought we could all play a game later," Victoria announced, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin. "Tennis. It's so good for working up an appetite. You do play, don't you, Elara?"
"No," Elara said flatly.
"Perfect! Alistair adores a challenge. He'll teach you. Won't you, Ali?"
The familiar nickname hung in the air, a deliberate claim of territory. Alistair finally folded his newspaper, his expression unreadable. "If she's willing to learn."
It wasn't an invitation. It was a command.
An hour later, Elara stood on the immaculate clay court, feeling absurd and exposed in a borrowed tennis skirt. The sun was high and hot, the air thick with humidity and unspoken threats. Alistair was a study in controlled power on the other side of the net, his movements economical and precise. Victoria lounged in the shade of a vast umbrella, sipping iced tea, a spectator at a gladiatorial match.
The lesson was a masterclass in humiliation. Alistair's instructions were clipped, cold. "Your grip is wrong." "You're overcompensating." "Anticipate the ball, don't just react to it." Each critique was a reminder of her place—the outsider, the novice, the one who didn't belong in his world.
Victoria's laughter, light and tinkling, punctuated every missed shot. "Don't be too hard on her, Alistair! She's an artist, not an athlete. Her talents lie… elsewhere."
The tension coiled tighter with every rally. Elara's arm ached, her pride was in tatters, but a stubborn fire ignited in her gut. She would not break. Not here. Not in front of her.
Alistair served, a powerful, blurring shot that slammed into her court. She lunged, her racket connecting with a solid thwack. Miraculously, she returned it. The ball sailed over the net, landing deep in his court. He returned it with ease, but she was ready, moving with a newfound fury. They volleyed, the rhythm of the ball a violent staccato against the tense silence.
For a few brief moments, it was just the two of them, locked in a physical manifestation of their psychological war. The air crackled between them, the line between hatred and a twisted form of respect blurring with every stroke.
Then it was Victoria's turn to serve against Elara. Her smile was all sharp edges. "Let's see what you're really made of, darling."
Victoria's serve was not a teaching tool; it was an assault. The balls came fast and hard, aimed not to test, but to torment. Elara scrambled, sweat stinging her eyes, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She managed to return a few, her resilience seeming to irritate Victoria.
The final point. Victoria tossed the ball high, her body coiling like a spring. She slammed the racket down with vicious force, but her aim was subtly, deliberately off. The ball, a yellow-green missile, sliced through the air not towards the court, but directly at Elara.
Time slowed. Elara saw it coming, a blur of motion and malicious intent. She tried to twist away, but her feet tangled. The ball struck her hard on the upper arm, the impact sharp and stinging. She cried out, stumbling back, her racket clattering to the clay.
A shocked silence descended, broken only by the distant cry of a gull.
Victoria put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. "So sorry, darling," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "I forget how… fragile… Alistair's new toys can be."
The word 'toys' hung in the air, more painful than the bruise already blooming on Elara's skin. She clutched her arm, humiliation and rage warring within her. She looked at Alistair, waiting for him to say something, to do something. To defend her.
He didn't move from his position at the net. His face was a mask of cold indifference. His eyes flicked from Elara's pained expression to Victoria's triumphant smirk.
His voice, when it came, was not a defense. It was a territorial assertion, cold and absolute, that sliced through Elara more deeply than any cruelty he had ever inflicted.
"She is not your concern," he said to Victoria, his gaze icy. "Remember your place."