My initial, visceral feeling upon entering this dining room was one of suffocating depression. The burgundy-colored walls, were haphazardly lined with a disconcerting array of paintings, scattered across the vast expanse without any semblance of cohesive design or aesthetic harmony. Although it was still bright outside, the heavy, dark-colored velvet curtains were drawn tight, sealing us off from the natural light. A single, dim chandelier cast a soft, sickly yellow glow from the ceiling, adding to the room's inherently somber and unwelcoming atmosphere.
Yes, this was the lion's den.
Levi and I approached the long, polished dining table, which stretched down the length of the room, flanked on either side by eight impossibly grand, high-backed chairs. His mother, Cybil, occupied the seat of honor at the very head of the table, presiding over the scene like a queen on her throne. She had the sa piercing, dark blue, slanted eyes that so unnervingly mirrored Levi's own. I found it difficult to gauge her age with any precision; she could have been in her late fifties. However, it was imdiately, starkly clear to that she was not healthy. Her hair, completely white, was pulled back into a severe, elegant bun, and she wore an extravagant gown adorned with an alarming profusion of glittering jewels that seed to absorb the dim light rather than reflect it. You wouldn't expect this much theatrical formality in a normal family, right?
Unlike Levi, Cybil had a clear, legible facial expression. The very mont she saw us entering the room, her elegant, thin nose scrunched up in a distinct grimace, a perfect, mirror-image replica of how Levi himself scrunched his nose when he encountered a scent or taste he disliked, like that wine. You might think, from a distance, how quaint, how cute it was that both mother and son possessed the sa subtle expression of disdain. But as a prey, acutely aware of being trapped in this particular lion's den, it made tremble. The woman whom Levi so obviously did not love, this cold, formidable matriarch, mirrored him with such frightening precision. Beyond the eyes, however, Cybil had a smaller, more delicate nose than Levi's prominent, straight one, and her eyebrows were thin, sharply arched lines that conveyed perpetual disapproval. I suppose Levi had inherited only the most frightening, predatory traits from his mother: those deep blue eyes, absorbing every single particle of light that dared to shine towards them.
As we both took our designated seats at the massive table, a cavernous distance between us, Cybil rely flicked her fingers, a silent command that sent the waiting servants scurrying to bring the food.
The silence that followed was utterly unbearable. I felt like I was drowning in the oppressive tension between those two formidable lions, who were now engaged in a silent, predatory stare-down across the vast expanse of the table, each looking to catch the slightest flicker of vulnerability in the other.
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It was Cybil who, predictably, broke the strained quiet.
"So, this is the bride you have elected to present this ti, is it?" she stated, her voice a low, precisely modulated rasp that nevertheless cut through like a sharpened blade.
Wait. This ti? He was married before? The term "bride" used for a man, I knew, reeked of outdated, homophobic views, a deliberate slight calculated to diminish . There was no need to dwell on that, or to make it an issue, but…
Let ask again. I am not the first spouse? That fucking asshole, Levi, never even ntioned that! I clenched my fists tightly under the table, digging my nails into my palms, desperately trying to keep my quivering lips from attracting Cybil's or Levi's attention. The asshole, I an Levi, answered the question Cybil had so cuttingly posed.
"Indeed, Mother. This is my husband, Raphael." He articulated the word "husband" with a deliberate emphasis, yet the assertion tasted like ashes in my mouth, the inherent pride in his tone sohow rendered hollow.
Was he in love with his first spouse? What happened to them? I didn't even know the gender of the ex-spouse.
Servants, began serving the first course. The starter was an anemic, pale mushroom soup, barely more than a thin, greyish broth. There were no questions directed at , no invitations to speak, so I kept my mouth tightly shut, my expression carefully neutral. I risked a glance at Levi. He was too busy staring intently at the soup in front of him, his gaze fixed on it as if he were trying to telepathically make the offending liquid disappear from his sight. I took a tentative sip of the soup; it was profoundly salty and aggressively savory, precisely the kind of dish Levi had explicitly stated he loathed. A small, involuntary chuckle escaped my lips, a soft, bitter sound, as I imagined this petty, vindictive mother ensuring her son couldn't even find one sip of comfort in this dreary, oppressive place.
My subtle chuckle, and indeed, my audacity in comncing the repast before formal permission was granted, were, apparently, considered an egregious transgression within the rigid strictures of aristocratic etiquette. Cybil’s icy composure shattered; her voice, previously a low drone, suddenly rose, sharp and furious, echoing off the high ceiling. "So you have not only chosen to wed a man, Levi, but also a commoner?"
In my defense, Levi had explicitly stated I could do whatever I wanted. So I did.
Levi, who had not even deigned to touch the anemic mushroom soup, responded with an unnerving calm, his voice perfectly modulated, "Yes, Mother."
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