A Dangerous Obsession
Chapter 87 - 86

Chapter 87: Chapter 86

CHLORENDIA DOWNHILL

Dinner in our house was always an event. Not the kind with warmth or conversation, but the kind where silence stretched tight, every clink of silverware amplified, and the air so thick with tension you could choke on it. Tonight was no different.

I sat at the long dining table, staring down at my plate. The food looked immaculate, as always. The roast meat glistened under the chandelier’s light, the vegetables arranged with an artist’s precision, and the wine in my goblet was the deepest shade of red. But I could barely taste any of it.

My father sat at the head of the table, as he always did, his posture as perfect as the spine of a sword. His cane rested against the edge of his chair, a silent reminder of the man he used to be and the limitations he refused to acknowledge.

The clicking of knives and forks echoed in the dining room, filling the void where conversation should have been. I focused on cutting my meat into precise pieces, though my appetite was nonexistent.

"Are you done playing warrior?" His voice sliced through the quiet, sharp and direct.

I paused, my knife halfway through a piece of meat. "Excuse me?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

He set his fork down, his movements deliberate, and looked at me with those cold, calculating eyes. "Your antics in the training yard. I hope you’ve gotten it out of your system."

I clenched my fork tighter, the metal cool against my palm. "It’s not an antic, Father. It’s training. A skill I’ve chosen to hone."

"A skill," he repeated, his tone dripping with disdain. "And what exactly do you plan to do with this skill, Chlorendia? Impress the court? Defend the pack against an enemy? You’re delusional if you think anyone would take you seriously in such a role."

The words stung, but I refused to show it. Instead, I set down my knife and fork with deliberate care, folding my hands in my lap. "Perhaps I do it because no one else will defend me. You’ve made that clear."

His jaw tightened, a flicker of anger passing through his eyes. "Mind you words," he said, his voice low and dangerously calm.

"I will surely do that father, when you stop underestimating me," I shot back, my own anger bubbling to the surface.

For a moment, we simply stared at each other, the air between us crackling with unspoken words. I could feel the tension radiating off him, his authority demanding submission. But I wasn’t a pup anymore, and I refused to bow so easily.

"You think the world owes you something," he said finally, his tone colder than ever. "You think your defiance makes you strong. But strength isn’t about swinging a sword or spouting clever words. Strength is knowing your place and fulfilling your duty."

I felt a sharp pang in my chest, a mix of anger and sadness I couldn’t quite suppress. "And what is my place, Father?" I asked, my voice quieter now but no less firm. "To be silent? To be invisible? To be matched to whoever you deem fit and pretend I don’t exist outside of that role?"

His hand gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. "Your place is to serve this family, this pack. Not to indulge in childish fantasies of power."

I wanted to scream at him, to tell him he was wrong, that I was more than just a pawn in his games. But instead, I picked up my goblet and took a slow sip of wine, letting the bitter taste anchor me.

"You’ve made your expectations clear, Father," I said finally, setting the goblet down with a soft clink. "But I’ll choose my own path. Whether you approve or not."

The silence that followed was deafening, the tension in the room almost unbearable. My father’s gaze burned into me, but I held my ground, refusing to look away.

Finally, he leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable.

The rest of the meal passed in strained silence, the only sounds the occasional clink of silverware and the distant murmurs of servants in the hall. I pushed the food around my plate, unable to eat another bite.

When my father finally rose from his seat, signaling the end of the meal, I let out a quiet breath of relief. He picked up his cane and turned to leave, but paused at the doorway, glancing back at me. "There will be an upcoming tournament," he said, his voice calm but laced with authority. "I’ve decided you will be in charge of arranging it."

For a moment, I just blinked at him. I wasn’t sure I had heard correctly. Me? In charge? This wasn’t like him. He had never entrusted me with anything so important.

"Are you serious?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.

His sharp gaze cut through me, and I immediately regretted my tone. "Do you think I make jokes, Chlorendia?" he asked, his voice as cold as the draft that always seemed to haunt the dining hall.

"No, Father," I said quickly, straightening in my seat. My heart was pounding, a mix of shock and excitement coursing through me. "I won’t disappoint you."

He nodded once, a curt acknowledgment of my words. "See that you don’t," he said, turning toward the door. But just as he reached the threshold, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. "This is not a game, Chlorendia. A poorly executed tournament could embarrass this family. Do not mistake this for a favor. It’s a responsibility, one you’ll either rise to meet or fall under the weight of. Prove me wrong about you."

And then he was gone, leaving me sitting there in stunned silence.

I barely registered the quiet footsteps of the servants as they began clearing the table. My mind was spinning. This was... unprecedented. My father had never trusted me with something like this before. A tournament wasn’t just an event; it was a spectacle, a statement of power and prestige. The entire pack—and likely neighboring ones—would be watching. It was a test, I realized.

For a moment, I allowed myself to feel the spark of excitement that had been building since his announcement. A test was better than nothing. It meant he was willing to see what I could do, even if only to confirm his low opinion of me.

I would prove him wrong.

I pushed back my chair and stood, my steps purposeful as I left the dining hall. The corridors of the manor were dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the stone walls. My thoughts were racing ahead of me, ideas forming and dissolving as quickly as they came that I barely noticed the hurried footsteps coming from the opposite direction. By the time I did, it was too late.

"Oof!" A maid, carrying an armful of folded linens, collided into me. The impact wasn’t hard enough to send either of us tumbling, but the linens slipped from her grasp, landing in a crumpled pile at my feet.

"Oh no! I’m so sorry, my lady!" she stammered, immediately dropping to her knees to retrieve the fallen fabric. Her hands trembled as she worked, and she kept her head bowed, not daring to meet my gaze.

I stood there, staring at her. Normally, an incident like this would have drawn a sharp scolding from me. After all, the servants were supposed to be careful, especially when moving about the main hallways. But tonight, I couldn’t bring myself to muster any anger.

"It’s fine," I said, stepping around the mess without a second glance.

The maid froze, her hands clutching the last of the linens. She looked up at me, her wide eyes filled with disbelief.

"Thank you, my lady," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

I didn’t respond, already walking away. There wasn’t anything special about what happened but I could feel the maid’s lingering gaze on my back as I continued toward my bedchamber.

By the time I reached my door, my thoughts had returned to the tournament. I pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside, the familiar scent of lavender filling my senses.

I closed the door behind me and leaned against it for a moment, letting out a slow breath. For all the coldness my father usually showed me, tonight had been a turning point.

Walking to the desk, I lit the candle and sat down, pulling out a blank sheet of parchment. My hand hovered over the surface, unsure where to begin. The tournament was going to be massive, and every detail would need to be perfect.

I tapped the quill against the edge of the desk, my mind racing. How many competitors would there be? What kind of challenges would they face? Who would oversee the events? And, perhaps most importantly, how would I ensure that everything ran smoothly?

I began scribbling notes, my handwriting quick and messy as ideas poured out of me. The logistics alone were overwhelming, but I welcomed the challenge. This was my chance to show everyone—my father, the pack, even myself—that I wasn’t just the "weak little female" he often seemed to see me as.