Before Camille could answer Liam’s earlier remark, another knock sounded, and the door opened again.
Margaret stepped in first, followed by a maid pushing a silver dinner trolley, and the rich smell of freshly prepared food drifted into the room, filling up the silence that had settled between them.
Steam curled off a bowl of soup.
Fresh bread sat in a wicker basket.
Grilled chicken glazed to perfection, buttered vegetables, roasted potatoes, fruit arranged neatly on porcelain, a pot of tea with two empty cups waiting beside it.
The maid wheeled the trolley toward the small dining table by the window and arranged everything with practiced precision.
Margaret turned to Liam.
“Your instructions have been carried out, Mr.
Macford.”
“Thank you.” Liam replied
She hesitated only a second before dipping her head respectfully.
“If you’ll excuse us.” The maid followed her out, and the heavy door clicked shut behind them.
Silence returned — except this time, the smell of warm food lingered stubbornly, refusing to let either of them forget it was there.
Camille’s eyes drifted to the dinner, then slowly back to Liam.
A bitter laugh escaped her.
“You’re worried about me eating?” She pushed herself upright, exhaustion giving way to something sharper.
“This is almost funny.” Her voice shook despite her best efforts to keep it level.
“You dragged me here against my will.” She counted the accusations off on her fingers.
“You locked me inside this house.
You took my phone.
You’ve kept me away from everyone I care about.” Her eyes burned.
“And now you’re worried because I skipped a few meals?”
“Yes.” One word.
Simple.
Calm.
She blinked.
That wasn’t the answer she’d braced for.
She’d prepared for excuses, denial, an argument — not a flat, uncomplicated admission.
For a moment, she found herself with absolutely nothing to say.
Liam crossed to one of the dining chairs without any particular hurry, pulled it back, and sat opposite her, the trolley between them like neutral ground.
He glanced once at the untouched meal, then back to her.
“You can have your dinner.”
She folded her arms.
“I’m not eating.”
An eyebrow lifted.
“No?”
“Not until you let me leave.”
The faintest trace of amusement crossed his face.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not letting you go.”
Something in her finally snapped.
She climbed off the bed so fast the duvet slid to the floor behind her.
“You don’t get to decide that!”
“I already did.”
“You kidnapped me!”
He considered that for a moment.
“Technically.” His head tilted, ever so slightly.
“I prefer ‘unexpected accommodation.’ Sounds better.”
She stared at him, dumbfounded.
“…You cannot be serious.”
“I usually am.”
“You find this amusing?”
“Maybe I do.” He said it without hesitation, gray eyes lingering on her — there was something genuinely entertaining, he thought, about watching her stand there, cheeks flushed with fury, trying so hard to provoke a reaction he had no intention of giving her.
She let out a disbelieving laugh.
“You find this funny?
You locked me in your mansion!”
“I did.”
“You took my phone!”
“I did.”
“You won’t let me leave!”
“I’m aware.”
Her jaw dropped.
“Can you stop that?” Frustration spilled into her voice.
Why wasn’t he arguing?
Why wasn’t he defending himself?
She’d expected to provoke him into revealing exactly what he was afraid of losing if he let her go.
Instead he’d admitted to all of it without blinking, and somehow that made him nearly impossible to argue with.
Liam, for his part, raised an eyebrow, a flicker of real satisfaction crossing his face.
He was, quite plainly, enjoying this.
With an expression of practiced innocence, he asked, “Stop what, Miss Wilson?”
“Stop — stop admitting to your faults so casually.” Her voice dropped in embarrassment even as she said it.
He was somehow making her sound childish, ranting at a man who simply let her.
His gaze settled on her, something dangerous flickering briefly behind the gray.
“You watched me do it.” A small shrug.
“Lying about it now would be a waste of both our time, don’t you think so?”
She opened her mouth to argue and closed it again.
His honesty was somehow more infuriating than any excuse could have been.
The room went still.
Camille froze, gaze dropping instantly, heat rushing to her face fast enough to make her dizzy.
Did he hear that?
She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing the floor would simply open beneath her.
When no sound came, she risked a glance upward — and found Liam already watching her, steady, unwavering, as if he could see straight through every stubborn thought she was trying to hide.
The faintest flicker of amusement touched his eyes.
“Well.” A pause.
“At least one part of you is willing to admit it’s hungry.”
She couldn’t meet his eyes, hands pressing lightly against her stomach as though that might undo what had just happened.
“So you were actually hungry, Miss Wilson?” he asked, quiet amusement threading through every word.
“I — I’m not,” she stammered, knowing full well her own body had already betrayed the lie.
Liam regarded her for a quiet moment.
“You’re surprisingly stubborn.”
She looked up at him, holding his gaze.
“And entirely too easy to fluster.”
“I am not.”
“No?” His gaze drifted over her for a second before returning to her face.
“You spend half your time glaring at me…” The corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
“…and the other half looking as though the slightest thing might make you melt.”
Camille frowned.
“…Melt?”
“Hm.” He leaned back slightly.
“Snowflake.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“It suits you.”
Her brows knitted together in disbelief.
“My name is Camille.”
“I’m aware.” He reached for the dinner trolley and lifted the silver lid off one of the dishes, the smell rising again between them.
Without looking at her, he said simply, “Sit.”
She glanced at him, wanting badly to refuse — but her feet moved on their own, chasing the hunger she’d been fighting all day, and she found herself crossing the room and lowering into the chair across from him before she’d fully decided to.
“Before this goes any further,” he said, setting a plate in front of her, “you’re going to eat, Snowflake.”
She folded her arms stubbornly.
“I’m not — unless you’re offering to let me go.”
He glanced over at her, the faintest trace of mischief in his eyes.
“Well.” He picked up the fork with infuriating calm.
“That leaves me only one option.”
His gray eyes met hers.
“I’ll feed you myself.”