CHAPTER 291: FEELINGS FOR DARREN

Olivia sighed. "Come on, ladies. Do I really have to say it?"

Everyone looked at each other. Penny and Ileana were the only ones to hide their faces, drinking the softer wines that had been provided for them.

"Say what?"

The rest of the women remained in confusion. Or at least pretended to be. Rachel, although the only one to truly know what was happening, was utterly silent, her eyes almost thoughtless as she watched the women in the room.

Cheyenne smiled again, a more mischievous one. She took another sip of her wine, but before that, as the glass waited at the brink of her lips, she hissed the words, "You all have a thing for our dear Mr. Duckling."

Everyone’s eyes widened.

"What?"

"No!"

"That"s outrageous."

"What are you talking about?"

They murmured amongst themselves, while drinking to hide their true reactions.

"Oh don’t lie to yourselves, ladies," Cheyenne said, placing her glass on the table. "Even I’m willing to admit that he does have his charm, his attractive... features." She thought for a better word. "Values."

Then she sat back, folding her arms and causing more cleavage to pull up her dress. A playful smile played on her elegant face. "But look at you girls, all trying to hide that you have feelings for him? Why? Because he’s your boss?"

They all kept guilty expressions.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Tamara muttered.

Cheyenne grinned, clearly enjoying herself. "Come on, Miss Johnstone. I know you and Miss Sinclair were high school friends but that only means that liking the same guy shouldn’t be something new to you."

Amelia glared at her. "Do you just know everything about us?"

Cheyenne smirked smugly. "How else do you think the wealthy stay that way?"

"Apart from that? Is this true?" Kara asked, grabbing attention with a slight slam of her palm on the table. "Did Boss gather us here because we all... like him? Does he want us to talk it out within ourselves?"

Cheyenne shrugged. "I don’t know."

"I mean he kept himself a seat at the head of the table like this is some kind of harem. How kinky, boss."

"I don’t have feelings for my client so I shouldn’t be here," Daisy announced.

"Really? The way you defend him in court... You seem particularly passionate if you asked me."

"He’s my client. I’m doing my job."

"Yeah. A little too well, you smart cougar."

"What? I’m 26."

"Okay then. Cougar cub."

"What the fuck?"

"Guys this is ridiculous. We can’t all like Darren? And how would he even know?"

"He sent me flowers... daisies..." Penelope spoke, suddenly causing everyone to fall silent. Her voice was a fragile whisper. "I thought... maybe he was doing this to apologize. But I didn’t expect this."

A fresh sob escaped her. Ileana, beside her, reached out hesitantly, then pulled her hand back, looking terrified.

Amelia adjusted her crisp white jacket, her face a mask of glacial detachment, though a faint tremor betrayed her. "Then he is even more incompetent than his recent financial maneuvering suggests. This is not damage control. This is arson." Her icy gaze swept the table. "Gathering volatile elements in confined proximity guarantees detonation."

Kara looked at her. "Way to mathematicize the situation, nerd."

Amelia shot her a look. "Jesus, Kara. You play too much."

"Well, I can see that this is funny even though the joke’s on me."

Miranda found her voice, shaky but firm. "I was thinking that this would be about the confidential strategy session. This is... the opposite of confidential." She gestured helplessly at the crowded table.

Daisy nodded mutely beside her, her office dress matching her pale, confused face.

Silence came once again.

The tension wasn’t just growing; it was vibrating. Accusations flew, hurt simmered, rage boiled. The shared realization of Darren’s deception fused with their individual pain and jealousy, creating a volatile compound.

Sandy shoved her chair back with a violent screech that made everyone jump. "I just can’t stay here. I can’t do this, whatever it is."

She stood, her black dress sharp as a knife in the twilight. "I’m not sitting here like a damn mannequin waiting for the puppet master to show. If he wants to play games, he can play with himself." She turned towards the exit.

Her movement was a catalyst.

Penelope stood shakily, tears streaming freely now. "I... I can’t... I need to go home."

Ileana scrambled up beside her, nodding frantically, looking relieved to escape.

Kara looked torn. She knew that Darren had a reason for this. He was her boss, her smart, cunning boss who always came through. She had the lingering hope that Darren might still appear just for her. Or at least to explain this.

But Sandy getting up had already encouraged others as well, and she didn’t want to just sit there helplessly.

’Sorry, boss,’ she thought as she began to rise.

Miranda and Daisy exchanged a look and rose silently, their professional confusion turning to resolute disapproval.

Even Amelia stood, smoothing her pantsuit with sharp, precise movements, a silent verdict of frustration.

Just as the exodus began, as chairs scraped and furious, hurt murmurs filled the air, a new sound cut through the chaos.

Click.

They all recognized it as the single, sharp sound of a footfall on marble. It was distinct and deliberate. Coming from the shadowed alcove behind the orchids.

Silence crashed down instantly. Every head whipped towards the sound. Sandy froze mid-stride, hand halfway to the door handle. Penelope stifled a sob. Kara’s hopeful defiance evaporated into wide-eyed uncertainty. Amelia’s icy mask tightened. Cheyenne’s smirk returned, sharper now. Rachel’s knuckles went white again.

Click... Click... Click.

Slow, measured footsteps echoed in the sudden, absolute quiet. Each one ratcheted the tension tighter, a drumbeat counting down to impact. The footsteps drew closer, emerging from the shadows cast by the ivy-covered trellis.

Then, he stepped into the pool of soft light at the head of the impossibly long table.

The architect of this madness, Darren fucking Steele.

He was dressed in a suit that cost more than most cars – charcoal grey, impeccably tailored, hugging broad shoulders and a lean frame. The fabric was a subtle, luxurious weave that caught the low light.

Beneath it, a crisp, ice-white shirt lay open at the collar, no tie, a hint of deliberate, powerful nonchalance. A single platinum cufflink glinted at his wrist, minimalist and obscenely expensive. On his left wrist, a Patek Philippe timepiece gleamed, its complex face a silent testament to wealth and precision.

His dark hair was perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. His jaw was clean-shaven, strong, and his face... held its usual magnetic charm, but it was layered now with an intensity that was almost frightening.

There was a shadow in his eyes, a hint that he knew the kind of anger and confusion he had inflicted, but it was masked by sheer, formidable presence. He radiated controlled power, breathtaking wealth, and devastatingly handsome composure. He was the storm contained, standing calmly at its eye.

He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the tableau he’d created – the standing women, the expressions of fury, betrayal, shock, and tears. The untouched feast. The charged silence. His eyes met Rachel’s for a fleeting, unreadable moment, then moved on.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, not warm, but confident. Commanding.

His voice, when it came, was a deep, resonant baritone that filled the silence, smooth as aged whiskey and just as potent.

"Ladies..." A deliberate pause, letting the word hang, acknowledging the sheer absurdity and tension of their gathering. "...welcome."