Just when I thought I was going to dissolve under the table, Calla clicked the toys off. The silence in my body was almost as loud as the chatter in the room. My lungs expanded, my hands stopped trembling, relief mixed with a dangerous longing forwhen she’d start again.
Dinner was served with the elegance only Olive and Oak could deliver.
The first course was a trio of delicate amuse-bouches: a miniature smoked salmon tartlet with crème fraîche, a tiny spoonful of roasted corn velouté dusted with chili oil, and a bite-sized brioche topped with foie gras and fig compote. Each one disappeared on the tongue like a whisper.
The second course arrived: a salad layered with heirloom tomatoes in shades of gold and crimson, burrata that spilled creamy richness, and a drizzle of balsamic that had aged so long it tasted like velvet.
The third course, my favorite so far, was a seafood risotto. Perfect pearls of Arborio rice simmered with saffron until the whole dish glowed golden, scattered with plump shrimp, scallops, and just a hint of truffle oil.
The fourth course was the showstopper: filet mignon seared to perfection, paired with a butter-poached lobster tail. The plate gleamed with roasted asparagus, duchess potatoes piped like little golden crowns, and a silky red wine reduction.
And finally, the fifth course, a dessert flight. Petite macarons in lavender, rose, and pistachio, paired with mini flourless chocolate tortes and edible gold leaf, and a champagne sorbet so crisp and cold it sent shivers down my spine.
I barely had time to savor the last spoonful when Calla rose.
The sight alone stole the air from my lungs. She wore a crimson gown sculpted in layers of velvet petals, each one blossoming like roses across her curves. A daring slit revealed the smooth line of her leg, her stride confident and commanding as she moved toward the stage. A diamond necklace glittered at her throat, catching the light with every step, while a lace mask of the same rich red framed her face like something pulled from a dream. She looked untouchable, dangerous, divine, a goddess draped in blood roses.
The crowd quieted instantly.
“Good evening,” she began, her voice smooth, commanding, yet soft enough to draw you in. “Tonight is a celebration, not just of BlackSphere, but of the people who make it what it is.”
She thanked her board and her staff for trusting her leadership. She spoke of record-breaking profits and branching boldly into new sectors, such as geotechnical instrumentation. Then her voice shifted, warmer, and every muscle in me stilled.
“And to Amiyah and James…” Her eyes found us at the table, the room following her gaze. “The way you show up for me consistently, without hesitation, makes me want to lower the walls I’ve kept up for far too long. You remind me that strength isn’t always about control, it’s about trust.”
The table and the entire ballroom went still. Calla didn’t do public vulnerability. Ever. Yet here she was, giving it freely. My heart twisted, close to bursting.
Then, she straightened. “Tonight, BlackSphere pledges $500,000 to Full STEAM Ahead, a nonprofit dedicated to investing in the future of our youth in Science, Technology, Engineering, Arts, and Mathematics. Every donation tonight will go to them. And I would love for our donors to match that half a million to make it one million by the end of the night.”
The applause was thunderous, echoing against crystal and gold. She raised her glass. “Thank you for being here. Eat well, drink deeply, and party hard.”
She returned to the table, regal as ever, just as Caleb and Calil took the stage. Their speeches were brotherly, full of pride and affection. They lauded her as the magnificent, unstoppable woman who had turned BlackSphere into a powerhouse. Their pledge came with booming certainty: another $500,000. The crowd leapt to its feet in a standing ovation, the energy crackling as they promised, “Let’s make this two million before the night is through.”
And then Khalil “Concrete” Reed, with his wife Cadence glowing at his side, stepped forward. Their words were a balm about the power of Black community, about giving back and lifting up. Cadence’s voice wavered when she said, “For a long time, I funded this organization myself. And let me tell you, it feels good to be able to afford groceries again.”
Laughter rolled through the room like a wave.
Except at our table.
Because at that exact moment, Calla flicked the switch.
The jolt hit me so hard my fork clattered against my plate, my thighs squeezing tight under my gown. James grunted low, his fingers curling into a fist on the table. My vision blurred for half a second, heat flashing under my skin.
And Calla? She sat serene in her crimson gown, diamonds winking as she lifted her glass. A queen among her subjects, controlling our pleasure with the barest flick of her hand, while the room cheered, clapped, and laughed, all oblivious to the storm brewing just beneath the surface of James and me.
When the band struck up, the dance floor filled. Silk gowns twirled, tuxedos spun their partners, laughter and music rising high into the vaulted ceiling. At our table, the energy was buzzing, light and carefree, but for me, every note of the music was a drumbeat syncing with the waves of pleasure I couldn’t control.
“Dance with me.” Calla’s voice came low, soft, but undeniable, and she didn’t ask, she commanded.
I rose, my knees trembling, and let her lead me onto the dance floor. James stayed seated, his jaw tight, his hands shoved in his pockets like he was holding himself together. The crowd parted slightly, giving us space without realizing it.
Calla twirled me once, the fabric of my gown fanning out around us like a blush-colored cloud. She pulled me close, one hand firm on my waist, the other brushing against the diamonds at my throat. “Smile, princess,” she whispered, her lips brushing my ear. “They’re watching.”
I did, because what else could I do? My face burned, but I leaned into her, letting the mask and the gown and the diamonds make me brave. Across the floor, James caught my gaze, his expression tortured and hungry all at once.
Calla’s hand drifted lower, resting at the small of my back, her fingers pressing just enough to remind me exactly who I belonged to. As if reading our twin desperation, she clicked the toys off again.
The silence was almost worse. My body screamed for more, for relief, for the release she kept dangling just out of reach. James' shoulders sagged with the same mix of relief and frustration.
