Chapter 3: Confidence
Riven sat at the long dining table, staring at the extravagant breakfast spread before him, feeling both amused and mildly irritated.
He had been forced to sit beside Julius—not that he had much of a choice. His dear stepbrother had insisted, flashing one of those smug smiles that made Riven want to punch him in the face.
For the first time, Riven actually looked at Julius. He had rich brown hair, slightly tousled but well-maintained, and deep black eyes, glossy like polished obsidian. Objectively speaking, Julius was hot.
"Shame he's such an asshole," Riven mused, sighing internally. "Otherwise, he'd be my type."
Unfortunately, Julius also had the personality of a particularly arrogant house cat, except far less charming and significantly more insufferable.
The table was grand—long enough for ten people, yet only four sat at it: Lord Lucian Veldrin, Lady Celeste, Julius, and Riven. The atmosphere was as cold as an abandoned graveyard. No one spoke, but Riven could feel the weight of their gazes.
His father, seated at the head of the table, ignored him completely, as usual. His stepmother, elegantly dressed and disinterested, sipped her tea gracefully, treating him like he was nothing more than dust on the furniture.
Then the food began to be served.
Well, for everyone but him.
The maids placed warm, steaming plates before Lucian, Celeste, and Julius, but when it came to Riven, they simply skipped over him as if he didn't exist. The message was clear: he wasn't meant to eat.
Julius, of course, noticed immediately. He leaned in close, his breath warm against Riven's ear, and whispered,
"If you give me head under the table, I might consider giving you some food."
Riven blinked.
Then blinked again.
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"Excuse me?"
Had he misheard? He turned to look at Julius, who was grinning like he had just told the funniest joke in the world.
Oh, no. He was completely serious.
The old Riven—the one who had lived this miserable life before—would have been mortified. He would have rather starved than lower himself to beg for food or serve himself. For him, both options had been humiliating.
But this wasn't the old Riven.
This was Riven who had read this damn novel twenty times.
This was Riven who had been transmigrated into this world and was absolutely not about to let himself starve because some pompous, second-rate villain thought it was funny.
So, without hesitation, he leaned forward and casually served himself.
He grabbed a plate, reached for the nearest meat dish, piled on some buttered bread, and then—just to be petty—took the juiciest-looking piece of steak right off Julius' plate before biting into it with exaggerated satisfaction.
Julius froze.
His smirk slipped just slightly, his dark eyes narrowing as he watched Riven eat.
His father's glare sharpened, but Riven? Completely unfazed.
He took his time chewing, savouring the flavour, even letting out a content sigh just to rub it in.
"Damn, this is good," he thought. "I forgot how much money these people have. Nobles really do eat like kings."
Julius leaned in again, voice lower. "You've grown bold, little brother."
Riven didn't even glance at him. He swallowed his food and shrugged. "I was just hungry. Unless you'd rather feed me yourself?"
His pink tongue was sticking out and was licking his lips, this made Julius freeze for a second. Since when did this guy become so bold?
Julius tensed, caught between annoyance and intrigue. His eyes never left Riven, watching his every movement with a new intensity.
Riven could practically feel the gears turning in Julius' head. The last time Riven had been in this situation, he had lowered his head, endured the hunger, and let himself be humiliated.
Not this time.
Across the table, his father finally spoke.
"You seem to have forgotten your place, Riven."
Riven barely spared him a glance. "My place? At the table, eating breakfast?" He gestured vaguely at the food. "Seems about right."
Julius choked on his drink. Celeste, ever uninterested, simply sighed as if the conversation bored her.
Lord Lucian's glare intensified, but Riven? He just kept eating, unbothered. What was his father going to do? Stare at him harder?
Julius, still watching him closely, suddenly chuckled. "You're different today."
Riven finally looked at him. "Am I?"
Julius smirked, tapping his fingers against the table. "Very."
There was a new sharpness in his gaze, like a predator assessing an unexpected challenge.
Riven, however, was too busy enjoying his meal to care.
If this was how breakfast was going to go every day, he'd at least make sure to keep it entertaining.
Riven had big plans for the day.
Now that he had resigned himself to being a leech on society, it was time to enjoy life to the fullest. The old Riven had wasted away in this estate, too afraid, too beaten down to even think about stepping outside unless absolutely necessary. Not this Riven.
This Riven was going to explore.
New world, new sights, and most importantly—new hot men. He needed to see what he was working with.
With that in mind, he got up from the table, stretched, and made his way toward his room to change.
Behind him, he heard the unmistakable sound of a chair scraping against the floor, followed by heavy footsteps.
Well, well, well.
He didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
Julius.
Riven smirked to himself but kept walking. He didn't stop. If Julius wanted something, he'd have to make a move. So Riven turned down the hall, away from his room, just to see what his stepbrother would do.
Julius kept up without hesitation.
The estate was cold and quiet, with only the sound of their footsteps filling the space.
And then, just as he expected, Julius struck.
Riven barely had time to react before he was grabbed, spun, and slammed against the wall.
The breath left his lungs for a split second.
Julius' hand was firm against his chest, their bodies so close that he could feel the heat coming from him. Their faces were close—too close.