Chapter 4
The collapse of the engagement arch echoed through the garden with a loud, hollow crash. The sheer ribbons fluttered to the ground, settling over Sloane’s luxurious engagement gown like a burial shroud.
The two bodyguards were completely caught off guard by the sudden violence from the housemaid. Instinct overrode their orders. Both the Black American guard and the white American guard immediately released their crushing grip on Alden’s upper arms, stepping forward and reaching down instinctively toward their falling employer.
The fifty guests surrounding the champagne bar and the padded benches completely stopped laughing. The phones that had been raised to record Alden’s humiliation were slowly lowered. A stunned, breathless silence descended over the bright, airy garden. The elegant warmth of the afternoon had vanished, replaced by a freezing, volatile tension.
Callista did not look at the woman she had just swept off her feet. She immediately turned back to Alden, stepping in close to him.
Her fingers trembled violently as she reached up, her protective instincts overriding her fear of the massive men standing nearby. She gently straightened the collar of his tailored dark suit, smoothing the lapels that Sloane had wrinkled. She took the clean linen napkin once more and carefully, tenderly blotted the red mark on his neck and jaw.
"Did they hurt your arms, sir?" Callista asked, her voice shaking with adrenaline, completely ignoring the stunned crowd.
Alden looked down at her. He raised his hand, the refined tattoos shifting across his knuckles, and gently grasped her trembling hand, steadying her fingers against his chest. He did not pull away. The contrast between her pristine white cuffs and his dark suit was stark under the natural cinematic lighting.
"I am uninjured, Callista," Alden said softly, his thumb lightly brushing the back of her hand. "You should not have put yourself in danger."
"I could not let her strike you again," Callista whispered, her expressive eyes searching his angular face.
Alden did not look at the guards. He did not look at the stunned crowd. He kept his cold, observant eyes locked entirely on the necklace hanging from the neck of the woman struggling beneath the collapsed silk flowers.
Sloane was gasping for air, pushing the lightweight wooden lattice off her chest. Her perfectly styled hair was ruined, her face flushed with fury and embarrassment. The two guards hesitated, their hands hovering over her, unsure whether to help her up or draw their weapons.
"Do you know why I am certain that is her ring, Sloane?" Alden asked, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the silent, luminous garden.
Sloane froze on the ground, her hands scrambling against the grass. She looked up at him, her chest heaving.
May you like
Alden stepped forward, bringing Callista with him, refusing to let go of her hand. He stood over his fallen fiancée, his broad shoulders blocking the sun.
"I buried her wearing it," Alden said, his voice quiet, dangerous, and dripping with absolute certainty.
