Chapter 7
Alice stood paralyzed, the heavy silver pitcher trembling violently in her grip. She felt the heavy, judgmental stares of the wealthy donors and ruthless capos burning into her back. But as she looked down at the broken shards of glass resting on the silver tray, a sudden, unfamiliar spark of defiance flared in her chest.
She looked at six-year-old Jamie, who was looking up at her with absolute, innocent trust. He had saved her feet from being slashed to ribbons. He had protected her.
Alice took a shallow, shuddering breath. She lifted her chin, her expressive eyes meeting Rosalind’s cold, arrogant gaze across the table.
"For spilling your wine?" Alice asked.
Her voice was incredibly quiet, carrying a slight, unavoidable tremor, yet it was devastatingly clear. The simple question stripped away all of Rosalind’s aristocratic justifications, exposing the sheer, petty malice of the motive.
A collective, quiet gasp rippled through the elite guests. To plant glass in someone's shoes over spilled wine was an act of monstrous, insecure cruelty.
Rosalind’s face drained of all color. The fair, rosy skin turned a sickly, translucent white beneath the warm golden light. She opened her mouth to speak, to scream a command, to have the maid dragged out of the room, but the sheer, overwhelming terror radiating from the man sitting beside her paralyzed her vocal cords.
Damien did not hesitate. His reaction was deliberate, fueled by a cold, terrifying, protective adrenaline.
He rose instantly from his velvet dining chair. The movement was so smooth, so packed with coiled, lethal energy, that it commanded absolute stillness from everyone else in the room. His broad shoulders blocked the light from the chandeliers as he stepped decisively into the medium wide space between Rosalind and Alice.
He physically cut Rosalind off from the maid.
Seeing his father move, Jamie immediately stepped forward. The six-year-old boy moved securely beside Alice, tucking himself against her black maid dress. He looked up at her, still visibly pleased and proud about helping her with the dangerous gift.
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Alice did not push him away. She dropped her free hand from the pitcher and rested a gentle, trembling hand on Jamie’s small shoulder, pulling the boy close to her side.
Damien stood tall in his tailored dark suit. He held Rosalind’s gaze, his dark eyes absolute voids of lethal intent. As he stared her down, the polished, composed smile completely faded from Rosalind's face, replaced by a mask of raw, undeniable fear.
