Chapter 1
The private ballroom of the Grand St. Regis gleamed with sterile, daylight-bright perfection. Beneath the soaring crystal chandeliers, three hundred high-society guests in tuxedos and silk evening dresses chatted in smooth, polished American accents. There were no soft shadows, no dim corners—only the pristine white tablecloths and the brilliant sparkle of champagne flutes reflecting off fair, flushed skin.
At the center of the head table sat three-year-old Annelie Haversham. Her small patent-leather flats dangled inches above the carpet. Dressed in a stiff ivory party dress and a matching cardigan, the little girl reached her trembling hands toward the massive silver serving dome covering her dinner plate.
Beside her, Delphine adjusted the straps of her emerald-cut engagement gown. The five-carat diamond on her finger threw blinding prisms of light as she raised her gold smartphone, pointing the camera lens directly into Annelie’s small face.
Annelie lifted the silver dome.
Beneath the polished metal, there was no food. Resting in the center of the porcelain plate was a coarse yellow kitchen sponge, dripping in thick, greasy brown gravy.
Delphine leaned in, sliding a polished silver fork beside the soggy sponge. Her voice purred with sweet, honeyed malice: "Smile. A starving brat doesn't get to be picky."
Annelie’s fingers went numb. The heavy silver dome slipped from her grasp, tilting toward the edge of the mahogany table.
A broad, scarred hand caught the dome inches before it struck the floor.
Roderic Haversham set the metal cloche down without making a sound. At forty-eight, the mafia boss dominated the room with effortless, predatory authority. His dark three-piece suit was cut to millimeter precision, his starched white shirt stark against his tanned, rugged jaw, and his gold signet ring glinted on his left pinky.
Annelie turned to him, her hazel eyes brimming with tears, her lower lip trembling.
"Daddy…" Annelie’s voice was barely a whisper, thick with shame. "Daddy… I haven’t eaten anything for two days."
Roderic’s gray eyes locked onto the gravy-soaked sponge. Slowly, his gaze tracked upward, settling on Delphine’s raised phone.
Delphine lowered the screen an inch, forcing an airy, crystalline laugh that rang hollow across the table.
"It’s a joke," Delphine said dismissively, flicking her manicured nails toward the guests. "They love these videos. It’s harmless, Roderic."
Roderic’s jaw set like iron. "'They'?" he repeated.
"It’s trending content," Delphine argued, her tone sharpening. "Everyone online does it. Don't make a scene."
"Out of the chair, Annelie," Roderic commanded softly.
He lifted his daughter by her ribs, gently setting her down behind his broad back, out of the line of fire.
Roderic turned back to his fiancée and extended an open, calloused palm. "Give me the phone."
"No," Delphine hissed, pulling the device back against her narrow waist. "This is my private property, Roderic!"
"I said give it to me."
"You don't own me yet!" Delphine snarled. With her free hand, she swung a wild, vicious slap straight toward Roderic’s jaw.
Roderic’s left forearm rose, blocking the strike mid-air. In the same unbroken motion, his right hand came across in a sharp, open-handed slap across her face.
The crack echoed like a gunshot.
Delphine staggered backward, her silver heels skidding before she crashed hard into the cushioned armchair. The gold phone flew from her hand, skittering across the white tablecloth and coming to rest beside the untouched fork.
The surrounding tables fell dead silent.
Silas, Roderic’s lead bodyguard, materialized from the shadows, planting himself beside Delphine’s chair like an iron pillar.
Roderic reached out, picking up the phone by its edges without touching the lit screen.
From behind his tailored jacket, Annelie clutched the dark wool of his trousers, her tiny voice trembling. "They ask her to do it again, Daddy."
Delphine began to push herself up, wiping a smear of blood from her painted lip. "Roderic, you touched me—"
Roderic’s gaze shifted to her. Delphine froze, collapsing back into the velvet cushions under the weight of his eyes.
Roderic raised the phone above the gravy-stained sponge. Every breath in the ballroom caught.
"‘They’?" Roderic asked, his voice low, deliberate, and cold as a winter grave. "So it wasn't just you."
May you like
Delphine’s eyes panicked, darting across the room.
At the far end of the banquet table, a wealthy associate hurriedly turned his phone facedown against the linen.
