Chapter 6
The medium wide shot framed the immediate, terrifying fallout of Anya’s softly spoken confession. The bright, airy colors of the dining hall felt suddenly charged with an explosive, high-voltage tension. The clean whites of the table linens and the polished highlights of the silver cutlery shimmered beneath the warm golden light, a stark contrast to the dark reality of the confrontation.
Delphina swallowed hard, sinking her manicured nails into the palms of her hands. She forced herself to step forward slightly, refusing to be sidelined in front of the entire syndicate. She looked directly at Gareth, projecting an aura of complete, unbothered calm.
“She barely remembers her own name.”
Delphina met his eyes with a wide, indulgent smile. Her voice was smooth, melodic, and lightly amused. She delivered the words as if dismissing a trivial, sad symptom of age, an explanation that should entirely excuse the absurdity of the maid's claim.
A soft, dismissive laugh followed her words, a cruel, ringing sound that bounced off the carved ivory-paneled walls.
"Darling, the maid is simply trying to endear herself to you by taking credit for an old recipe she probably found in a book," Delphina continued, her voice raising slightly to ensure the guests could hear her justification. "Beatrice’s mind is entirely gone. We all know this. We must be patient with her delusions."
Her eyes carefully and frantically searched Gareth's angular expression for any sign of agreement, any indication that he accepted her psychological justification for erasing his mother's competence. She waited for him to nod, to dismiss the maid and return the focus to the dinner.
Gareth did not smile back. He did not nod. The extremely short stubble on his jawline seemed to harden into absolute granite.
He moved.
He did not rush, nor did he display any outward sign of explosive anger. He simply rose from his champagne velvet chair with a fluid, terrifying masculine grace. His broad, powerful shoulders shifted beneath the tailored dark three-piece suit. In one deliberate, protective motion, Gareth stepped sideways, placing his towering frame beside Beatrice.
He reached out with his heavily tattooed hand. The refined artistic ink flexed smoothly as he rested a steady, incredibly grounding hand against the back of his mother's velvet chair. He acted as an impenetrable wall, physically shielding the frail matriarch and the beautiful housemaid from his furious fiancée.
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"Is a woman who forgets her own name capable of measuring flour with the precision of a master chef, Delphina?" Gareth asked. His deep, low voice rolled through the quiet room, the measured pauses striking like a physical blow.
Delphina’s smile tightened significantly at the corners, the panic finally bleeding through her flawless facade. But before she could formulate a lie, the true target of her cruelty finally found her voice.
