Chapter 2
Moving with quiet, hurried grace through the bright, airy room was Ada Winters. At twenty-seven, the housemaid was exceptionally beautiful, resembling a movie star with her softly oval face, expressive brows, and delicate cheekbones. Her fair, rosy skin was pale tonight, reflecting a deep, internalized dread and the biting chill of the river water. Her hair, normally flawless, was gathered into a loose, slightly messy braided bun. She wore a sophisticated black maid dress featuring a cinched waist, a slim fitted silhouette, and a short A-line skirt.
However, her appearance was drastically marred. The hem of her black skirt and the lower half of her neatly tied white apron were soaked through, dripping small droplets of water onto the polished marble floors.
But Ada was not carrying a silver tray or pouring vintage wine. Walking slowly and unsteadily beside her was Baxter, Maxwell’s thirteen-year-old Labrador. The elderly dog possessed a graying muzzle, gentle eyes, and a familiar leather collar. His thick fur was completely saturated, plastered against his ribs. He looked incredibly weak and subdued, leaning heavily against the housemaid's leg for support.
Ada approached the space directly to the right of Maxwell’s champagne velvet chair, guiding the exhausted animal through the maze of powerful guests. She struggled violently to contain her distress, forcing her breathing to remain even so as not to draw more attention than necessary.
With meticulous care, Ada crouched down and set a silver water bowl beside Baxter.
The elderly dog let out a soft, shuddering breath and pressed his damp muzzle affectionately against her hand.
Across the table, Camille Lennox stopped cutting her steak. The polite, radiant smile vanished from her face for a fraction of a second. Her fair, rosy skin paled slightly under the warm golden light. She had explicitly arranged for the dog to be drowned in the river hours ago, fueled by a toxic resentment of Maxwell's deep attachment to the animal. She had already told the staff and Maxwell that Baxter had simply wandered away into the woods.
But the panic only lasted a microsecond. Camille’s sharp survival instincts kicked in. She quickly plastered a brittle, plastic smile back onto her face. She smoothed the front of her sculpted satin evening gown, projecting an aura of complete, unbothered calm.
Looking directly at Ada, Camille spoke. Her American accent was perfectly modulated, smooth, and casually certain.
May you like
“That animal belongs outside.”
Camille’s polite smile tightened with barely concealed displeasure. She delivered the words as if dismissing a trivial nuisance. Her eyes carefully and frantically searched Maxwell's angular face for any sign of acceptance, any indication that he had bought her casual dismissal. Only after delivering her explanation did she shift her gaze back toward the housemaid, offering a brief, venomous warning glance.
