Chapter 6
The close-up held on Maxwell’s face. His cold, observant eyes lingered on Baxter for a brief, heartbreaking moment. He absorbed the sheer trauma radiating from the loyal animal, the innocent creature who had been subjected to a horrifying death simply for existing in the same house as a jealous woman. The rigid lines of his angular face softened by a fraction of a millimeter toward the dog, a silent promise of absolute protection.
Then, his eyes slowly shifted.
His head followed slightly as his gaze moved upward, cutting across the gold-rimmed porcelain and crystal stemware, locking directly onto Camille. The warmth vanished entirely from his expression. His mouth settled into a firm, unyielding line, the muscles flexing beneath his extremely short stubble.
He held her gaze in complete, terrifying silence.
The end of the visual prompt suspended the room in this agonizing, cold, unwavering stare. The bright, luminous colors of the dining hall felt like a harsh interrogation spotlight, offering Camille no place to hide.
"Are you calling the woman who saved my dog a liar in front of the entire commission?" Maxwell finally asked.
"Maxwell, please, you have to understand," Camille stammered, her American accent trembling uncontrollably as she backed away from the table. "He is just an animal! He was a nuisance! He tracks mud through the halls, he smells, and you pay more attention to him than you do to me! I was only trying to clean up the estate!"
"Does cleaning an estate warrant an execution?" Maxwell inquired, his deep voice carrying a terrifying, unyielding authority.
"He was old!" Camille cried, tears of panic and frustration finally spilling over her fair cheeks, ruining her pristine makeup. "He was going to die soon anyway! I just sped up the process! I am your fiancée! I am the lady of this house! I had to assert control!"
"Do you believe control is established by drowning the defenseless?" Maxwell asked smoothly.
He slowly stood up, returning to his full, towering height. His broad shoulders completely blocked Camille's view of Ada and the dog. He didn't wait for her pathetic, scrambling answer. He slowly turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the silent, paralyzed guests. The refined artistic tattoos on his neck shifted as he addressed the entirety of the syndicate.
"Have we not celebrated enough for one evening?" Maxwell inquired, his voice carrying effortlessly to the back of the room.
May you like
The question was rhetorical, a lethal command disguised as an inquiry. The guests immediately understood the dismissal. Chairs scraped softly against the polished marble floors as the elite of the underworld rose in unison. There were no murmurs of protest, no prolonged goodbyes. The men and women simply nodded respectfully toward the head of the table and began a swift, silent exodus toward the grand foyer.
Within ninety seconds, the massive, opulent room was entirely empty of guests. The only people remaining were Maxwell, Ada, Baxter, Camille, and a dozen heavily armed, white American security guards standing quietly in the shadows near the heavy silk curtains.
