Chapter 3
Valeria did not stumble. Her heels dug into the manicured turf, absorbing the shove without yielding an inch. Her eyes flicked toward Luca, who remained frozen by the perimeter railing, his knuckles whitening around his crystal stem.
Then, she turned back to Declan.
Declan saw the silence in her eyes and mistook it for hesitation. Emboldened by three decades of street muscle and his sister’s impending marriage into the bloodline, he reared his right arm back, driving a heavy, closed-fist punch straight at Valeria’s jaw.
"Time for early retirement, lady—"
Valeria moved with the fluid, explosive economy of a striking viper.
She slipped beneath the incoming strike, the displaced wind rustling the silk of her collar. Before Declan could pull his shoulder back, Valeria stepped into the pocket, pivoted her hips, and drove an explosive, bone-shattering counterpunch straight across his jaw.
The crack of knuckles meeting cheekbone echoed across the lawn like a rifle shot.
Declan’s head snapped violently sideways. The kinetic force lifted the two-hundred-pound man off his feet, spinning him backward through the air. He collided full-weight with the rolling birthday-cake cart.
The cart buckled instantly. Four tiers of buttercream, spun sugar, and gold leaf slid from their silver stands in a catastrophic cascade, collapsing on top of Declan as the cart slammed into the stacked gift crates behind it. Heavy wooden boxes toppled like dominoes, ribbons tore, porcelain shattered, and Declan crashed straight through the collapsing lower support frame, groaning in agony as blood and strawberry coulis pooled over his ruined collar.
The laughing guests froze. A dozen phones instantly lowered.
"Declan!" Camille shrieked.
Hysteria stripped the vanity from her face. Blinded by rage, Camille lunged across the grass, her crimson nails hooked like talons, aiming an open-handed slap straight at Valeria’s throat. "You crazy bitch!"
Valeria didn't even widen her stance.
Her left hand shot out like an iron clamp, snatching Camille’s wrist mid-air with enough force to make the younger woman shriek. With one sharp, downward torque, Valeria wrenched Camille’s arm, breaking her balance, and brought her own right hand across Camille’s face in a thunderous open-handed slap.
The impact sounded like thunder across the manicured lawn.
Camille spun through the air, her high heels flying from her feet as she crashed sideways into the freestanding floral screen. The lightweight lattice frame groaned, splintering under her momentum. Heavy ropes of white gardenias, trailing ivy, and satin ribbons collapsed around her like a net, burying Camille beneath crushed petals as she hit the turf, weeping and clutching her swelling cheek.
Across the lawn, thirty guests backed away in terrified unison. Every single phone disappeared into pockets.
Valeria stood completely untouched, her tailored suit uncreased, her breathing as calm as if she were inspecting an empty garden.
She turned her head slowly, looking at Arthur where he sat on the padded bench, his old eyes blazing with ancient, satisfied fire.
Then Valeria turned back to the floral wreckage. She stepped over a broken crate, stopping two feet from Camille’s groveling form.
"Who promised you my father’s chair?" Valeria whispered, her voice quiet, lethal, and absolute.
May you like
Camille gasped through her tears, her terrified gaze darting past Valeria’s shoulder. She looked directly at Luca.
At the edge of the lawn, Luca’s hand began to shake violently. The champagne flute slipped from his fingers, shattering into a hundred glittering shards against the stone flagstones.
