Chapter 4
The air in the opulent dining room grew suffocatingly tight. The cascading crystal chandeliers continued to cast their soft, elegant warmth, but the atmosphere was now charged with a lethal, invisible electricity. The thirty elite guests remained completely silent, their eyes darting between the mafia boss, the beautiful housemaid, and the glittering fiancée.
Camille met Dorian’s cold, observant eyes without flinching. She possessed a dangerous confidence, born of a lifetime of entitlement and power. She let out a small, musical laugh that echoed unnaturally against the carved walnut paneling and gilded mirrors.
"It’s just pretend, darling," Camille said, her American accent light and breezy.
Her lips maintained a perfect, reassuring smile, a masterclass in social deception. Yet, her eyes betrayed her, searching the sharp, masculine angles of Dorian’s face for agreement, for a sign that he would brush this off as a harmless child's game. She had promised herself an evening without reminders of the woman who had preceded her, and she was determined to enforce that reality.
"Do we pretend that our blood is not our own?" Dorian asked, his deep voice slicing through her hollow laughter.
"Children have such vivid imaginations, Dorian," Camille countered smoothly, adjusting a diamond earring. "Maisie simply adores Cora. She’s playing a game. There’s no need to make a spectacle of it in front of our guests."
Dorian did not argue. He did not raise his voice. He simply broke eye contact with Camille and looked down at Maisie. The little girl was still clutching Cora’s white apron, her fair, rosy cheeks pale with anxiety.
Silently, Dorian reached out with his tattooed hand. He grasped the back of the empty ivory upholstered chair beside his place setting. With a smooth, deliberate motion, he drew the chair outward, opening a place of honor right beside him. He looked at his daughter, his expression softening just a fraction.
"Will you not sit beside me?" Dorian asked quietly.
Maisie looked up, her gaze drifting past the polished silver and crystal glasses to meet her father's eyes directly. She saw the quiet strength there, the absolute safety that only he could provide. The grip on Cora's apron loosened.
"Can I be yours when they leave?" Maisie asked.
Her voice was small, innocent, and heartbreakingly sincere. The question shattered the last remaining illusions in the room. It was not a game; it was a child asking for permission to exist in her own father's life.
Dorian’s jawline tightened imperceptibly. He reached down and gently took Maisie’s small hand in his own, guiding her securely into the chair beside him. Once she was seated, he turned his cold, perceptive eyes slowly toward Camille.
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Camille’s practiced smile tightened, the edges of her lips trembling before the smile faded entirely. She realized, with a sudden, sickening drop in her stomach, that Dorian was waiting. He was demanding an explanation for the psychological torment of his child.
Cora stayed firmly beside Maisie, her slender hands resting protectively near the back of the child's chair. Every guest in the room remained completely silent, watching the mafia boss dismantle his fiancée with a single, devastating look.
