Chapter 2
Standing near the edge of the carved marble fireplace was Iris Bell. At twenty-seven, the newly hired housemaid was breathtakingly beautiful, possessing a movie-star quality that drew inevitable, quiet glances from the seated guests. She had a softly tapered face, delicate cheekbones, and expressive brows. Her thick hair was arranged elegantly into a loose low twist, complementing her slender, graceful proportions. She wore a sophisticated black maid dress with a cinched waist, a slim fitted silhouette, and a short A-line skirt. A neatly tied white apron, paired with a crisp white collar and cuffs, completed her polished appearance. Her fair, rosy skin was pale tonight, reflecting a deep, internalized dread.
Beside Iris stood Lucy Thorne. The six-year-old girl was a heartbreakingly precise reflection of her late mother, possessing the same fair skin and bright, observant eyes. Dressed in an elegant party dress and flat shoes, she watched the glittering engagement dinner with quiet apprehension.
Iris reached toward the mantelpiece, her movements stiff and reluctant. The warm light of the candles caught the slight, nervous tremor in her fingers. She straightened one of the heavy brass candlesticks, delaying the inevitable task she had been brutally ordered to complete. Camille had cornered her in the corridor an hour prior, threatening to dismiss her immediately and leave her destitute if she did not remove the photograph of Malcolm’s late wife before the dessert course was served.
With a heavy heart, Iris carefully placed her fingers on the edges of the small framed portrait resting perfectly between the two candlesticks. She began to lift the photograph from the marble surface.
Suddenly, a small hand darted forward.
Lucy placed her tiny palm firmly against the bottom of the silver frame, physically stopping it from leaving the mantel.
Iris paused immediately. Her breath caught in her throat. She looked down at the six-year-old girl, seeing the desperate, silent plea in the child's eyes. Lucy’s knuckles were white from the effort of holding her mother's memory in place.
From across the room, Malcolm noticed the disruption. His cold, perceptive gaze locked onto the child’s small fingers holding stubbornly onto the silver frame, and then shifted to the trembling hands of the beautiful housemaid.
"Should we join the guests for the final course?" Camille asked, stepping into Malcolm's line of sight, her satin gown rustling softly.
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"Are you entirely blind to what is happening by the fire?" Malcolm asked quietly, stepping smoothly around his fiancée.
He moved with the predatory grace of a man who owned the very air he breathed, his polished leather shoes making no sound against the thick rugs. As he approached the fireplace, the ambient noise of the crowded room seemed to completely evaporate.
