Chapter 6
Sabine held Caleb’s gaze, refusing to let the panic bleed into her posture. She leaned slightly forward in her sculpted plum satin gown, attempting to command the intimacy of the moment.
“Miles prefers the kitchen, darling.”
Sabine’s voice stayed softly reassuring, carrying a smooth, casually certain tone. She delivered the words as if proposing a simple, logical fact about a child's quirky eating habits.
"He is just so overwhelmed by the crowds, the noise, the lights," Sabine continued, her American accent perfectly modulated. "He told me earlier today that he feels much more comfortable eating with the staff. He said the dining room makes his stomach hurt. I was simply sliding the plate back so Iris could take it to his preferred spot. I am only trying to accommodate his needs."
Her eyes carefully and frantically searched Caleb's angular expression for any sign of agreement, any indication that he had bought her casual deflection. She waited for him to nod, to dismiss the maid and send the boy away so they could return the focus to their celebration.
Caleb did not smile back. He did not nod. The extremely short stubble on his jawline seemed to harden into absolute granite.
"Is it customary for a child who prefers the kitchen to reach for his fork in the dining room before his plate is confiscated?" Caleb asked.
His deep, low voice rolled through the quiet room, the measured pauses striking like a physical blow.
Sabine’s smile tightened slightly at the corners, but she maintained her poise. "He was just reaching for his napkin, Caleb. You are overthinking this. The boy is fragile. Let Iris take him downstairs where he belongs. We have fifty guests waiting for your attention."
"Do you believe the comfort of my guests supersedes the nourishment of my son, Sabine?" Caleb inquired, his cold, perceptive eyes locking onto her with terrifying intensity.
"I believe in maintaining the dignity of this family," Sabine countered, her voice lowering slightly, a sharp edge of genuine irritation bleeding through her sweet facade. "And having a terrified, trembling boy sitting at the head table does not project strength."
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"Does starving a child project strength?" Caleb asked softly, his tone dropping into a register of pure, concentrated ice.
The guests remained absolutely silent and attentive, paralyzed by the public interrogation of the future bride. The bright, luminous colors of the engagement dinner felt permanently stained by the exposure of such calculated, systemic cruelty. Sabine swallowed hard, realizing that the Mafia boss was not going to let the issue slide. The trap was closing, and Caleb was looking directly at the only person in the room brave enough to spring it.
