Chapter 5
The camera angle shifted to a tight close-up of Colette.
The bright, clear lighting illuminated every detail of her sculpted beauty—the flawless, rosy skin, the sharp contour of her cheekbones, and the brilliant flash of her diamond earrings. Colette knew she was standing on the precipice of absolute ruin. She could not allow the housemaid to speak. If the truth of her psychological torture and physical demands came to light, her position, her power, and very likely her life, would be forfeit.
Colette met Bastian’s cold, observant gaze, forcing the muscles in her face to obey her command. She projected a faint, indulgent smile, designed to mimic affectionate exasperation, as if dealing with a mildly confused, stubborn child.
“She likes to feel useful.”
Colette delivered the words with a smooth, casually certain tone. Her American accent was perfectly pitched, carrying a gently reassuring air. She spoke as though she were excusing an endearing, harmless quirk of an elderly relative who simply wouldn't take no for an answer.
Her eyes carefully and frantically searched Bastian's angular expression for any sign of agreement, any indication that he had bought her casual deflection. She waited for him to nod, to gently scold his mother for wandering out of her room, and to return the focus to their engagement celebration.
Bastian did not smile back. He did not nod. The extremely short stubble on his jawline seemed to harden into absolute granite.
"Is a mother's desire to feel useful best satisfied by plunging her hands into boiling dishwater while my guests drink vintage champagne?" Bastian asked.
His deep, low voice rolled through the quiet room, the measured pauses striking like the methodical ticking of a metronome.
Colette’s smile tightened slightly at the corners, but she maintained her posture. "Bastian, darling, please. You know how independent she is. She insisted on helping the kitchen staff. I tried to stop her, but she simply wouldn't listen. Her mind wanders, and she reverts to the old days before your father built this empire."
"Do you believe the regression of an elderly mind naturally leads to a meticulously tied work apron and a schedule of manual labor, Colette?" Bastian inquired, his cold, perceptive eyes locking onto her with terrifying intensity.
"You are making a spectacle of this!" Colette hissed, her voice lowering slightly, attempting to manage the situation before it escalated into a public humiliation. "She is confused! Just let the maid take her back to her suite where she belongs."
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"Does my mother belong hidden in the shadows, or does she belong at the head of this table?" Bastian questioned, his gaze remaining entirely unyielding.
He did not wait for her answer. He turned his attention back to the beautiful housemaid standing steadfastly beside his mother. Lila had not flinched, despite the terrifying aura of the Mafia boss and the venomous glares shot at her by the future bride. The stage was set, and the truth was demanding to be heard.
