Chapter 2
Stellan Wycliffe possessed the kind of masculine, cinematic presence that could silence a room without a single word being spoken. At thirty-six, the Mafia boss was handsome as a movie star, his angular face defined by a high-bridged nose and a sharply carved jawline covered in extremely short, neatly trimmed stubble. His thick, slightly wavy dark hair was naturally slicked back, though a few loose, romantic strands fell casually over his forehead. He wore a tailored dark three-piece suit that fit his broad shoulders flawlessly, a heavy family signet ring, and a luxury wristwatch that caught the bright, clean daylight.
His hands, emerging from crisp white cuffs, were marked by artistic, refined tattoos. The sharp designs curled along his fingers with enough negative space to remain elegant, while a small, perfectly executed tattoo marked the side of his neck.
Stellan did not shout. He did not raise a hand in anger. He simply stepped beside Amabel, his cold, sharp, intimidating eyes taking in the spilled champagne, the trembling tray, and the cruel grip his fiancée held on the maid's chin.
With slow, terrifyingly smooth precision, Stellan reached out. His tattooed hands wrapped around the edges of the silver tray, taking the trembling weight from Amabel’s fingers. He set the tray down on the pristine white tablecloth with a soft, deliberate clink.
Then, he turned his full attention to Celestine’s hand.
He didn't touch her. He simply fixed his piercing, slate-grey eyes on her fingers where they dug into Amabel’s skin. The sheer, atmospheric dread radiating from his gaze was absolute.
Celestine’s flawless smile fractured. A flicker of genuine panic crossed her rosy face, and she quickly released Amabel’s chin, pulling her hand back as if the skin had suddenly turned to burning coal.
"Stellan, darling," Celestine said, her voice overly bright, attempting to recover her composure. "The clumsy girl spilled drinks on herself. I was just telling her to go to the kitchens and change before the photographers arrive."
Stellan ignored his fiancée entirely. He slowly turned his head, his gaze settling on the trembling maid beside him. The cool-neutral daylight illuminated the stark contrast between his dark suit and her soaked white apron.
"Amabel," Stellan said. His voice was a deep, raspy baritone. He spoke slowly, with controlled, heavy pauses between his words. His volume was kept incredibly low, a measured and dangerous cadence that demanded absolute attention. "Who... won’t you see again?"
Celestine let out a breathless, strained laugh. "Stellan, she’s just a dramatic, overworked girl. Don't bother yourself with the staff's personal—"
"I was not speaking to you, Celestine," Stellan murmured softly, never breaking his gaze from Amabel.
The silence that fell over the immediate area was suffocating.
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"Answer me, Amabel," Stellan instructed, his tone maintaining that terrifying, velvet calm. "What did my fiancée take from you?"
Amabel looked up. Her fair skin was pale, her chest heaving with silent, terrified sobs, but the absolute command in his eyes gave her nowhere to hide.
