Chapter 3
Amabel met his cold, intimidating eyes. She saw no warmth there, only an unyielding demand for the truth. For weeks, she had lived under the crushing weight of her sister’s blackmail, hiding in the shadows of the sprawling, brightly lit estate.
Her fingers closed tightly around the soaked, champagne-stained edge of her white apron. The rich ruby red of Celestine’s gown burned in the periphery of her vision, a constant reminder of the threat. But looking at Stellan, Amabel knew that lying to this man would be far more dangerous than anything her sister could invent.
"My baby," Amabel said, her voice barely steady, trembling through the crisp, clear air of the ballroom. "She took him."
The words dropped into the bright afternoon light like heavy stones into a glass pond.
Stellan’s expression did not change. His jaw remained locked, the sharp lines of his face perfectly still. Slowly, with that same measured, predatory grace, his gaze shifted from Amabel’s tear-stained, rosy face to his fiancée.
Celestine gave a short, dismissive laugh, attempting to project an air of aristocratic boredom. She placed her empty crystal champagne glass onto the silver tray with a sharp clink. She lifted her chin, meeting Stellan’s cold stare with defiant, polished pride.
"He needed a better mother," Celestine said coldly, her American accent clipped and unapologetic. "The girl is a maid, Stellan. She had a child out of wedlock, living in a squalid little apartment in the city. I arranged for a private adoption agency to place the infant with a wealthy, respectable family. I did her a favor. She should be thanking me instead of weeping in front of our guests."
Stellan’s expression became profoundly still. The artistic tattoo on his neck seemed to shift slightly as the muscle in his jaw clenched.
"You stole a child," Stellan stated. It was not a question. It was a forensic categorization of a crime committed under his roof.
"I managed a liability," Celestine countered, reaching a manicured hand toward Stellan’s tailored arm. "Our engagement is front-page news. If the press found out my sister was an unwed mother scrubbing floors, it would humiliate us both. I protected the Wycliffe name, Stellan."
As her fingers brushed the dark wool of his sleeve, Stellan stepped smoothly away from her touch. He did not slap her hand away; he simply removed himself from her reach with a gesture of profound, untouchable disgust.
He turned his back to his fiancée. He reached out with his tattooed hand, grasped the carved mahogany back of his own designated host chair, and pulled it out from the head table.
"Sit," Stellan said, looking directly at Amabel.
Amabel stared at the velvet-cushioned seat, paralyzed by the breach of protocol. "Sir... I cannot. The guests—"
"Sit down, Amabel," Stellan repeated, his low voice leaving no room for hesitation.
Trembling, Amabel stepped forward and sank into the luxurious chair. Stellan remained standing directly beside her, positioning himself as an immovable barrier between the young mother and his fiancée.
May you like
Around them, the nearby party guests, who had been pretending not to notice, finally stopped their conversations. Dozens of adults in formal evening clothes lowered their crystal glasses without drinking. The string quartet’s music seemed to fade into a hollow echo.
The bright, luminous colors of the room—the rich greens, the sapphire blues, the crisp whites—felt suddenly frozen in a breathless tableau.
