Chapter 5
The vibrant, high-contrast colors of the ballroom—the rich ruby of Celestine’s gown, the crisp white of the floral arrangements—seemed to sharpen to a painful clarity under the cool daylight. The guests had completely abandoned any pretense of polite ignorance. They stood perfectly still, watching the Wycliffe sovereign handle the profound betrayal playing out at the head table.
Stellan did not threaten Celestine with physical violence. He was a man who understood that true power rarely required a raised fist.
He turned away from his fiancée and looked toward the perimeter of the room. "Marcus," he called out, his volume perfectly conversational.
A tall, broad-shouldered bodyguard with silver at his temples detached himself from the wall and approached with brisk, silent steps. "Yes, Boss."
"Lock the doors of the ballroom," Stellan instructed, his voice echoing cleanly. "No guest leaves. No phone calls are made. Confiscate all communications."
"At once," Marcus nodded, gesturing to the other men in dark suits who immediately began moving through the crowd, collecting devices with polite but absolute authority.
Celestine watched the doors being secured, a fresh wave of panic rising in her chest. "Stellan, you cannot hold these people hostage! The mayor is sitting three tables away!"
"The mayor works for me," Stellan replied softly. He turned his attention back to Amabel, his expression softening by a fraction of an inch as he looked at her pale, tear-streaked face. "How long ago was he born, Amabel?"
"Three weeks ago," Amabel whispered, her voice trembling as the memories flooded back. "I hid the pregnancy under loose uniforms. I planned to leave the estate before I showed too much. But Celestine found out. She locked me in the old staff quarters in the east wing. She brought a private doctor to deliver him."
Stellan’s jaw tightened. "And then?"
"They took him the moment he cried," Amabel sobbed, the dam of her composure finally breaking. She covered her face with her hands. "She told me if I ever spoke of it, she would tell you I was trying to extort the family, and you would have me killed. She said if I stayed quiet and served at her wedding, she would make sure my baby went to a good home."
Stellan reached out. His tattooed fingers gently wrapped around Amabel’s wrists, pulling her hands away from her face. His touch was firm, grounding, and surprisingly warm.
"You do not need to hide your face in my house ever again," Stellan murmured.
He released her hands and turned back to Celestine. The older sister was backed against a table of pristine white wedding cake, her chest heaving, her eyes darting like a cornered animal.
"You locked the mother of my child in a room like a prisoner," Stellan stated, his voice a lethal, measured cadence. "You stole my flesh and blood. And you sat beside me at dinner every night, wearing my ring, smiling into my face."
"I did it for us!" Celestine shrieked, tears of sheer desperation ruining her perfect makeup. "I loved you! I wanted to be your wife!"
"You wanted my power," Stellan corrected her coldly. "And you believed that a child born to a maid would threaten your claim to my estate."
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Stellan reached into the inner pocket of his tailored suit jacket and withdrew a sleek, silver mobile phone. He dialed a single number and placed it to his ear.
"Silas," Stellan spoke quietly into the receiver. "Bring the financial ledgers for the Bellamy family. And contact the bank in Zurich. Freeze every account associated with my fiancée's name."
