Chapter 7
Celestine stared at her left hand, her fingers trembling uncontrollably. The massive diamond engagement ring, a symbol of her imminent ascension to the highest echelon of the city's power, caught the luminous daylight one last time.
"Stellan... please," she whispered, a final, pathetic plea. "I am sorry."
"The ring," Stellan repeated, his voice devoid of any emotion.
With agonizing slowness, Celestine pulled the heavy diamond from her finger. She held it out, her palm shaking. Stellan did not take it from her hand. He gestured to the silver tray resting on the table—the same tray she had soaked with champagne.
Celestine placed the ring onto the wet silver surface. It landed with a hollow, metallic clink that echoed in the silent ballroom.
"Escort Miss Bellamy to the front gates," Stellan instructed two bodyguards who had moved to flank the head table. "She is no longer welcome on this estate. Do not allow her to pack her belongings. Have her clothes boxed and sent to her father's residence."
"You're throwing me out in an evening gown?" Celestine cried, looking down at her rich ruby dress. "The press is waiting outside the gates!"
"Then I suggest you smile for the cameras, Celestine," Stellan said coldly. "After all, you wanted the engagement to be front-page news."
The bodyguards stepped forward, gesturing politely but firmly toward the grand double doors. Celestine looked at Amabel one last time, her eyes filled with a mixture of bitter hatred and profound defeat, before turning and walking the long, humiliating gauntlet past the staring guests. The heavy oak doors closed behind her with a definitive thud.
Stellan turned his attention back to the guests. The bright, cheerful colors of the room stood in stark contrast to the absolute fear radiating from the assembled elite.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Stellan announced, his deep voice carrying easily across the vast space. "The reception is concluded. I apologize for the inconvenience. My staff will see you to your vehicles."
No one argued. No one lingered to gossip. The guests moved toward the exits with swift, silent efficiency, eager to escape the gravity of the Mafia boss's wrath. Within ten minutes, the grand ballroom was empty, save for the security detail, Stellan, and Amabel.
Amabel remained seated in the carved mahogany chair. She was shivering, the wet, champagne-soaked uniform clinging uncomfortably to her skin, but she couldn't bring herself to move. The adrenaline that had sustained her was rapidly fading, leaving her feeling small and utterly terrified of the man standing beside her.
He was a ruthless criminal, a man who commanded armies and dismantled lives with a whisper. And she had just told him she bore his child.
Stellan looked down at her. The cold, intimidating mask he wore for the world seemed to soften by a fraction. He reached up, shrugging off his tailored, dark suit jacket.
With quiet, respectful movements, he draped the heavy, warm wool jacket over Amabel’s trembling shoulders, covering her soaked uniform. The jacket smelled of expensive cologne and crisp winter air.
"You are freezing," Stellan murmured softly.
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"I am sorry, sir," Amabel whispered, pulling the lapels of his jacket closer around her neck. "For everything."
"You have nothing to apologize for, Amabel," Stellan replied, pulling out the chair next to hers and sitting down, bringing himself to her eye level. "You protected him as best you could."
