Chapter 3
The silence in the grand dining room was a physical, suffocating pressure. The tall ivory candles flickering inside their silver candelabras seemed to be the only things moving in the entire, luminous space. The clear, clean lighting left absolutely no shadows for Celia’s cruelty to hide within. She stared up at Dorian, her fair, rosy skin drained of all color, leaving her looking sickly and translucent.
Dorian stood immovably in his tailored dark three-piece suit. He kept his towering, masculine frame positioned protectively beside Maren, his cold, perceptive eyes locked entirely on his fiancée. He did not yell. He did not raise his deep, measured voice.
"Do you believe you have the authority to confiscate property that I personally purchased?" Dorian asked.
The measured pause between his words was a calculated instrument of psychological torture. Every syllable was cold, precise, and infinitely dangerous.
"Dorian, darling, please," Celia gasped, her voice pitching high and breathless with panic. "It was an extravagant gift for a servant! People were starting to whisper about why you would spend so much money on a maid! I was trying to protect your reputation!"
"Does my reputation require the deliberate torment of an innocent woman in my employ?" Dorian inquired, his sharp eyes narrowing into lethal slits.
"She is a maid!" Celia cried, tears of sheer desperation welling in her eyes as she pointed a shaking, diamond-adorned finger at Maren. "She doesn't need thousands of dollars of technology to pour water! She is manipulating you! You cannot humiliate me in front of our guests over a deaf servant!"
Maren held her ground, her elegant posture wavering only slightly as she watched the exchange. She could not hear the venom in Celia's voice, but she could read the absolute fury on the woman's lips. She felt a sudden, desperate urge to retreat, to run back to the safety of the kitchens, but Dorian’s solid, unmoving presence kept her anchored to the spot.
"Are you questioning my judgment in front of my own syndicate?" Dorian asked, his voice echoing coldly off the ivory-paneled walls.
"No! I would never!" Celia shrieked, looking frantically around the room at the seated guests, silently begging someone—anyone—to intervene. But the elite crowd sat immobilized, their fair faces pale with shock, utterly unwilling to cross the mafia boss.
Dorian slowly swept his intimidating gaze across the room, taking in the numerous guests sitting frozen at their polished walnut tables.
"Have you all finished your meals?" Dorian asked the room at large.
It was phrased as a question, but the command hidden within it was unmistakable and absolute. Chairs scraped violently against the polished floors as the guests practically scrambled to their feet. There were no polite farewells, no lingering handshakes. Men in tailored suits and women in evening gowns fled the bright, elegant room with frantic urgency, eager to escape the blast radius of Dorian Hartwell’s wrath.
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Within ninety seconds, the expansive dining hall was completely empty, save for Dorian, Celia, and Maren. The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut, sealing the room and locking Celia inside with her greatest nightmare.
"Where is the device you stole from her?" Dorian asked, turning his terrifying focus entirely back to the woman in the satin gown.
