Chapter 4
The opulent dining hall was suffocatingly tense. The warm golden light cascading from the crystal chandeliers seemed to mock the dark, vicious betrayal that had just been exposed. Sabine Archer stood near the head of the banquet table, her luxurious burgundy velvet gown suddenly looking like a target rather than a symbol of power.
Sabine’s gracious public smile briefly faltered, a flash of genuine panic widening her eyes as she realized her meticulously crafted coup was unraveling spectacularly. But she was the daughter of a political dynasty; she had been trained to lie under pressure. She forced her composure back into place, straightening her spine and lifting her chin.
"Tristan, darling, this is an absolute embarrassment," Sabine said, attempting to choose a quietly dismissive tone, though her American accent carried a sharp, defensive edge. "The girl is clearly suffering from postpartum psychosis. It is a tragedy, but she is hallucinating. This child is an orphan from the state registry. I have the adoption paperwork in my suite."
"Do you expect me to believe that a state registry orphan happens to bear the exact, unique birthmark of my bloodline?" Tristan asked, his deep voice vibrating with a terrifying, contained fury.
"Birthmarks are common, Tristan," Sabine argued, taking a step toward him, her diamond earrings swinging. "You are letting your pity for this delusional servant cloud your judgment. You cannot seriously entertain this scandal in front of our investors!"
"I am not entertaining a scandal, Sabine," Tristan replied slowly, his artistic tattoos flexing as he clenched his fists at his sides. "I am uncovering a kidnapping."
"She is a liar!" Sabine shrieked, losing her polished facade entirely as she pointed a manicured finger at Clara. "She is trying to extort this family! She wants your money and my position!"
Clara flinched away from the screaming woman, her rumpled white apron trembling as her chest heaved with sobs. "I don't want your money! I just want my baby! You paid the doctors! You told me he didn't take a single breath!"
"Silence!" Sabine roared, turning her furious gaze on the two bodyguards standing near the cream marble columns. "I am the future lady of this house! I command you to remove this peasant from my sight immediately! Throw her in the street!"
The two bodyguards—one Black American and one white American—stepped forward, their hands reaching for Clara's arms.
Tristan moved with preternatural speed. He stepped smoothly beside Clara, placing his broad, masculine body directly between the trembling maid and the advancing guards. He did not draw a weapon, but the sheer, lethal intent radiating from his angular face stopped the highly trained mercenaries dead in their tracks.
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Sabine met Tristan’s gaze, her chest heaving with desperate anger. She knew she had lost the moral high ground, so she resorted to the only weapon she had left: syndicate politics.
"A maid can’t mother your heir, Tristan," Sabine stated with cold, controlled certainty, her eyes flashing with defiance. "The commission will never allow it. You need my family's alliance. You need me."
