Chapter 3
The realization that a monstrous act of sabotage had just been exposed radiated outward from Damon Ashford like a physical shockwave. The sheer, masculine power emanating from his broad shoulders was intoxicating and terrifying all at once. The clinking of fine porcelain ceased entirely within his immediate radius, the silence spreading down the long salon until it consumed the entire grand space.
Damon did not hesitate for a single microsecond. He moved with preternatural speed, crossing the polished marble floor in three massive, predatory strides.
Just as the compromised stepladder gave another violent, sickening groan, tilting dangerously to the left, Damon’s hands shot out. The artistic negative-space tattoos on his skin blurred as he immediately steadied the wooden frame with a crushing, immovable grip.
Clara gasped, dropping the lightweight star. It clattered harmlessly against her rumpled white apron as she lost her balance.
With profound, measured grace, Damon reached up and firmly supported Clara’s elbow. The heat of his palm bled through the fabric of her fitted black maid dress, offering her the undeniable, absolute protection of the syndicate boss. He gently guided her down, ensuring she stepped safely onto the solid marble floor.
One by one, every single dinner guest stopped eating and speaking. Fifty of the most dangerous men and women in the city turned their heads, all staring toward the Christmas tree. The warm golden light cascading from the chandeliers highlighted the sudden, suffocating tension that had gripped the syndicate.
Damon did not look at the elite guests, nor did he look at his son. He kept his hand firmly wrapped around Clara’s elbow, holding her close to his side. He looked directly at Clara, his intense, pitch-black eyes stripping away the layers of her fear to find the truth hidden underneath.
"Clara," Damon said, speaking quietly, his deep voice carrying a lethal, apocalyptic authority that shook the very foundation of the room. He allowed a terrifying, measured pause to stretch out before finishing his command. "Who prepared this ladder?"
The question hung in the bright, luminous air, demanding an answer that would dictate the survival of everyone standing near the tree. The entire syndicate was staring at the housemaid. Capos shifted uncomfortably on the velvet sofas. No one dared to breathe too loudly. The sheer, masculine power radiating from Damon's frame promised absolute destruction if he was lied to.
"Damon, darling, it was just a loose step," Celeste interjected quickly, attempting to assert her authority and dismiss the tension. Her polished smile strained at the edges. "These estate tools are ancient. You shouldn't make a scene over a clumsy servant."
May you like
Damon did not even turn his head to acknowledge his fiancée. His unwavering, intense focus remained entirely on the young, trembling woman standing beside him.
"Answer me, Clara," Damon commanded softly, his tone a lethal whisper. "Tell me the truth."
