Chapter 4
The opulent salon was suffocatingly quiet. The ivory candles burning in their ornate brass candelabras seemed to cast harsh, judgmental shadows over Celeste’s burgundy satin gown. The polished, reassuring smile that usually charmed the syndicate members had begun to fracture, leaving behind the faint, terrifying cracks of cornered panic.
Clara stood paralyzed, her delicate features pale with shock. She felt the crushing weight of fifty gazes, but the only eyes that mattered were the ones burning into hers. The mafia boss’s dark, intense stare was demanding absolute honesty. She knew that answering this question would either save her life or seal her death warrant.
Tears gathered heavily along Clara’s lower eyelids, making her expressive eyes shine brilliantly in the golden light. She steadied a trembling breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly against her rumpled white apron.
She held Damon's gaze, refusing to look away, drawing on a well of courage she didn't know she possessed. Her fingers trembled violently around the edges of the lightweight star she still clutched against her chest.
"Celeste," Clara answered, her voice incredibly quiet, yet carrying a devastating, undeniable truth that sliced through the silent room. "She said it was safe."
The devastating confession dropped onto the polished marble floor like toxic acid. A collective, audible gasp erupted from the surrounding guests. The murmurs of the elite syndicate members died instantly. The room was suddenly paralyzed. The woman destined to be the queen of the Ashford syndicate had just been publicly accused of attempting to orchestrate the severe injury, or death, of a household servant.
"That is an outrageous lie!" Celeste shouted, stepping forward, her diamond earrings swinging wildly. The aristocratic polish was completely gone. "She is a lying whore trying to ruin our evening, Damon! I have never touched that filthy ladder! She is trying to turn you against me to extort this family!"
"Do you expect me to accept the premise that a six-year-old child and a maid conspired to invent such a specific, treacherous lie, Celeste?" Damon asked, his deep voice effortlessly drowning out her frantic excuses.
"He is six years old, Damon!" Celeste cried, pointing a shaking finger at Oliver. "Children have vivid imaginations! He found those screws on the floor! You cannot take the word of a confused boy and a lying maid over your future wife!"
"Is it your custom to blame my son for the treacherous filth that you orchestrated in my own home?" Damon asked, his tone so terrifyingly calm that several guests physically recoiled.
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"I am protecting this family!" Celeste shrieked defensively, slamming her manicured hands against the velvet sofa beside her. "She is overstepping her boundaries! She is constantly coddling the boy! I had to assert dominance to remind the staff of their place!"
Damon finally turned his head slowly. The artistic negative-space tattoos on his hands flexed as he shifted his dark, sweeping gaze from Clara to the woman in the burgundy gown. The air in the room turned freezing cold despite the roaring fires.
