Chapter 6
The opulent salon was suffocatingly tense. The warm golden light seemed to cast harsh, judgmental shadows over Celeste’s luxurious burgundy gown. She backed away until her spine hit the edge of a carved walnut table, realizing with a sinking horror that the political immunity she had relied upon was entirely useless inside the walls of the Ashford estate.
"This reception is concluded," Damon announced, shifting his dark gaze to the fifty elite guests seated around the room. "Everyone who does not carry the Ashford name, or work in my personal security detail, will vacate this salon immediately."
Chairs scraped frantically against the polished marble floors. Men and women with fair, rosy skin paled in terror as they abandoned their champagne glasses and festive cheer. They rushed toward the massive double doors, eager to escape the impending explosion of violence before they were forced to take a side in a mafia civil war.
"Damon, you are making a catastrophic mistake," Celeste hissed, attempting to salvage her dignity as the room rapidly emptied. "My father will hear of this. The Morrow family will not tolerate this level of public disrespect. You need our shipping routes."
"I would burn every ship in the harbor before I let you sleep under my roof again," Damon replied coldly.
Within ninety seconds, the sprawling salon was completely empty, save for Damon, Celeste, Clara, Oliver, and the heavy security detail standing silently by the silk drapes. The bright, airy luminosity of the room now illuminated only the raw, ugly truth of the betrayal.
Damon looked down at Clara. The gentle maid was still clutching the golden star, her delicate features pale with shock, yet she had stood her ground.
"Clara," Damon said, his tone softening only marginally as he addressed her. "Take Oliver upstairs to my private quarters. Lock the doors. Allow no one inside but my personal guard."
"Yes, Mr. Ashford," Clara whispered, her voice shaking with adrenaline. She gently took the six-year-old boy’s hand, offering him a small, watery smile. "Come along, Oliver. Let's go see if Santa left anything early."
Oliver looked up at his father, then at Celeste, before clinging tightly to Clara's rumpled white apron. As the maid and the child hurried out of the room, their footsteps echoing softly against the marble, Damon turned his full, terrifying attention back to the woman in the burgundy gown.
"Now," Damon said, taking a slow, predatory step toward her. "You are going to explain to me exactly how many times you have threatened her when I was not looking."
"I won't tell you anything!" Celeste shrieked, backing away until she bumped into a cream marble column. "If I confess, you will kill me! My silence is the only leverage I have left to walk out of this mansion alive!"
"Do you believe leverage exists for a woman who has just admitted to orchestrating a murder in my home?" Damon countered, stepping closer, his imposing frame blocking her escape.
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"My father will not stand for this!" Celeste cried, her diamond earrings swinging wildly. "He is a powerful man, Damon! He will bring the entire Morrow syndicate down on your head! You cannot touch me!"
"Do you expect me to fear a corrupt politician more than I despise a monster standing in my home?" Damon asked, his dark eyes narrowing into cold, unforgiving slits.
