Chapter 10
The grand dining room was a portrait of devastating stillness. The bright, airy, luminous colors of the mansion felt stark and unforgiving, acting as a spotlight on Colette’s complete and utter ruin. The thirty elite guests held their breath, their fair, rosy faces pale with shock, watching the most powerful man in the city systematically dismantle the woman he had promised to marry.
Colette trembled violently, her sculpted satin gown shivering under the golden light of the chandeliers. She looked up at Declan’s angular face, desperate to find a trace of the affection he had once shown her, but there was only a cold, perceptive void.
“Declan, please,” Colette begged, her American accent cracking into a pathetic, ragged sob. “This is my house, too.”
“Who told you that you rule this house?” Declan asked, his voice a quiet, lethal whisper that severed the final cord of their engagement.
Colette collapsed backward, her knees giving out. She stumbled against the edge of the mahogany table, knocking over a crystal wine glass. The red liquid spilled across the cream damask linens like a fresh wound, but no one moved to clean it up. She covered her face with her hands, weeping in absolute, humiliating defeat.
Declan did not offer her a hand. He did not call for his guards to escort her out. He simply turned his back on her, a dismissal more profound than any act of violence.
He looked at Ruth. The elderly woman sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, radiating a quiet, enduring strength that eclipsed every diamond in the room.
“Shall we take our dessert in the study?” Declan asked, offering his tattooed hand to the woman who had saved him.
“I think that would be lovely, Declan,” Ruth smiled, placing her small, warm hand into his.
Declan gently helped her up from the velvet dining chair. He turned his gaze toward Willa, who was still standing nearby, her beautiful, softly oval face illuminated by the warm, elegant light. She had risked her job and her safety to stand by a stranger, proving a loyalty that could not be bought.
“Will you bring the tea, Willa?” Declan asked, his cold eyes softening with a rare, genuine respect.
May you like
“Right away, sir,” Willa replied, a small, triumphant smile touching her gently curved lips.
Declan guided Ruth away from the table, his tailored dark suit cutting a formidable path through the silent, staring crowd of elites. They walked toward the heavy carved walnut doors, leaving the charity dinner in ruins behind them. Colette remained stranded at the head of the table, weeping over the spilled wine, her reign broken and her future entirely uncertain in the luminous, golden halls of the Whitmore empire.
