Chapter 3
The elegant warmth of the luminous dining room offered no sanctuary for Colette Sinclair. The flickering light from the ivory candles danced across her pale, terrified features as she stared up at the man she intended to marry. Declan’s broad shoulders cast a formidable shadow over the table, his angular face set in a mask of cold, unyielding scrutiny.
“Declan, darling, please,” Colette finally stammered, her American accent losing its melodic polish. “It is a charity fundraiser. There are protocols. The tables were meticulously arranged based on the donation tiers.”
“Are my personal invitations subject to your financial protocols?” Declan asked.
His question hung heavily in the air, wrapping around Colette’s throat like a velvet cord. She looked around the room, desperate for an ally among the silent, staring guests, but not a single person dared to meet her eyes. The elite crowd was terrified of the man standing at the head of the table, well aware of the ruthless syndicate he commanded beneath his refined, polished exterior.
“I was only trying to maintain the integrity of the event,” Colette defended, her voice tightening with defensive pride. “We have raised hundreds of thousands of dollars tonight. It wouldn't be fair to the paying guests to simply give away a plate.”
Declan’s perceptive gaze shifted from his trembling fiancée to the housemaid standing quietly beside Ruth. Willa’s posture was impeccable, her cinched waist and perfectly fitted black dress radiating a quiet, dignified grace.
“Willa, does that catering apron belong over a formal dress?” Declan asked, his tone dropping to a gentle, conversational level that was somehow more intimidating than a shout.
“No, sir, it does not,” Willa replied smoothly, her expressive brows drawing together in subtle sympathy for the elderly woman.
“Will you remove it for her?” Declan asked.
“Right away, sir,” Willa said. She stepped behind Ruth’s velvet dining chair. With deft, elegant movements, she untied the harsh, industrial strings of the catering apron and slipped it carefully over Ruth’s head, revealing the beautifully pressed, modest formal dress hidden beneath. Willa folded the apron neatly over her arm, restoring Ruth’s dignity in a matter of seconds.
Ruth looked up at Declan, her rosy cheeks flushing with gratitude. “Thank you, Declan. The soup will get cold if you don't eat.”
Declan finally took his seat, his tailored dark suit shifting smoothly against his muscular frame. He pulled the small porcelain bowl toward him, picking up his silver spoon. He took a slow, deliberate taste of the homemade broth, closing his eyes briefly as the familiar, comforting flavor washed over him, completely eclipsing the gourmet, gold-rimmed plates surrounding it.
He opened his eyes and looked back at Colette, who was gripping her napkin so tightly her hands were shaking.
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“Does the integrity of your event require the humiliation of my family?” Declan asked quietly.
Colette gasped, her sculpted satin gown rustling as she recoiled from the implication. She was utterly trapped, realizing too late that she had not just insulted a retired café owner; she had insulted the only mother figure the mafia boss had ever known.
