Chapter 8
The charity auction proceeded in a subdued, hurried blur. The wealthy guests bid on the imported artworks and luxury vacations with eager, nervous haste, desperate to conclude the evening and escape the suffocating tension radiating from the head table. The warm, luminous colors of the dining room felt heavy, the flickering ivory candles casting long, dramatic shadows against the carved walnut paneling.
Declan sat in relaxed, terrifying silence, his powerful shoulders resting against the velvet chair. He ignored the auction completely, his cold, perceptive eyes tracking Willa as she moved elegantly around the table, pouring expensive champagne into the gold-rimmed glasses.
As Willa approached his side of the table, Declan noticed the subtle, tired slope of her shoulders and the pristine neatness of her white apron.
“Were you the one who tied that apron around her waist?” Declan asked quietly, his deep voice meant only for Willa’s ears.
Willa paused, the crystal champagne bottle hovering expertly over his glass. She did not look away, her expressive brows drawing together in quiet sorrow.
“Did I have a choice, sir?” Willa asked softly, answering his question with one of her own.
“Do you always obey orders that conflict with your conscience?” Declan asked, tilting his head slightly, studying the beautiful, softly oval lines of her face.
Willa finished pouring the champagne, setting the heavy bottle down on a nearby silver tray. She looked directly into his observant eyes, the luminous light catching the fierce, protective spark hidden beneath her polished exterior.
“When my livelihood depends on the woman giving them, what else can I do?” Willa asked, her American accent barely a whisper, yet carrying a profound, heavy weight.
Declan looked at the refined artistic tattoos on his own hands, resting against the cream damask linens. He had built an empire of blood and fear so that he would never have to answer to anyone, yet he had allowed a cruel, petty woman to rule his own home and terrorize those who depended on him.
“Must your livelihood always depend on those who lack a conscience?” Declan asked, looking back up at her.
Willa’s breath caught in her throat. The question was a quiet revelation, a subtle shifting of the tectonic plates beneath the estate. She saw the absolute, terrifying sincerity in his eyes. He wasn't just questioning her obedience; he was questioning the very foundation of her employment.
May you like
Before Willa could process a response, a sharp, scraping sound shattered the intimate moment.
Colette had pushed her chair back violently, the wooden legs screeching against the thick patterned rug. She stood up, her sculpted satin gown catching the golden light, her face a mask of furious, unhinged desperation. She had watched the quiet exchange between her fiancé and the housemaid, and her jealousy had finally eclipsed her fear.
