Chapter 2
The bright, airy warmth of the dining room suddenly felt suffocating. The golden light cascading from the crystal chandeliers illuminated the profound heartbreak etched into Sage’s delicate features. She stood frozen beside the mafia boss, the silver serving tray trembling in her hands. The eyes of the most dangerous and wealthy individuals in the city were fixed upon her, yet she could only see the ruined, jagged edges of the antique lace scattered across the white damask tablecloth.
Sage held Tristan’s cold, perceptive gaze. Moisture gathered rapidly along her lower eyelids, making her beautiful eyes shine like glass in the candlelight. Her inner brows lifted slightly in a helpless expression of pure grief.
"My mother’s wedding veil," Sage answered.
Her voice was thin and careful, barely more than a strained whisper, yet it carried clearly through the dead silence of the room. She lowered her eyes only after finishing the sentence, bringing her open palm up to gently support the damaged lace resting on the table, treating the cut fabric as if it were a wounded living thing. She was traveling home tomorrow to bury her mother, and the only heirloom she possessed had been butchered for a dinner party.
Cordelia’s pleasant smile stiffened. She looked directly at Tristan, attempting to maintain her breezy, unaffected posture.
"Her mother won’t miss it," Cordelia stated. Her voice stayed pleasantly light, her American accent rolling smoothly as though she were offering a completely reasonable explanation. "It was sitting in a dusty box in the staff quarters. I thought it would add a touch of vintage elegance to our table. Honestly, the girl should be flattered."
"Do you believe theft is a compliment?" Tristan asked.
He moved smoothly beside Sage, placing his tall, masculine frame deliberately between the two women. His broad shoulders acted as a physical shield for the housemaid. He cast a slow, knowing look down at his fiancée. The gesture was unambiguous. Cordelia’s smile tightened into a brittle, defensive line.
"Tristan, darling, it is just a piece of old fabric," Cordelia hissed, keeping her voice low to avoid making a further scene, though the guests were already hanging on her every word. "I will buy her a hundred veils tomorrow if she is going to be this dramatic about it. We have guests. Please, sit down."
Tristan did not sit. He did not look at the guests. "Can money replace the irreplaceable?" he asked, his deep voice dropping to a terrifying register.
Sage raised her tear-filled eyes back to Tristan. Her fair, rosy skin was pale with sorrow, but she refused to let the tears fall.
"She wanted to be buried in it," Sage whispered.
Her voice caught softly on the word buried. A tragic, ragged breath escaped her lips. She kept the ruined lace supported in both of her trembling hands, cradling the embroidered flowers.
May you like
As the devastating weight of Sage's words settled over the room, Tristan’s cold eyes moved slowly toward Cordelia. The perceptive gaze was lethal, stripping away her sculpted satin gown and diamond earrings to reveal the ugly, cruel core of her character.
Cordelia’s smile faded entirely. She drew a sharp, panicked breath, opening her mouth to speak, but she found no immediate answer. The sheer horror of what she had done—mutilating a dying woman’s burial garment for a table decoration—was suddenly laid bare under the bright, luminous lights of the mansion. Every guest remained absolutely silent, paralyzed by the overwhelming tension radiating from the head of the table.
