Cordelia Ames dared to raid the private quarters of a grieving housemaid

The cascading chandeliers continued to cast their warm golden light over the dining hall, but the luxurious atmosphere had grown as cold as a morgue. The thirty guests, adorned in expensive suits and designer gowns, sat rigidly in their cream upholstered chairs. The flickering tall ivory candles reflected in the gilded mirrors seemed to be the only things moving in the entire room.

Cordelia’s fair, rosy skin had turned a mottled shade of red and white. She stared up at Tristan, her chest heaving beneath her sculpted satin gown.

"Tristan, I didn't know," Cordelia stammered, her voice cracking under the oppressive silence. "How was I supposed to know she was saving it for a funeral? The staff shouldn't keep personal items lying around anyway. It was an honest mistake."

"Is entering the private staff quarters without permission your definition of an honest mistake?" Tristan asked.

His deep, low voice echoed against the carved walnut paneling. He remained standing protectively in front of Sage, the refined artistic tattoos on his hands resting calmly at his sides. The measured pauses in his speech acted like a tightening noose.

"I am the lady of this house!" Cordelia shrieked, her composure completely shattering. She pointed a shaking finger at Sage, her diamond engagement ring catching the light. "I have the right to inspect any room on this property! I was trying to make our engagement dinner perfect! Are you really going to humiliate me in front of our friends over a servant's dirty laundry?"

"Do you truly believe you are the lady of this house?" Tristan asked.

A collective, quiet gasp rippled through the guests. A prominent politician seated near the center of the room hurriedly wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, looking desperately toward the exit.

"Tristan, darling, please," Cordelia begged, attempting to change her tactic to a softer, more pleading tone. "Let’s not do this now. The girl is upset, and I understand that. I will apologize to her. I will pay for the entire funeral. Just please, sit down and let us finish our dinner."

Tristan slowly turned his head to look at the guests seated around the room. His perceptive, cold eyes swept over the silent crowd, analyzing their discomfort, assessing their loyalties.

"Have you all finished your meals?" Tristan asked the room at large.

The guests froze. An older woman with pearl earrings nodded frantically. "Yes, Mr. Lockwood. The food was wonderful. We really should be going."

"Will you kindly find your way to the exits?" Tristan asked.

Chairs scraped loudly against the polished hardwood floors as the guests practically scrambled to their feet. The bright, luminous colors of the room were a stark contrast to the dark, frantic energy of the fleeing elite. There were no handshakes, no polite goodbyes. They moved quickly past the marble columns, desperate to escape the wrath of the mafia boss.

Within two minutes, the expansive dining hall was completely empty, save for Tristan, Cordelia, and Sage. The heavy oak doors clicked shut, sealing them inside.

Cordelia backed away from the table, her hands trembling. "You just threw the governor out of our house, Tristan. My father is going to be absolutely furious. We needed this dinner for the syndicate alliance."

"Does an alliance require me to marry a monster?" Tristan asked quietly.

He turned his attention back to Sage. The beautiful housemaid was still cradling the cut pieces of antique lace in her hands. A single tear had finally escaped, tracking down her softly rounded jaw.

"Are you injured?" Tristan asked, his voice softening imperceptibly as he looked at her.