Chapter 5
The heavy doors clicked shut behind the guards, leaving Tristan and Sage entirely alone in the luminous, brightly lit dining room. The soft elegant warmth of the chandeliers felt at odds with the violent emotional storm that had just swept through the mansion.
Sage stood holding the fragments of antique lace. Her heart was beating frantically. She had just witnessed the most powerful man in the city sever a critical, multi-million-dollar syndicate alliance simply because of a slight against her.
"I am not afraid of you, Mr. Lockwood," Sage answered truthfully, her voice trembling but clear. "But I am afraid of what I have caused. Miss Ames's family is very dangerous. You didn't have to do that."
"Do you believe I tolerate thieves in my home?" Tristan asked, taking a slow step toward her.
"No, sir," Sage replied. "But the cost..."
"Is any cost too high to excise a cancer from my life?" Tristan asked.
He stopped just a foot away from her. Up close, the masculine perfection of his face was striking. The small neck tattoo peeked from his crisp white collar, hinting at the violent history he commanded. Yet, his cold eyes softened imperceptibly as he looked down at the ruined veil in her hands.
"May I see it?" Tristan asked, gesturing gracefully toward the lace with his tattooed hand.
Sage slowly unfolded the fabric across her palms. The delicate, tiny flowers embroidered into the antique lace were beautiful, but the fabric had been brutally severed in multiple places. It was completely irreparable.
Tristan stared at the fabric for a long moment, the generous negative space of his tattoos stark against the delicate white lace.
"At what time does the funeral begin tomorrow?" Tristan asked, his deep voice barely a whisper in the quiet room.
"Two o'clock in the afternoon," Sage answered, a fresh wave of grief washing over her. "In my hometown. It's a three-hour drive from here."
"Did you plan to drive yourself?" Tristan asked, his perceptive eyes searching her softly rounded jaw and delicate cheekbones.
"I have a bus ticket," Sage admitted, looking down at the floor, embarrassed by her lack of means in the presence of such immense wealth. "I requested three days of unpaid leave from the head housekeeper."
"Do you think I would allow you to take a public bus while grieving your mother?" Tristan asked.
Sage looked up, surprised by the question. "Sir, you have already done too much. I am just a maid. I can manage."
"Are you not under my protection while you reside in this house?" Tristan asked.
He turned away from her, walking toward a small, polished silver bell resting on a side table. He rang it once. The doors opened almost instantly, revealing his head butler, a stoic older man.
"Will you cancel Miss Whitaker's unpaid leave?" Tristan asked the butler. "Will you ensure she receives her full salary, along with a significant bonus for her exemplary service tonight?"
"Right away, sir," the butler nodded, bowing slightly before retreating.
Tristan turned back to Sage. Her expressive brows were lifted in profound shock. Her fair, rosy skin flushed deeply.
"Mr. Lockwood, I can't accept that," Sage protested softly.
"Are you in the habit of refusing orders from your employer?" Tristan asked, a faint, rare trace of amusement touching the corners of his mouth.
"No, sir," Sage replied, a small, involuntary smile breaking through her sorrow.
"Will you pack your bags tonight?" Tristan asked, stepping closer to her once more. "Will you allow my men to drive you tomorrow, to ensure you arrive safely?"
May you like
"I will," Sage whispered, overwhelmed by the unexpected, fierce protection radiating from the mafia boss. "Thank you."
"Do you have everything you need to bury her with honor?" Tristan asked, his eyes dropping to the ruined lace in her hands.
