Chapter 2
The white damask tables were laden with gold-rimmed porcelain, polished silver, and sparkling stemware. Tall ivory candles glowed inside crystal hurricane holders, interspersed between low, elegant arrangements of cream roses. The entire room felt bright and sumptuously illuminated, leaving no shadows for secrets to hide. Yet, secrets were already bleeding into the light.
As Evan took his hopeful steps toward the head table, Cressida’s perfectly manicured hand shot out.
She did not touch the boy roughly, but the gesture was firm and unmistakable. She raised one hand toward Evan’s chest, effectively stopping him from joining them in the camera’s frame. The movement was smooth, hidden beneath the guise of adjusting her posture, but the physical barrier was absolute.
Cressida met Atticus’s cold, perceptive eyes. Her fair, rosy features arranged themselves into a mask of pure affection.
"Just our real family, darling," Cressida said, her voice a sweet, musical chime that carried perfectly over the ambient hum of the dining room.
She gave a small, affectionate smile, attempting to wrap her cruelty in the delicate silk of romantic devotion. She looked at Atticus, expecting him to agree, expecting him to prioritize the unborn child resting in her womb over the boy he had chosen to claim as his own.
Evan’s hopeful expression shattered instantly. The bright spark in his eyes faded into a look of profound, crushing rejection. His small shoulders slumped beneath his formal dinner jacket. Unsure of what to do, the six-year-old took a hesitant half-step backward and immediately looked over his shoulder, seeking the only source of comfort he trusted in this massive, overwhelming house. He looked back at Maren.
Atticus did not move to pose for the photograph. He followed the trajectory of Cressida’s dismissing gesture, his sharp gaze dropping to the crestfallen face of his son. The muscles in his sharply defined jawline flexed. For Atticus, Evan was his son without qualification. Blood was an accident of birth; loyalty and choice were the true foundations of family.
Slowly, deliberately, Atticus lifted his gaze. He completely bypassed his fiancée’s waiting smile. Instead, his cold, observant eyes locked directly onto Maren, who was standing just a few feet away, her posture rigid with protective outrage.
The room was still buzzing with the clatter of silver and the laughter of the elite. Atticus did not raise his voice. He did not need to. His deep, low voice possessed a gravelly resonance that commanded immediate, absolute obedience.
"Maren. Why can't he join us?" Atticus asked.
May you like
The question was spoken with a measured, deliberate pause between each word. It sliced through the warm, golden atmosphere like a straight razor.
The effect was instantaneous and absolute. Every single guest at the surrounding tables stopped eating. Wine glasses hovered mid-air. Conversations died in throats. The wealthy, rosy-cheeked patrons turned as one toward the head table, sensing the sudden, violent shift in atmospheric pressure. The room remained bright and clear, but the social warmth had frozen solid. Atticus waited, his expression an unreadable mask of masculine stone, never looking away from the housemaid.
