Chapter 2
Daniel stepped out of the hallway and crossed the threshold into the expansive, sun-drenched living room. The transition was immediate and visceral. The vibrant, bright colors of the floral arrangements and the immaculate white walls seemed to sharpen, contrasting violently with the dark, suffocating menace radiating from his every step. The lively chatter of the guests—filled with smooth, confident American accents—faltered and died within seconds. It was as if the air pressure in the room had suddenly dropped. Every head turned to look at the thirty-two-year-old man standing in the center of the Persian rug, holding his weeping daughter.
Lily kept her face buried in Daniel’s neck, her small body trembling so violently that he could feel her rapid heartbeat against his own ribs. Because of the way she clung to him, her face was turned toward the crowd, leaving the angry, scarlet handprint on her fair, rosy cheek exposed to the brilliant afternoon light. It was a sickening violation of the bright, pristine aesthetic of the gathering.
The guests, all boasting the same fair and healthy complexions, froze in place, their wine glasses hovering in mid-air. The imposing, mafia-boss presence that Daniel usually kept politely restrained was now fully unleashed. His jaw was locked tight, the muscles corded and tense, and his dark eyes swept across the room with the clinical detachment of an executioner identifying a target.
His gaze bypassed the stunned friends and distant relatives, locking directly onto his thirty-four-year-old sister, Rebecca Reed.
Rebecca stood near the marble fireplace, the picture of aristocratic arrogance. She wore a tailored, emerald-green silk blouse, crisp white trousers, and high-end designer heels. Expensive gold jewelry gleamed at her neck and wrists, catching the bright sunlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Her fair skin was flushed, but not with guilt—with irritation.
The silence in the room was absolute, stretching for three agonizing seconds before Daniel finally broke it.
"I'll ask once," Daniel said. His voice was not a shout; it was dangerously low, vibrating with a protective fury that shook the very foundations of the room. "Who touched my daughter?"
A pin drop could have been heard in the sprawling living room. The guests held their breath, instinctively stepping back from the blast radius of Daniel's rage.
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Rebecca did not flinch. Instead, she slowly folded her arms across her chest, the silk of her blouse rustling softly. She tilted her chin upward, her fair, rosy face twisting into a mask of vicious contempt. She glared directly at the four-year-old girl hiding against Daniel’s chest, her eyes narrowing with a sickening blend of superiority and malice.
"She's acting," Rebecca sneered, her crisp American accent dripping with condescension, loud enough for the entire frozen room to hear. "We didn't do anything."
