Chapter 3
The silence in the grand ballroom was a physical, suffocating pressure. The tall candles flickering inside their silver candelabras seemed to be the only things moving. The bright, luminous colors of the room felt painfully sharp, illuminating the exact moment the polished illusion of the Blackthorne empire began to violently fracture.
Simone shifted smoothly in her champagne velvet chair, attempting to intercept the explosive tension. She met Warren’s cold gaze with a faint, indulgent smile. She forced a patient, dismissive look onto her face, though her fair skin had turned a sickly shade of white beneath her makeup. She gave a soft, airy breath of laughter that echoed artificially in the dead silent room.
"Daphne helps herself, darling," Simone stated, her American accent dripping with condescending reassurance.
Her eyes frantically searched Warren’s angular expression for a sign of agreement, silently urging him to play along and not cause a scene in front of their powerful guests. She needed him to turn his attention away from the trembling maid and accept the lie that the servant was simply ill-mannered and hungry.
Warren did not return her smile. He did not look at his fiancée.
Instead, Warren moved with lethal fluidity. He reached out, his large hand—adorned with refined artistic tattoos—catching Daphne’s shaking wrist in mid-air. He gently but firmly lowered her hand, stopping the silver spoon before the housemaid could take the bite. His grip was warm and solid, an unyielding anchor in the terrifying chaos of the room.
Daphne met Warren’s eyes. The sheer intensity of his perceptive gaze shattered her remaining defenses. Her inner brows lifted helplessly in a profound expression of dread. Tears gathered rapidly along her lower eyelids, making her beautiful eyes shine brilliantly under the cascading crystal chandeliers.
"Simone makes me taste first," Daphne answered.
Her voice was a thin, frightened whisper, trembling under the weight of the luminous, crowded room. The confession hung in the bright air, exposing the ugly, violent paranoia hidden beneath the lavish engagement dinner.
Before anyone could process the sheer magnitude of the accusation, a small voice broke the tableau.
Henry, sitting rigidly in his cream shirt and dark waistcoat, slowly turned his head. The seven-year-old boy looked directly at his father, bypassing the terrifying crowd of adults. His small fingers tightened desperately around the white linen napkin in his lap. He spoke softly, with a profound, worried sincerity that cut straight to the bone.
"She said servants die first," Henry said.
The words hit the room with the force of a detonating bomb. A collective, quiet gasp rippled through the fifty elite guests.
Warren froze. His entire body went rigid, the breath catching in his broad chest. His cold eyes looked at Daphne for a brief, motionless beat as the reality of the psychological torture and the very real threat of assassination cemented itself in his mind.
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Slowly, terrifyingly, Warren’s eyes shifted. The movement was predatory, his gaze moving first toward Simone, followed by a slight, deliberate turn of his head. His sharply defined jaw firmed almost imperceptibly, the extremely short stubble on his face bristling with suppressed, explosive violence.
He held Simone’s eyes in a cold, knowing stare that promised absolute destruction. The mafia boss said nothing. His silence was infinitely more dangerous than a scream, stripping away her diamonds, her satin gown, and her lies, exposing the cruel, power-hungry monster trembling beneath.
