Chapter 5
The camera shifted to a tight close-up of Eleanor. The cinematic, slightly warm white balance of the lighting illuminated the deep lines of sorrow and resilience etched into her fair, rosy skin. The pearl earrings resting against her lobes trembled slightly as her pulse quickened. For weeks, she had suffered the agonizing isolation of a silent world, forced to watch Daphne parade through her home, plotting and scheming right in front of her face.
Eleanor’s eyes, bright and brimming with an unshed, desperate energy, followed Soren as he moved.
The Mafia boss did not engage Daphne any further. He turned his broad, powerful shoulders away from his fiancée. He shifted his cold, terrifyingly perceptive gaze toward the beautiful housemaid standing steadfastly behind his mother’s chair.
Soren met Greta’s gaze.
The air in the dining hall seemed to instantly drop twenty degrees. The melodic hum of polite, American-accented conversations died completely, replaced by a deafening, ringing silence. Every single guest at the massive, crowded table stopped eating. Silver cutlery froze halfway to gold-rimmed porcelain plates. Dozens of faces turned toward the head of the table, their attention captured by the sudden, terrifying shift in the patriarch's focus.
“Greta,” Soren said.
The single word commanded the absolute submission of the entire room. It was not a shout, but the deep, low vibration of his voice carried an incredible acoustic weight.
Greta stood her ground. Her softly oval face was pale, but her graceful posture did not break. She looked into the eyes of the ruthless Mafia boss and saw an unwavering, terrifying demand for the absolute truth.
“Is her hearing aid working?” Soren asked.
The question dropped into the silent, luminous room like a heavy stone into still water.
It was a brilliantly terrifying inquiry. Soren did not ask if his mother was deaf; he asked a specific, mechanical question directed at the staff member responsible for her care. He was bypassing Daphne’s narrative entirely and seeking empirical fact.
Eleanor remained completely still in her chair. She did not look at her son. She kept her eyes fixed firmly forward, listening. The small, discreet hearing aid tucked behind her ear was functioning perfectly, amplifying the sound of her son's deep voice and the sudden, panicked intake of breath from the woman standing across the table.
Daphne’s fair skin drained of color. She looked wildly at the housemaid, her eyes wide with unadulterated shock. "Soren, what an absurd question! Of course it isn't working! I told you, her doctor said the nerve damage is irreversible!"
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"Did I address my question to you, Daphne?" Soren inquired, his voice dropping into a register of pure, concentrated ice.
He didn't break eye contact with Greta. He waited, his tailored dark suit acting as an impenetrable wall between the trembling maid and the furious socialite. The bright, clear lighting of the room offered no shadows for lies to hide within. The truth was demanded, and Greta was prepared to deliver it.
