Chapter 2
Moving with seamless, quiet grace through the bright, airy room was Della Hart. At twenty-seven, the housemaid was exceptionally beautiful, resembling a movie star with her softly tapered face, delicate cheekbones, and expressive brows. Her fair, rosy skin was pale tonight, reflecting a deep, internalized dread. She wore a sophisticated black maid dress featuring a cinched waist, a slim fitted silhouette, and a short A-line skirt. A neatly tied white apron, paired with a crisp white collar and cuffs, completed her polished appearance. Her thick hair was pinned meticulously into a loose, low chignon.
Della approached the space directly to the right of Ronan’s chair. She struggled violently to contain her distress, forcing her breathing to remain even so as not to frighten the little boy seated just inches away. Earlier that afternoon, Beatrice had shoved her hard against the marble staircase, leaving a harsh, painful bruise blooming across her delicate wrist. Frightened of further punishment from the ruthless future bride, Della had spent the entire evening trying to conceal the injury beneath her crisp white cuffs.
With meticulous care, Della reached out and set Ronan’s crystal water pitcher down on the polished walnut table. She used both hands, her slender, graceful proportions rigid with an effort to keep the heavy silver vessel perfectly steady.
As the pitcher met the gold-rimmed coaster, the crisp white cuff of her left sleeve slipped back.
It was a fraction of an inch, but under the bright, luminous lighting, it was undeniable. Exposed against her fair skin was an angry, dark purple bruise wrapped around her wrist.
Ronan remained perfectly still. His cold, perceptive eyes tracked the movement, dropping instantly to the exposed, injured flesh. He noticed her guarded, panicked movement as she hastily tugged the fabric back down, her fingers trembling slightly against her white apron.
Across the table, Beatrice Sloan stopped cutting her steak. The polite, radiant smile vanished from her face for a fraction of a second. She had not anticipated the maid being so careless in the blinding light of the engagement dinner.
But the panic only lasted a microsecond. Beatrice’s sharp survival instincts kicked in. She quickly plastered a brittle, plastic smile back onto her face. She smoothed the front of her sculpted satin evening gown, projecting an aura of complete, unbothered calm.
Looking directly into Ronan’s cold, observant eyes, Beatrice spoke. Her American accent was perfectly modulated, smooth, and casually certain.
May you like
“She fell on the stairs.”
Beatrice gave a small, dismissive smile, leaning slightly forward to command the intimacy of the moment. Her voice sounded light and entirely unconcerned, designed to paint the situation as a trivial domestic inconvenience caused by a clumsy servant. Her eyes carefully and frantically searched Ronan's angular face for any sign of acceptance, any indication that he had bought the carefully constructed lie.
