Chapter 3
The silence in the grand dining room was absolute, a suffocating vacuum that seemed to pull the very oxygen from the air. The warm golden light from the crystal chandeliers suddenly felt harsh and exposing. Dozens of elite guests remained frozen in their champagne velvet chairs, staring at the woman they had all attended a memorial for twelve months prior.
Vincent did not break his cold, unwavering stare on Elara. The sheer, masculine power radiating from his broad shoulders was a terrifying promise of violence.
"Is there anyone in this room who wishes to remain for the rest of this conversation?" Vincent asked. His deep, low voice echoed off the ivory wall panels, carrying no anger, only an arctic, lethal calm.
The question was a command. Instantly, the scraping of velvet chairs against the polished walnut floor sounded like thunder. The city’s most dangerous men scrambled to their feet, ushering their wives toward the heavy mahogany doors. They abandoned their crystal stemware and half-eaten meals, practically sprinting to escape the blast radius of the mafia boss’s wrath.
Within two minutes, the massive, luxurious room was entirely empty, save for the four of them: Vincent, Elara, Diana, and the ghost of Natalie Crowne. The heavy doors clicked shut with a hollow finality.
"Vincent, please," Elara whispered, the faint, reassuring smile completely evaporating from her face. Her rosy skin turned the shade of ash. "This isn't what it looks like. She's... she's unwell. She locked herself in there to punish us!"
Vincent slowly lowered his arm, though he did not step away from her. He looked at Natalie’s bare, bruised feet, the filthy cardigan, and the hollow exhaustion etched into her fair cheekbones.
"Does a woman lock herself behind an exterior latch, Elara?" Vincent asked, the measured pause after her name hanging like an executioner's blade.
Diana moved instinctively. The sophisticated black maid dress swished around her knees as she stepped toward the dining table, poured a fresh glass of water from a crystal pitcher, and brought it to Natalie.
"Here, please drink," Diana whispered, her expressive brows drawn together in profound sympathy.
Natalie took the glass with trembling hands, drinking greedily. Water spilled down her chin, but she didn't care. She leaned heavily against the carved marble fireplace, her eyes never leaving Elara.
"She drugged my tea the night of the storm," Natalie said, her voice hoarse and raw. "When I woke up, I was in the dark. She brought me food and water once a day in the dead of night. She told me you thought my car went off the coastal cliff. She told me you were already moving on."
Elara backed away, her sculpted satin gown catching on the edge of a velvet chair. "She's lying! She’s always been jealous of me! You know she was unstable, Vincent! She staged this to ruin your birthday! She wants to destroy your empire!"
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Vincent turned his entire body to face Elara. His tailored dark three-piece suit shifted perfectly with his movement. His cold, observant eyes stripped away every layer of her satin and diamonds, exposing the monstrous rot underneath.
"Do you believe my intellect is as fragile as your lies?" Vincent asked softly.
