Chapter 3
Duncan became completely still. It was not the stillness of a man who was shocked; it was the absolute, paralyzing stillness of a predator that had just locked onto its prey. His cold, intimidating eyes bored into Felice’s face, dissecting her arrogant expression layer by layer. The artistic, refined tattoo on his neck seemed to shift slightly as the muscles in his jaw tightened.
Anwen’s eyes widened in sheer panic. She looked from Felice’s defiant, flushed face to Duncan’s terrifyingly blank expression. She realized what Felice had just implied, and the secret she had guarded with her life was suddenly bleeding out onto the pristine marble terrace. Anwen suddenly held her breath, her hand flying up to cover her mouth, her white lace headband slipping slightly in her distress.
Felice noticed Anwen’s extreme reaction. The arrogant, dismissive confidence that had fueled her cruelty faltered. Felice’s folded arms loosened, dropping to her sides as a sudden, sharp spike of unease pierced her chest. She looked at Duncan, expecting him to agree with her, expecting him to dismiss the maid. But Duncan was looking at her as if she were a ghost.
Behind Duncan, the illuminated pool glowed a brilliant, radioactive blue. The crisp banknotes continued drifting lazily across the water, hitting the filtration grates and sticking to the wet tiles.
No dialogue broke the heavy, suffocating atmosphere. The guests standing around the cocktail table had completely stopped breathing. The silence was absolute, heavy, and pregnant with the kind of violence that built empires and destroyed lives.
Duncan took one measured step toward Felice, his polished leather shoe clicking softly against the stone. He deliberately left Anwen standing safely beside the high cocktail table, positioning his broad, masculine frame as an impenetrable wall between the two women.
He held Felice’s gaze. He did not blink. His voice, when it finally broke the silence, was almost a whisper, yet it resonated with a terrifying, apocalyptic power.
"Whose child. Is that?" Duncan asked. The words were quiet, dangerous, and dripping with an icy finality.
Felice’s lips parted, her fair skin turning the color of ash. She stared into his cold eyes, searching for a way out, searching for a lie that could save her. But she had no answer. Her throat worked uselessly, but no sound came out.
Anwen pressed the ruined, crumpled envelope against her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Duncan waited. His eyes remained unblinking, his hands resting casually at his sides, revealing the sharp, dark ink of his tattoos. He was a man who commanded an army of killers, a man who moved millions of dollars in illicit cargo, but right now, his entire universe was laser-focused on the terrified woman in front of him.
"I asked you a question, Felice," Duncan murmured, the controlled pauses stretching the tension until it threatened to snap. "Whose child?"
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"Duncan, I..." Felice stammered, her American accent cracking. "I don't know what you mean. It's just some brat she had with a local boy."
"You are lying," Duncan said, his voice dropping another octave. He slowly turned his head, looking over his shoulder at the beautiful, trembling maid standing by the table. "Anwen. Go to my study. Now."
