Chapter 3
Oriana abandoned her serving tray on a nearby table, the crystal glasses rattling loudly. She ignored the terrifying presence of the two massive bodyguards and the mocking glares of the treacherous relatives. Moving with a desperate, urgent grace, she rushed forward, her flat shoes making no sound against the polished floor.
She dropped to her knees beside Eamon’s chair, her beautiful, softly structured face completely pale. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. She reached out, grabbing a stack of pristine, folded white linen napkins from the center of the banquet table.
Her lips trembled uncontrollably as she leaned over him. With incredible, protective gentleness, she took a clean linen cloth and began to wipe the cold, wet food scraps from his cheek and jawline. Her fingers shook as she carefully covered his ruined, stained chest with the remaining clean linen, attempting to restore whatever shred of dignity she could to the immobilized boss.
"Sir... I've got you," Oriana whispered softly, her American accent cracking with pure, unfiltered anxiety.
Eamon looked down at her. The cold, dangerous edge in his eyes softened as he met her worried, expressive gaze. He could feel her hands trembling against his chest. Even while pinned by two armed men, his first instinct was to reassure the brave housemaid who had thrown herself into the line of fire.
"Are you trying to ruin your apron, Oriana?" Eamon asked gently, his deep, measured voice meant only for her ears.
"I don't care about the apron," Oriana replied, her voice shaking as she gently wiped a smudge of grease from his refined neck tattoo. "They shouldn't have done this to you. I won't let them just leave you like this."
Winona watched the tender display with an expression of sheer, unadulterated disgust. She stepped forward, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, and loomed over the pair.
"How touching," Winona sneered, her voice laced with venom. "The little maid polishing a broken crown. Step away from him, girl, before I have my men throw you out with the rest of the trash."
"Are you threatened by a housemaid with a napkin, Aunt Winona?" Eamon inquired smoothly, never breaking eye contact with the older woman.
Winona’s face flushed a deep, angry red. She reached into the bodice of her luxurious gown and pulled out a folded, official-looking document. She raised it high so the sixty guests could see it, then slammed it violently down onto the birthday table, right next to the beautiful, tiered cake.
"I am not threatened by anything anymore!" Winona shouted, her voice echoing off the high ceilings. She pointed a manicured finger at the paper. "I had a private investigator digging for months. I knew my brother wouldn't have left the syndicate to you if he knew the truth!"
"And what truth do you believe you have discovered?" Eamon asked, his voice remaining terrifyingly calm.
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"He isn’t blood," Winona announced contemptuously to the crowded room. She tapped the document aggressively. "He is a bastard from an affair. Here’s proof. A certified DNA report proving he has no Rothwell blood in his veins."
The ballroom erupted into chaotic, overlapping murmurs. The loyalties of the syndicate hinged entirely on bloodline and succession. If the document was real, Eamon’s reign was over.
