Chapter 2
Moving with quiet, desperate grace through the bright, airy room was Edith Lane. At twenty-seven, the housemaid possessed a beauty that rivaled any movie star in the grand dining hall. She had a softly heart-shaped face, delicate cheekbones, and expressive brows that were currently drawn together in deep concentration. Her fair, rosy skin was pale tonight, reflecting an internalized anxiety. Her thick hair was gathered meticulously into a soft low bun. She wore a fitted black maid dress featuring a cinched waist, a slim silhouette, and a short A-line skirt. A neatly tied white apron, paired with a crisp white collar and cuffs, completed her polished appearance.
Edith navigated the maze of polished walnut tables, carefully maneuvering behind the head table. Her primary duty tonight was ensuring the boss's absolute comfort, a task made exponentially more difficult by the wheelchair. She approached the space directly behind Marcus, taking hold of the custom-molded handles.
"Excuse me, sir," Edith whispered, her American accent soft and respectful.
With meticulous care, she began positioning Marcus’s wheelchair closer to the table for the dessert service. The heavy chair rolled smoothly over the thick patterned rug. Once he was perfectly aligned with his gold-rimmed porcelain plate, Edith leaned down and firmly pressed the heavy steel brake lever located near the right wheel. It clicked into place with a satisfying, metallic snap.
Believing the chair was secure, Edith slowly released her grip on the handles to reach for the silver tray resting on a nearby serving cart.
Instantly, the heavy wheelchair began to roll backward.
Despite the brake lever being fully engaged and locked in the downward position, the rubber tire offered absolutely no resistance against the floor. The chair slipped backward, pulling Marcus away from the table in a jarring, unexpected movement.
Edith gasped. Her graceful posture dissolved into sheer panic. She dropped the silver serving tongs and immediately lunged forward. Her hands shot out, catching the right handle with a desperate, white-knuckled grip. She threw her body weight against the chair, physically arresting its backward momentum before it could crash into the serving cart behind them.
She stood there, breathing heavily, holding the heavy chair steady with pure physical exertion.
Marcus remained perfectly still. His broad, powerful shoulders did not flinch, but his cold, perceptive eyes tracked the movement instantly. He felt the sudden, uncontrolled backward drift, and then the jarring halt as the maid caught him.
He looked down. His sharp gaze locked onto the heavy steel brake lever. It was pushed all the way down, fully engaged, yet the metal mechanism connecting it to the tire was loose, hanging uselessly away from the rubber. It had not just slipped; it had been deliberately, meticulously tampered with.
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Across the table, Antonia Shaw stopped cutting her steak. The polite, reassuring smile vanished from her face for a fraction of a second. She had not anticipated the brake failing so dramatically in the middle of the crowded dining hall. She had assumed it would simply cause a minor, humiliating slip later in the evening when he was alone.
But the panic only lasted a microsecond. Antonia’s sharp survival instincts kicked in. She quickly plastered a brittle, plastic smile back onto her face, projecting an aura of complete, unbothered calm.
