Chapter 2
Without sparing a glance at Elfrida, Lysander bent his knees and lowered himself onto one heel. He did not care about the terrace dust on his bespoke trousers. He drew a clean linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently blotted the damp, syrupy stain on Effie’s cardigan. His large thumb brushed away the warm tear tracking down her cheek.
"Take my hand, little bird," he murmured. His baritone voice was quiet, rich, and deep, carrying a warmth reserved exclusively for her.
Effie grabbed his index finger with both of her hands, clinging to it as though it were the only solid anchor in a sea of wolves. Lysander stood back up to his full, towering height, shifting his stance slightly so his broad overcoat shielded Effie behind his left leg. He turned his boots toward the arched iron garden gate that led down to the private driveway.
Elfrida’s bright smile vanished instantly, wiped away by a surge of furious indignation. To be dismissed in such a manner—treated as if she were nothing more than a stray dog on her own manicured terrace—stung worse than an open insult.
She shoved past a waiter holding a tray of champagne and threw herself directly into Lysander's path, blocking the stone walkway.
"Where do you think you’re taking her, Lysander?" Elfrida snapped, her voice shrill enough to make the guests around the perimeter freeze.
Lysander continued walking until he was a single pace away from her. The physical contrast was suffocating; Elfrida had to tilt her head back at an agonizing angle to look into his eyes, but vanity and thirty years of family privilege blinded her to the danger radiating off his skin.
She reached out with red-tipped nails, digging her fingers into the heavy lapel of his tailored overcoat.
"Don’t ruin my party over scraps," Elfrida hissed through gritted teeth, her face twisting into ugly disdain. "She's three years old. She needs to understand that she does not touch this table until the senior members have eaten. You think your street money buys you manners here?"
Lysander looked down at the manicured hand clutching his wool lapel. He did not step back. With smooth, fluid economy, he shifted Effie further behind his frame, shielding her completely from Elfrida’s sightline.
"Remove your hand from my coat, Elfrida," he said softly.
"Or what?" she barked, her voice rising into a breathless shriek designed to rally the watching relatives. "You think you frighten me? This is my estate! This is my summer luncheon! You are a guest here, Lysander—just like that brat!"
Enraged by his motionless indifference, Elfrida pulled her arm back. Her right hand shot up, palm wide, swinging with all the venom in her body directly toward Lysander’s face.
Several women in the crowd gasped. Striking a Farrow in public was an unforgivable taboo.
Her palm never reached his cheek.
Lysander’s left hand snapped forward like an iron bear trap, locking around her raised wrist mid-air. The impact of his grip was so absolute that Elfrida’s breath hitched in her throat. The diamond bangles on her arm clattered violently as his fingers tightened, grinding the delicate bones of her wrist together until her knees buckled half an inch.
"You have forgotten your place," Lysander said, his voice dropping into a register colder than sea ice.
Before Elfrida could register the agony in her arm, Lysander’s right hand whipped across the air.
The crack of his open-handed slap sounded like a gunshot echoing through the walled garden.
It was not a shove; it was the brutal, unyielding strike of a man who had broken jaws in shipping container yards. The force drove Elfrida sideways off her heels. She spun through the air, her silk dress tearing against the shrubbery, and crashed hard into the cushioned garden armchair beside the path.
The heavy armchair slid two feet across the stone tiles under the violence of her fall, slamming squarely into the wheeled clearing trolley.
The trolley rocked violently on its casters. Atop the tray, the porcelain dessert plate tipped over.
A disgusting cascade of wet crusts, spoiled cream, melon rinds, and crushed fruit spilled through the air, landing in a wet, heavy heap directly across Elfrida’s lap, her exposed neckline, and the pristine lace bodice of her thousand-dollar dress.
Every single guest on the terrace went dead, terrifyingly silent. Nobody breathed. A woman in a floral hat dropped her crystal glass, and the red wine pooled unnoticed around her sandals.
Elfrida sat sprawled in the armchair, clutching her blazing, swelling cheek with one hand, covered from waist to throat in cold banquet garbage. Her chest heaved in hysterical, stuttering gasps, her eyes wild with animal shock.
Lysander reached down, took Effie’s small hand again, and pulled her gently back to his side.
He looked down at Elfrida, his dark eyes devoid of remorse, devoid of anger, holding only the chilling finality of an executioner reviewing a corpse. Every relative on the lawn turned their eyes toward him, transfixed by terror.
"You cut my daughter's food rations," Lysander said, his quiet voice carrying effortlessly across the frozen courtyard. "Now ask yourself who paid for this feast."
May you like
Elfrida blinked through hot tears of humiliation, her gaze darting frantically from the lavish spread of food across the terrace to the towering man standing above her.
Lysander remained still, waiting.
