Chapter 2
The ambient hum of the crowded Christmas gift exchange seemed to fade into a dull roar in Ella’s ears. Her hands began to tremble violently as she looked down at the tiny red baby stocking clutched in the six-year-old’s hands. The sheer cruelty of the boy's innocent gesture was a knife twisting in her already shattered heart. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, and she had to grip the edge of the carved walnut console just to remain standing.
"Oliver, sweetie," Ella whispered, her breath hitching painfully. "The baby... the baby is in heaven. I don't have a baby for you to give that to."
"That's not true," Oliver frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. He stepped away from her and looked around the room, his eyes landing on Clarissa, who was standing a few feet away, sipping champagne with a group of capos.
Before Ella could stop him, the little boy marched directly toward the emerald-clad fiancée. The bright, cinematic lighting caught the gold ornaments on the Christmas tree, casting long, dramatic shadows across the polished marble floor. Beckett, standing near the velvet sofas, narrowed his dark eyes, his deep, controlled breathing slowing as he watched his son approach his future wife.
Oliver stopped right in front of Clarissa, holding up the tiny red stocking. He looked hopeful, his young face devoid of malice but filled with a terrifying, innocent clarity.
"Santa only borrowed Mommy’s baby, right?" Oliver asked, his young voice cutting clearly through the ambient noise of the immediate vicinity.
The words dropped into the opulent drawing room like a live explosive charge. Clarissa’s polished public smile froze instantly, her diamond earrings swinging as her head snapped down to look at the boy.
Ella’s fingers became entirely still against the cold metal of the silver tray. The blood drained from her fair, rosy cheeks. The reality of Oliver's words collided violently with the horrific grief she had been carrying for three weeks. She slowly turned her head toward Clarissa, the physical exhaustion in her bones replaced by a sudden, blinding terror.
"What did he just say?" Ella asked, her voice shaking so badly it barely sounded human.
"Oliver, go play with your cousins," Clarissa hissed through her teeth, her American accent losing its refined edge. "You are interrupting."
Ella stepped away from the console, abandoning all protocol. She closed the distance between them, ignoring the stunned looks of the wealthy guests standing nearby. She stared directly at the woman in the luxurious emerald gown, speaking through a violent, trembling breath.
"You told me my baby died."
The absolute stillness of Beckett Vale sent an immediate, chilling ripple through the grand drawing room. The clinking of crystal glasses ceased entirely. One by one, every single guest stopped speaking, turning their heads toward the confrontation.
Clarissa briefly avoided Ella’s agonized eyes. A flicker of genuine panic widened her gaze as she realized her meticulously crafted lie was unraveling spectacularly. She quickly looked toward Beckett, her polished smile returning as though expecting his agreement to dismiss the hysterical servant.
"A richer family paid, darling," Clarissa stated smoothly, attempting to frame the monstrous act as a simple, pragmatic business transaction.
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Beckett did not smile. He did not agree. The artistic tattoos on his hands flexed as he stepped forward, his broad shoulders casting a massive, imposing shadow over the brilliant Christmas display. He moved beside Ella, positioning his masculine frame between the trembling maid and his fiancée. He met Ella’s eyes, reading the profound, devastating agony in her puffy, shadowed gaze.
"Ella," Beckett commanded, his deep, controlled voice dropping into a lethal register that shook the very foundation of the room. "Was the baby mine?"
