Chapter 2
The heavy mahogany doors leading to the kitchens swung open, allowing a brief rush of cooler air into the warm, golden atmosphere of the banquet hall. Elora Cole stood just inside the threshold, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She was a housemaid, recently returned to the household staff, but she possessed a movie-star beauty that was impossible to ignore. Her softly oval face, expressive brows, and delicate cheekbones were perfectly framed by her dark hair, which was gathered into a neat, loose French twist.
She wore a sophisticated black maid dress with a cinched waist that flared into a short A-line skirt. Her white apron, crisp white collar, and cuffs were impeccably clean, matching the white ruffled maid headband resting in her hair. She looked elegant and polished, her fair, rosy skin glowing under the crystal chandeliers.
Standing right beside her, gripping the fabric of her skirt, was three-year-old Asher Cole. The little boy was dressed meticulously in a neat, collared shirt, a soft knitted vest, tiny trousers, and small, polished dress shoes.
"Are we going out there now, Mommy?" Asher asked, his high, innocent voice barely audible over the swelling sound of the classical quartet playing in the corner of the dining room.
"Yes, sweetie, we are going out there now," Elora whispered, dropping to one knee so she was eye-level with her son. "Do you remember what we talked about?"
"We are giving the cake to the man in the picture," Asher replied, his small hands clutching a tiny, single homemade cupcake resting on a pristine white porcelain saucer.
"That's right," Elora said, her voice shaking slightly despite her best efforts to remain calm. "Stay right beside my leg, Asher. Do not let go of my apron. Do you promise?"
"I promise, Mommy," Asher said, nodding solemnly. "Is he going to like my cake?"
"He is going to love it," Elora assured him, fighting back the wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. Four years apart had not dulled the quiet, romantic feelings she still harbored for the mafia boss, nor had it erased the pain of his apparent abandonment.
Elora stood up, smoothing down her apron. She took a deep breath, letting the luminous, airy light of the dining room wash over her. She stepped out from the shadows of the doorway, stepping onto the polished hardwood floor.
"Who is that maid bringing a child into the dining hall?" an older woman whispered loudly to her husband as Elora passed their champagne velvet chairs. "How entirely inappropriate for an evening like this."
"Keep your voice down," her husband hissed back. "That is Declan Westbrook's house. You do not question his staff."
Elora ignored the murmurs. She kept her eyes fixed on the head table, navigating through the maze of fine porcelain and tall ivory candles. She could see Vivian sitting there in her sculpted satin gown, looking like a queen holding court. And beside her was Declan. Seeing his angular face and the familiar sweep of his dark, wavy hair sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core.
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"Are we almost there?" Asher whispered, looking up at the towering, intimidating figures seated around the room.
"Almost there, my love," Elora replied softly, her grip tightening on the edge of her serving tray.
