Chapter 3
The appearance of the pale hand reaching up from the darkness beneath the ballroom floor sent a shockwave of absolute terror through the gathered crowd. Guests gasped audibly, stumbling backward and knocking against the champagne tables. The crystal glasses rattled precariously as the elite members of the syndicate crowded closer, their eyes wide and staring at the desperate, clutching fingers gripping the bridal fabric.
Emrys froze. He looked down at the trembling hand holding onto the veil. The delicate fingers were pale, bruised, and unmistakable. It was his missing fiancée.
The silence that followed was heavy and apocalyptic. Emrys slowly lifted his head, his dark, swept-back hair shifting slightly as he looked directly at his gasping cousin. Dashiell was still doubled over, supported by his two bodyguards, his expensive formal suit looking suddenly heavy and restrictive as the blood completely drained from his face.
“Who’s under my floor, Dashiell?” Emrys asked. His voice was incredibly quiet, measured, and vibrating with a level of dangerous, contained fury that promised absolute destruction.
Dashiell opened his mouth to speak, but only a ragged wheeze escaped. His eyes darted frantically toward the exits, realizing that the secret he had buried beneath the estate had just literally risen to the surface.
Coralie remained kneeling beside Emrys, her heart pounding frantically against her ribs. She carefully held his injured right hand against the pristine white apron of her maid dress, shielding it from further harm. She looked at the hand protruding from the floorboards, and a horrifying realization settled over her. The estate administrator hadn't just mismanaged funds; he had orchestrated a kidnapping right under their feet.
“Help her,” Emrys commanded, not looking away from Dashiell. “Get this panel off.”
Two of Emrys’s personal enforcers stepped out from the crowd, instantly recognizing the absolute shift in authority. They wedged their hands into the gap, gripping the heavy wooden floorboard, and ripped it upward with a deafening crack of splintering wood.
The panel came free, revealing a narrow, dark subfloor access space usually reserved for the estate's antiquated plumbing. Huddled in the darkness, covered in dust and weeping silently, was the bride who had supposedly run away.
“Get her out,” Emrys ordered softly, his voice thick with suppressed emotion.
The enforcers reached down, gently pulling the trembling woman up from the dark crawlspace. She collapsed onto the polished wooden floor, gasping for the clean, cool air of the ballroom. She was wearing her ruined wedding dress, the white fabric stained and torn, the veil still clutched in her desperate hands.
Dashiell, finally catching his breath, pushed away from his bodyguards. The fair, rosy skin of his face flushed a violent, panicked red.
“Emrys, wait! Let me explain!” Dashiell pleaded, holding his hands up defensively. “You don't understand the politics! The alliance with her family was going to ruin us!”
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Emrys stood up slowly. He gently withdrew his injured hand from Coralie’s grasp, though he kept himself positioned between the housemaid and the chaos of the room. He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored dark suit, the artistic tattoos on his hands flexing ominously.
“Do you believe your political opinions justify burying a woman alive beneath my feet?” Emrys asked, stepping toward his cousin.
