Chapter 2
The clinking of gold-rimmed porcelain and crystal glasses formed a chaotic symphony in the dining hall, masking the quiet, desperate terror radiating from the young maid. Esme’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird as she navigated the narrow space between the velvet dining chairs. Every step toward the head of the banquet table felt like a march to her own execution. She held a heavy silver serving tray in her left hand, but her right hand was wrapped tightly around the small, ornate cup Blair had specifically prepared for her.
"Make sure the boss’s glass is refilled," one of the senior enforcers muttered as Esme passed by his chair.
"Right away, sir," Esme murmured softly, keeping her head bowed.
She finally reached the space directly beside Gideon. The sheer, masculine power radiating from his broad shoulders was intoxicating and terrifying all at once. He was the father of the child growing inside her, the result of quiet, stolen moments in the dim light of the estate’s library. But he didn't know. He had no idea that the maid pouring his water carried his heir, or that the woman sitting to his right was currently forcing her to murder it.
Esme took a ragged, trembling breath. The air smelled of evergreen and danger. She leaned forward, carefully setting the heavy silver serving tray down onto the carved walnut table. Her right hand, however, remained elevated, her pale fingers gripping the small cup. She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, praying for forgiveness for what she was about to do to save her six-year-old daughter’s life.
"Is there a problem with the service tonight, Esme?" Blair asked smoothly, her emerald gown catching the light as she turned her head. Her polished public smile remained perfectly intact, but her eyes were cold, dead, and filled with a lethal warning.
"No, Miss Sinclair," Esme whispered, raising the cup toward her trembling lips.
Suddenly, a small, frantic blur of burgundy and cream darted through the gap between the velvet chairs. Maisie had disobeyed her mother’s strict order to stay by the wall. The little girl reached out with surprising speed and gently but firmly caught Esme’s wrist before the cup could reach her mouth.
The sudden physical contact shocked Esme. She froze, looking down in sheer panic.
"Maisie, no, you have to go back," Esme hissed in a desperate whisper, trying to pull her hand away without causing a scene.
But Maisie did not let go. The brave six-year-old looked directly at her mother, her young, fair face set with a profound, heartbreaking determination that defied the opulent, terrifying room surrounding them.
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"Mommy, think about the baby," Maisie said, her voice small but piercingly clear.
The words dropped into the immediate vicinity like a live grenade. The ambient noise of the nearby conversations suddenly felt muted, distant, as the weight of the child's desperate plea settled over the head table. Esme’s breath hitched, her terrified eyes darting frantically toward the mafia boss sitting just inches away from her.
