Chapter 4
The clatter of silverware and the low, melodic hum of the American guests faded into a tense, suffocating silence. The bright, luminous colors of the dining hall felt intensely hyper-realistic as all eyes converged on the head of the table.
Gideon Mercer did not react with immediate, explosive anger. The Mafia boss possessed a preternatural, terrifying stillness. He slowly lowered his hands to the white damask tablecloth. His broad, powerful shoulders shifted beneath his tailored dark three-piece suit as he turned his full attention to the scene playing out inches from his plate.
He reached out.
His heavily tattooed hand, adorned with the family signet ring, moved with deliberate, inescapable precision. He did not grab Juliette forcefully, but rather placed his large hand directly over hers. His long fingers, marked by the generous negative space of his refined ink, gently but firmly pried Juliette’s manicured fingers off Mae’s wrist.
Juliette’s confident, amused smile faltered for a fraction of a second as her hand was forcibly removed. She pulled her arm back, settling it against the sculpted satin of her gown.
Gideon did not look at his fiancée. His cold, perceptive eyes bypassed the wealthy socialite entirely and locked directly onto the deep, expressive brown eyes of the housemaid.
The room held its collective breath. The tall ivory candles flickered silently in their crystal hurricane holders, reflecting in the polished silver and delicate stemware.
“Mae,” Gideon said.
His deep, low voice resonated through the entire ballroom. The single word was not a shout, but it commanded absolute, unquestioning authority. Every single guest at the massive, crowded table stopped eating and speaking entirely, turning their fair, rosy faces toward the patriarch.
Gideon held Mae’s gaze, his expression remaining perfectly composed, a mask of unreadable, masculine power. The loose strands of wavy hair falling over his forehead contrasted with the lethal sharpness of his sharply defined jawline.
“Why remove her bracelet?” Gideon asked.
The question hung in the warm golden light, heavy with unspoken danger. It was not an accusation of theft; it was a genuine, terrifying demand for the absolute truth. Gideon was offering her the floor, shielding her from Juliette’s instant condemnation, and waiting for her to justify her actions before the entire syndicate.
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Mae stood frozen for a second, rubbing her wrist where Juliette’s nails had dug into her skin. Her slender figure remained graceful despite the overwhelming pressure of the room's attention. She looked into Gideon's perceptive eyes, realizing that he already suspected the truth. He didn't believe the narrative of a thieving maid. He was simply waiting for her to have the courage to expose the lie.
Juliette stiffened, her posture becoming rigidly defensive. She shot Mae a brief, venomous glare—a silent, absolute promise of severe retaliation if the housemaid dared to speak out of turn. Mae felt the weight of the room crushing down on her, the bright, airy elegance feeling suddenly like a gilded cage.
