Chapter 1
The crystal chandeliers of the Oakridge Country Club burned with bright, unforgiving daylight. Beneath the glass arches, eighty guests in evening gowns and bespoke dinner jackets mingled with champagne flutes, their fair, rosy skin glowing under the recessed spotlights. Outside the terrace doors, parked along the polished stone driveway, Edric Whitburn’s midnight-black town car sat idling in silence.
Beside the towering gift table, three-year-old Fleur stood on her tiptoes. A gold paper crown sat crookedly on her pale blonde curls, its glitter catching the chandeliers.
Ottilia Whitburn stepped forward, her emerald evening gown hissing against the hardwood. Her manicured fingers reached down, plucked the paper crown from Fleur’s head, and tossed it into the floral arrangement behind them. From her clutch, she produced a heavy square of black lace. With a swift, practiced motion, she draped the mourning veil over the child’s face.
Fleur gasped, her hands flying up to push the fabric away. "No! I don't want it! Take it off!"
Ottilia’s hand shot out like an iron vice, clamping over the girl’s tiny wrist and pinning it down against her cardigan. She bent low, her lips inches from the lace.
"Practice crying," Ottilia whispered, her red lips curving into a venomous smile. "Daddy’s funeral comes next."
Fleur froze. The air left her lungs in a tiny, shuddering whimper.
A shadow fell over both of them. A heavy, calloused hand clamped over Ottilia’s wrist, twisting it back until bone ground against bone.
"Let go of my daughter, Ottilia," Edric Whitburn said.
His voice was low, gravelly, and flat. At forty-five, Edric filled his dark three-piece suit with the quiet menace of an apex predator. His signet ring caught the overhead glare as he tore the black lace from Fleur’s face with his free hand.
Fleur lunged forward, throwing both arms around his trouser leg, her small face buried in the wool.
"Fleur," Edric murmured, his palm resting on her shaking back. "Look at me. What did she say to you?"
Fleur looked up, her blue eyes brimming with tears, her chest hitching violently. "Daddy… she said your driver won’t bring you home."
Edric’s eyes drifted toward the glass doors. Outside, fifty feet away, his personal sedan stood motionless beneath the driveway lanterns.
Ottilia’s clutch suddenly buzzed. The vibration was loud against the satin fabric. She lunged for it, tapping the screen to silence the call before glancing up at Edric with a strained, breathless laugh.
"It’s just a joke, Edric!" Ottilia said loudly, projecting her American drawl toward the nearest cluster of guests. "My God, she makes drama out of everything! You know how toddlers are! I was showing her the antique lace Grandma left me!"
"A mourning veil, Ottilia?" Edric asked, his voice chillingly level. "On my birthday?"
"It’s vintage Chantilly lace, you paranoid brute!" Ottilia snapped. "Give her back to me. I’m taking her to the washroom to clean her face."
"You won't touch her again," Edric said. He tossed the black veil onto the gift table, right over a silver presentation box, and shifted Fleur behind his hip. "Silas. Keep her behind you."
"Yes, Boss," the bodyguard behind him murmured.
Ottilia’s eyes flashed with manic fury. "Get out of my way, Edric! I am her aunt! Give me the child!"
She lunged sideways, her lacquered nails clawing toward Fleur’s shoulder. Edric’s left arm snapped up, blocking her forearm with a dull thud. Ottilia swung wildly with her right fist, aiming for his eye.
Edric didn't flinch. He slipped his chin half an inch, let her knuckles graze empty air, and drove a brutal front kick straight into her diaphragm.
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The heel of his polished oxford caught her dead center.
Ottilia folded with a strangled wheeze, propelled backward through the air. She crashed hard into the velvet armchair beside the terrace doors, the wood groaning under the impact. Her evening bag flew from her hand, landing open on the cushion beside her hip, spilling her gold phone onto the velvet.
