Chapter 7
The morning light broke through the heavy velvet curtains of the master suite, casting a soft, luminous glow over the room. Iona awoke to find the space empty, the scent of cedar and spice lingering on the pillows. She sat up quickly, panic momentarily gripping her chest, before she noticed a handwritten note resting on the bedside table.
I am securing the estate. Remain here. Food will be brought up. - C.
Iona let out a long, shuddering breath. She swung her legs out of bed, smoothing down the wrinkles in her black maid dress, which she hadn't bothered to take off. The events of the previous night felt like a fever dream, but the dull ache in her knuckles grounded her in reality.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," Iona called out, her voice unsteady.
A young staff member wheeled in a silver serving trolley—identical to the one Gareth had crashed into—laden with fresh coffee, fruit, and pastries. The servant kept her eyes carefully lowered, refusing to make eye contact with Iona before retreating quickly. The entire staff knew what had happened in the gallery. Iona was no longer just a housemaid; she was under the direct, terrifying protection of the boss.
She poured a cup of coffee, her hands still trembling slightly, and walked toward the large windows overlooking the sprawling grounds.
Below, the estate looked like a military encampment. Dozens of armed men in dark suits were patrolling the perimeter, securing the gates, and checking the luxury vehicles lined up in the driveway. The syndicate was officially at war with itself.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the suite burst open without a knock.
Iona spun around, spilling hot coffee onto the carpet.
It wasn't Cormac.
A tall, imposing woman strode into the room, flanked by two armed guards. She possessed sharp, aristocratic features and cold, calculating eyes. It was Eleanor Briarwood, Cormac's aunt and Gareth's mother. She wore an expensive tailored suit and held a silver-tipped walking cane.
"So this is the little rat who thinks she can strike a Briarwood and live," Eleanor sneered, her American accent dripping with venomous disdain.
Iona set the coffee cup down on the windowsill, her heart hammering against her ribs. She recognized the matriarch instantly. Eleanor commanded significant loyalty within the older factions of the family.
"Mrs. Briarwood," Iona said, struggling to keep her voice steady. "Mr. Briarwood ordered me to remain here."
"My nephew’s orders are currently under review by the family council," Eleanor stated coldly, tapping her cane against the hardwood floor. "He is holding my son hostage in the cellar over a trivial misunderstanding. And he is doing it to protect a servant."
Eleanor gestured sharply to her guards. "Take her."
The two men stepped forward instantly, closing the distance to Iona. She backed away, her hands raised defensively.
"Don't touch me!" Iona shouted, her voice echoing in the large room.
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Before the guards could lay a hand on her, the silence of the hallway outside was shattered by a deafening, terrifying roar.
"Did I not give explicit instructions regarding who is permitted in this wing?" Cormac’s voice thundered, vibrating with absolute, lethal fury as he appeared in the doorway.
