Chapter 2
The soft supplementary lighting in the dining room illuminated the faces of the surrounding guests as the servers moved silently to clear the main course. The clinking of silver against porcelain created a steady, rhythmic background noise. Gemma stepped forward, a silver tray balanced gracefully in her hands. With practiced elegance, she leaned down and placed a small, beautifully plated dessert before Owen.
The boy didn't look at the sweet pastry. His eyes were entirely fixed on the tall glass of milk resting just an inch from his dessert fork. The creamy white liquid seemed to mock him under the golden glow of the crystal chandeliers.
With a sudden, jerky movement, Owen pushed the milk away. The base of the glass scraped loudly against the polished walnut table, a sharp, abrasive sound that briefly cut through the ambient chatter. Owen shrank back into his velvet chair, looking up to catch Gemma’s gaze. His small face was pale, his eyes wide with a quiet, desperate apprehension that tore at Gemma’s heart.
“Not the sleepy milk,” Owen whispered, his voice trembling so slightly it was almost lost beneath the sound of a laughing politician two seats away.
Gemma’s breath hitched. Her hand, which had been gracefully withdrawing from the table, stopped dead in mid-air right beside the small dessert plate. She froze, a sickening realization washing over her. She looked at the glass, then up at Valerie, whose back was perfectly straight in her champagne satin gown.
The brief, abrasive sound of the glass scraping the wood had not gone unnoticed. Wesley Blackwood possessed the instincts of an apex predator. His cold, observant eyes immediately flicked toward his son. He noticed the sheer terror on Owen’s face, and more tellingly, he noticed the boy’s small, shaking fingers desperately gripping the edge of Gemma’s crisp white apron for safety.
Without a word, Wesley reached out across the table. His large, tattooed hand wrapped around the glass of milk, lifting it and moving it far beyond Owen’s reach. The heavy family signet ring clicked faintly against the glass. Wesley did not look at the milk. He slowly turned his head, the loose strands of hair shifting over his forehead, and looked directly into Gemma’s eyes.
“Gemma. What’s in the milk?”
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Wesley’s voice stayed low and deliberate, a deep, measured rumble that carried an undercurrent of absolute, terrifying authority.
The effect on the room was instantaneous. It was as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the grand dining hall. Every single guest stopped eating. The low hum of conversation was severed as if by a blade. Dozens of powerful men and women froze in their seats, turning their heads toward Wesley in suffocating silence. The warm golden light suddenly felt harsh and exposing. The tension in the air was a physical weight, pressing down on Gemma's shoulders as she found herself pinned beneath the icy, unyielding stare of the mafia boss.
