Chapter 4
The golden light from the tiered crystal chandeliers seemed to drop in temperature, casting long, harsh shadows across the ivory wall panels. Valerie’s face, previously flushed with the warmth of the evening and expensive wine, drained of all color until her rosy skin turned the shade of ash. Her diamond earrings trembled slightly as a subtle, uncontrollable shake took over her body.
Wesley did not break eye contact with her. He slowly raised his tattooed hand, resting his elbows on the polished walnut table, steepling his fingers together. The silence stretched until it became agonizing, the guests holding their collective breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
But Wesley never exploded. His rage was a glacier—cold, immense, and completely unstoppable.
“Are you all waiting for a formal invitation to leave my home?” Wesley asked, his deep, low voice echoing across the long table. He didn't look at the guests; his cold eyes remained entirely fixed on his fiancée.
The question was a command. Instantly, the scraping of velvet dining chairs against the hardwood floor sounded like a chaotic symphony. Dozens of capos, crime bosses, and politicians scrambled to their feet, abandoning their fine porcelain plates and crystal stemware. They moved with a hurried, terrified silence, practically sprinting toward the grand double doors of the dining room. No one offered their goodbyes. No one dared to look back.
Within two minutes, the massive, luxurious room was entirely empty, save for the four of them: Wesley, Valerie, Gemma, and Owen. The heavy mahogany doors clicked shut, echoing with a hollow finality.
“Wesley, darling, please,” Valerie whispered, her voice cracking as the reality of her isolation set in. She reached out across the table, her engagement ring flashing in the candlelight. “The boy is confused. He has an overactive imagination, you know this.”
Wesley slowly lowered his hands. He looked at the glass of white milk, then back at the woman he was supposed to marry.
“Do you believe me to be a fool, Valerie?” Wesley asked. His measured pauses carried the weight of a death sentence.
“No! No, of course not!” Valerie stammered, pulling her hand back as if the table had burned her. “Gemma is manipulating him! She hates me! She’s been trying to turn Owen against me since the day I moved in! She wants to take my place!”
Gemma stood her ground, though her knees felt weak. She kept her arm securely wrapped around Owen’s shoulders, pressing the boy into the folds of her black maid dress. She refused to defend herself; the truth was already standing in the room.
“Do you think I am blind to the fear in my own son’s eyes?” Wesley asked, rising slowly from his chair. His broad shoulders completely dominated the space as he stood up, towering over the table. “Is drugging a child your definition of maternal care?”
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“It was just a mild sleep aid!” Valerie shrieked, losing her aristocratic composure entirely. “He was always crying! Always interrupting our evenings! I just wanted us to have peace during the dinners!”
“Did you think poisoning my blood would bring you peace?” Wesley asked, taking a slow, deliberate step around the edge of the walnut table toward her.
