Chapter 3
The continuous, muted clatter of silver cutlery against porcelain plates came to a sudden, jarring halt. The bright, airy lighting of the dining hall seemed to sharpen, acting as a high-definition spotlight on the silent tension escalating at the head of the family table.
"What is going on?" a capo whispered from three seats down, his hand instinctively hovering near the inside of his tailored jacket.
"Quiet. Let him speak," his companion hissed, staring at the confrontation unfolding in the golden light.
Lottie froze, her fingers finally slipping away from the silver spoon. She swallowed hard, the muscles in her throat contracting visibly beneath her crisp white collar. She was entirely exposed beneath the bright, golden glow of the cascading chandeliers, trapped between the man who owned the city and the woman who was about to marry him.
Holding Dorian’s intense, perceptive gaze, Lottie felt her heart plummet into her stomach. She saw the deeply masculine, lethal power radiating from him, but beneath the cold exterior, she recognized a fierce, unyielding demand for the truth.
Her inner brows lifted helplessly, an expression of profound vulnerability and quiet agony. Her lower lip trembled once, a violent, involuntary shudder of grief, before she managed to press it firmly into a settling line.
If she spoke the truth, Felicia would undoubtedly try to destroy her. Felicia had explicitly overruled Dorian’s permission earlier that afternoon, threatening to dismiss Lottie permanently and leave her destitute if she dared to abandon the dinner service. But looking into Dorian Westbrook's cold, demanding eyes, Lottie realized that lying to him was an absolute impossibility.
Maintaining direct, unwavering eye contact with Dorian, Lottie made her choice.
“She wouldn’t let me leave.”
Lottie’s answer emerged quietly, without accusation or malice. It was a simple, devastating statement of fact that barely disturbed the air, yet it echoed with undeniable clarity across the carved ivory-paneled walls.
A collective, stifled gasp rippled through the gathered relatives and associates. To state that the bride-to-be had countermanded a direct, explicit order given by the head of the syndicate was a horrifying revelation. It implied a catastrophic breakdown of authority and respect within the highest echelons of the family.
"Did she just say what I think she said?" a wealthy associate murmured, his fair, rosy skin paling slightly.
"She just accused the future bride of insubordination," another guest whispered back in disbelief.
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Across the polished walnut table, Felicia Crane met Dorian’s eyes. Her fair, rosy skin was flawless, projecting an aura of complete, unbothered calm. She recognized that the narrative was at risk of slipping from her manicured grasp. She needed to immediately reassert her control and paint the situation as a necessary, executive decision made for the good of the household.
Dorian did not look at Felicia immediately. He moved with a fluid, terrifying masculine grace. His broad, powerful shoulders shifted beneath his tailored midnight-blue suit as he rose slowly from his velvet dining chair.
