Chapter 6
The silence in the grand dining hall was absolute, a suffocating vacuum that absorbed the soft, elegant warmth of the crystal chandeliers. The tall ivory candles continued to burn steadily, their reflections shimmering in the gilded ceiling moldings, casting long shadows against the walls.
Felicia’s fair skin drained entirely of color. Her eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated panic. She looked wildly around the table, desperately seeking a single ally among the dozens of powerful syndicate members, but the faces staring back at her were stony and unforgiving.
"Dorian, she is lying!" Felicia shrieked, her voice pitching up into a hysterical, defensive frequency. She took a stumbling step backward, her sculpted satin gown rustling loudly against the antique furnishings. "She is trying to manipulate you! The hospital didn't call! I would have been notified!"
"Do you believe my staff possesses the audacity to fabricate a death in my presence?" Dorian asked.
His deep, low voice rolled through the quiet room, the measured pauses striking like a physical blow.
"She wants to ruin this dinner to make me look like a monster in front of your friends!" Felicia cried, tears of panic and frustration finally spilling over her cheeks, ruining her pristine makeup. "I am your fiancée! I am the lady of this house! I had to assert control! You cannot take her word over mine!"
"Is it customary for a lady of the house to countermand a direct order given by the head of the syndicate?" Dorian inquired, his perceptive eyes dissecting her false narrative with surgical precision.
"I was acting in your best interest!" Felicia insisted, her chest heaving beneath the satin gown. "You are too soft on them! They need discipline! If you let them leave whenever they please, the estate will fall into chaos!"
"Does discipline require the annihilation of basic human decency?" Dorian asked smoothly.
He didn't wait for her pathetic, scrambling answer. He took a slow, deliberate step toward her, closing the distance between the head table and the empty space where she stood. The refined artistic tattoos on his hands flexed as he rested his palms on the polished walnut wood of the table.
"Did you truly believe you could overrule my authority, torture my staff, and seamlessly ascend to my side without consequence?" Dorian questioned, his voice dropping into a register of pure, concentrated ice.
Felicia opened her mouth, her breath catching audibly in the quiet room. She looked at the towering, deeply masculine Mafia boss, realizing that the formidable intellect she had so arrogantly underestimated had just trapped her perfectly.
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"My father will not stand for this insult," Felicia whispered, genuine, unadulterated fear finally bleeding into her eyes as she attempted to leverage her family's political weight.
"Will your father truly care for an insult when he learns his daughter is a sadistic liability to my household?" Dorian asked softly, his cold gaze piercing straight through her.
