Chapter 2
The bright, cinematic lighting of the garden seemed to freeze the horrifying tableau in time. The damp soil continued to crumble from the uprooted roots, spilling over the toes of Malcolm's expensive leather shoes. The two bodyguards held him rigidly in place, their knuckles white against the dark wool of his tailored suit.
Malcolm did not yell. He did not thrash against the crushing grip of the guards. His jaw tightened imperceptibly, his cold eyes dropping to the ruined flower clutched in his dirt-stained, tattooed hand. The silence stretching across the fifty guests was suffocating, heavy with the realization of the absolute disrespect being shown to the head of the syndicate.
Freya did not care about the syndicate rules. She didn't care about the bodyguards or the glaring presence of Hester Greythorne. The housemaid moved with desperate speed, abandoning her position by the planting bench.
She rushed forward, her flat shoes making no sound against the manicured grass. She dropped gracefully to her knees beside Malcolm, her black maid dress billowing slightly as she landed in the dirt.
Her expressive eyes widened at the sight of his reddened wrist, where Hester’s diamond rings had dug sharply into his skin. Her face, usually so calm and polished, was tight with genuine, unfiltered worry.
She reached out, her delicate fingers trembling violently. With immense, protective gentleness, she slipped her hands beneath his wrist, carefully supporting the weight of his arm while he held the ruined, uprooted flower.
"She planted these for me," Malcolm said.
His deep voice was quiet, shaken, and incredibly vulnerable. The words were a fragile whisper meant only for Freya, completely contrasting the lethal, masculine persona he projected to the world. The pain of the desecration was palpable in his tone.
Freya looked up into his face. Her lower lip trembled, and she was visibly struggling to hold back the tears gathering in her eyes. The profound, quiet grief she saw in the Mafia boss shattered any remaining hesitation she had.
"I know, sir," Freya whispered back, her American accent cracking slightly. "I know."
Hester watched the tender display with an expression of sheer, unadulterated disgust. She adjusted her elegant garden-party gown, refusing to let the moment of humiliation fade. She took a deliberate step forward, her sharp heel pressing into the soft earth.
With a sickening crunch, Hester crushed another delicate, blooming flower beneath her high heel, grinding the petals into the dirt.
"Tomorrow, I’m pouring concrete over it," Hester declared, her voice ringing out defiant and cruel over the silent, crowded tables. "It is time we scrubbed the weakness from this estate once and for all."
Hester reached forward again, her manicured fingers extending toward Malcolm’s wrist, intending to force him to rip another plant from his mother's garden.
May you like
Freya’s tear-filled eyes hardened into absolute steel. The protective fury that ignited in her chest obliterated her fear of the woman in the diamond jewelry. As Hester’s hand moved closer, Freya’s gaze darted to the side. Sitting inches away, resting on the grass near the planting bench, was a woven basket filled entirely with damp, dark potting soil.
The housemaid didn't think. She reached out and grabbed the edge of the basket with her free hand.
