Chapter 3
The impact of Annalise’s shoulder against Clive’s ribs was accompanied by a dull, breathless thud. The older cousin, entirely unprepared for a physical assault from a delicate housemaid, lost his grip on Lachlan’s collar instantly. Clive staggered backward, his expensive tuxedo twisting awkwardly as he slammed sideways against the heavily laden banquet table.
Tall crystal glasses toppled, shattering against each other. Silverware clattered loudly, and champagne spilled across the pristine white tablecloth. The nearby guests jumped back in sheer horror, their elegant dresses and formal suits rustling as they scrambled away from the sudden violence.
Every single conversation in the massive ballroom stopped dead. The silence that swept over the room was absolute and terrifying. A maid had just physically assaulted a high-ranking member of the Bellcroft family.
Annalise did not look at the gasping, stunned cousin or the wreckage of the table. She immediately turned her back on Clive, dropping to her knees once more beside Lachlan.
She reached out, carefully taking his arm and helping him stand. She kept one small, trembling hand firmly beneath his elbow, providing the leverage he needed to rise without putting weight on his bruised joint. Her fingers shook visibly against the dark fabric of his suit as she reached up, gently straightening his rumpled collar. She smoothed the material with a tender, desperate care, her expressive eyes scanning his face to ensure he wasn't severely injured.
Lachlan stood tall, his broad shoulders squaring as he looked down at the woman who had just risked her life for him. The artistic tattoos on his neck shifted as he swallowed hard, a profound, unmasked emotion flickering in his dark eyes.
Clive pushed himself off the ruined banquet table, his fair, rosy skin flushed an ugly, mottled red. He was hyperventilating, humiliated and enraged beyond reason. He pointed furiously at his two towering bodyguards.
“Throw them both out!” Clive shouted, his voice cracking with hysteria. “Break her legs and throw him in the street!”
The two bodyguards stepped forward simultaneously, reaching into their dark suits for their weapons, prepared to execute the violent command.
Annalise shrank back slightly, pressing herself against Lachlan’s side. Lachlan immediately wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest, preparing to shield her with his own body.
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But before the bodyguards could draw their weapons, a new figure stepped smoothly through the paralyzed, watching crowd.
It was the Security Manager. At fifty years old, wearing a formal venue-security uniform, the man exuded a calm, clinical authority. He did not draw a weapon. Instead, he raised a sleek, high-definition tablet high in the air, the screen glowing brightly in the cinematic lighting.
