Chapter 3
The cinematic, golden light of the chandeliers seemed to sharpen and focus entirely on the head table as Iris approached. The air around Elliot Crowne was always thick with a dangerous, electric gravity. Iris moved with agonizing slowness, maneuvering the silver serving trolley into position beside Elliot’s velvet dining chair.
Her breath hitched in her throat. Her left hand trembled violently as she reached for the crystal water pitcher resting on the top tier of the trolley. Because her right wrist was chained to the cart's frame, she had to lean awkwardly, her rumpled white apron brushing against the edge of the table.
As Iris placed the water glass beside Elliot, the thick steel chain connecting her wrist to the trolley shifted. The metal links scraped harshly against the edge of the cart, a distinct, ugly sound that cut through the immediate vicinity. The chain was now entirely visible in the bright, luminous light.
Before Elliot could turn his head to investigate the sound, a small figure stepped out from the shadows near the towering Christmas tree.
Six-year-old Owen Crowne, dressed impeccably in his navy suit and burgundy bow tie, walked directly toward the serving trolley. His small face was set in a mask of determined, innocent bravery. He completely ignored the fifty dangerous adults surrounding the table. He ignored the terrifying presence of his father's fiancée.
Owen stopped right in front of Iris. He reached into the small pocket of his navy trousers and brought out a tiny, silver key. Tied to the bow of the key was a bright red Christmas ribbon. He had spent the last two hours quietly hunting through Leona's discarded coats in the cloakroom to find it. He intended to give his favorite maid her freedom as a Christmas present.
Owen extended his small hand, offering the ribbon-tied key to Iris.
"Here, Iris," Owen whispered softly.
Leona, sitting to Elliot’s left, noticed the movement instantly. Her composed, elegant public manner fractured for a microscopic second. The color drained from her fair skin, replaced by a flash of absolute, territorial fury. She turned her head, looking directly at the six-year-old boy.
"Put that key back," Leona commanded.
May you like
Her voice was not loud, but it was laced with a venomous, sharp authority meant to instantly cower the child into submission. She kept her polished smile fixed on her lips for the sake of the guests, but her eyes were cold, burning with a promise of severe retribution if the boy did not obey her immediately.
Iris froze, her puffy, exhausted eyes widening in sheer terror. She looked at the key, then at the socialite, her chained wrist aching as she prepared for the impending violence. She wanted to tell Owen to run, to drop the key and hide, but her vocal cords were entirely paralyzed by fear.
