Chapter 3
The cinematic, golden light of the chandeliers seemed to sharpen and focus entirely on the craft table. Lena remained paralyzed, her chest heaving rapidly beneath the fitted black fabric of her creased dress. She recognized the porcelain urn behind Owen, the devastating reality of the desecration crushing the air from her lungs.
She looked directly at Daphne, who was standing just a few feet away, sipping champagne with a group of socialites.
Lena’s voice became incredibly quiet, carrying a slight tremor that betrayed her sheer, unimaginable grief. Tears gathered heavily along her lower eyelids, glittering in the chandelier light as they threatened to spill over.
"Those are my mother's ashes," Lena whispered.
The words hit the room with the devastating force of a physical blow. The absolute, unvarnished truth spoken from the mouth of a broken servant was a catastrophic verdict. A collective, quiet gasp rippled through the elite guests standing near the worktable. The music playing in the background seemed to fade into nothingness.
Daphne turned slowly, the luxurious crimson satin of her evening gown rustling loudly in the sudden silence. She met Lena’s tear-filled eyes with a small, perfectly composed smile. It was a smile completely devoid of empathy, a weapon designed to remind everyone in the room of her untouchable status.
"Dust belongs in the trash," Daphne stated, her American accent dripping with condescending superiority.
The sheer, sociopathic malice of the statement sent a fresh wave of horror through the room. To discard human remains to use a memorial urn as a vase was an act of monstrous, insecure cruelty.
Elias Crowne stopped breathing. His entire body went rigid beneath his tailored dark suit. He slowly turned his head, his naturally swept-back hair catching the light. He looked down at the clear glass ornament in his son's hands, then at the porcelain urn stuffed with red roses, and finally at the shattered, weeping housemaid.
The transition was terrifying. The calm, composed host was instantly replaced by the ruthless, cold-blooded king of the syndicate. A dark, absolute void of lethal intent flooded his gaze.
Every single guest in the drawing room stopped speaking. The polite, affluent conversation died entirely in their throats, replaced by a terrifying, breathless vacuum. Fifty faces turned toward Elias, their fair skin paling as they watched the mafia boss.
Elias moved with absolute, predatory grace. He stepped decisively forward, his broad shoulders parting the crowd. He reached out with his heavily tattooed hands, his luxury wristwatch gleaming under the lights.
With immense, heartbreaking gentleness, Elias gently accepted the clear glass ornament from Owen’s small fingers, ensuring the pale powder inside was not disturbed.
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He slowly raised his gaze, holding Daphne’s stare.
"Daphne," Elias said, his deep, controlled voice echoing loudly in the dead-silent room. "Did you empty that urn?"
