Chapter 1
The afternoon sun poured across the limestone terrace of the Westcott estate in waves of brilliant, luminous gold. Under the open-air pavilion, crystal flutes shimmered atop linen-draped tables, and the air was laced with the delicate scent of crushed gardenias, vintage champagne, and expensive tobacco. It was an engagement reception designed to project absolute dynasty, attended by New York’s shadow royalty—men in bespoke dinner suits and women adorned with heirloom diamonds, their fair, rosy skin glowing under the radiant white canvas.
Yet at the edge of the pavilion, that polished elegance fractured into cruelty.
Rosamund stood with her chin tilted high, her silk-chiffon gown catching the warm breeze. At thirty-five, Cillian Westcott’s fiancée carried herself with the sharp, untouchable arrogance of old money. With a slow, theatrical twist of her wrist, she inverted her crystal flute directly over Linnea Bramley’s head.
The cold, effervescent wine poured in a foaming cascade over Linnea’s dark hair, streaming down her pale temples and soaking the crisp white collar of her fitted maid’s uniform. Linnea squeezed her eyes shut, her slender shoulders trembling beneath the damp fabric, her knuckles turning bone-white against the pleats of her apron. She did not dare to wipe her face. In this house, stepping out of line carried consequences far worse than ruined linen.
Rosamund turned to the circle of watching guests, her painted lips curving into a bright, venomous smirk.
“Another hundred,” Rosamund called out, her voice dripping with mocking gaiety, “and the maid crawls.”
A ripple of cruel laughter drifted through the terrace. Near the balustrade, a middle-aged guest in a tailored tuxedo chuckled and reached into his pocket, raising a folded hundred-dollar banknote between two manicured fingers.
The man’s smile died the instant the shadow fell over him.
Cillian Westcott stepped into the pavilion. At forty-five, he moved with the effortless, lethal gravity of an apex predator. His thick, wavy dark hair was brushed back with careless elegance, a few loose strands falling softly over an angular brow. His jawline was carved from granite, dusted with short stubble, and his cold grey eyes fixed upon the raised bill with terrifying finality.
The guest swallowed hard, the color draining from his face, and lowered the money to his side.
Cillian did not raise his voice. He walked past the frozen guests until he stopped beside the drenched girl. Along the side of his neck, a delicate, sharp black tattoo disappeared beneath his pristine collar; the intricate ink work across his knuckles caught the sunlight as he clasped his hands loosely before his dark three-piece suit.
“Linnea,” Cillian said. His voice was remarkably low, smooth, and measured, every syllable separated by a chilling pause. “What are they paying for?”
Linnea opened her eyes. Champagne dripped from her lashes, mingling with the hot tears trailing down her flushed cheeks. Slowly, with shaking fingers, she opened her right hand.
Pressed into her palm were several crushed, damp banknotes, stained with wine and sweat.
“Whatever they want done to me,” Linnea whispered, her voice breaking beneath the weight of profound humiliation.
Cillian did not move a muscle, but the air beneath the pavilion plunged into sub-zero frost. His jaw tightened, a subtle ripple of muscle beneath his tanned skin. Slowly, deliberately, his gaze shifted from the crumpled money to the woman wearing his seven-carat emerald-cut diamond ring.
Rosamund set her empty glass onto a silver tray with an unconvincing clink. She lifted her chin, attempting to summon her customary defiance, but her thumb nervously rubbed the gold band on her left hand.
“Your father was the highest bidder,” Rosamund said, her tone brittle, defensive, and hurried. “He thought the terrace was getting dull.”
Cillian’s expression became completely, frighteningly still.
He reached out, pulled back the nearest velvet-cushioned armchair, and extended an open hand toward the shivering maid.
Linnea looked up, hesitated for half a heartbeat, and then placed her trembling palm in his. Cillian guided her gently into the seat, treating the disgraced servant like a sovereign taking her throne. He took a fresh linen napkin from the champagne table and placed it softly beside her hand.
Around the terrace, twenty wealthy patrons lowered their flutes and took an instinctive step backward.
Cillian remained standing over her chair, his cold eyes locked onto Rosamund. Rosamund’s gaze darted nervously toward the far glass doors of the conservatory, where the older capos were gathered around the Westcott family patriarch.
Cillian followed her frantic glance, his lips parting in a faint, devastatingly handsome smile that sent a shiver straight down Rosamund’s spine.
May you like
“Bring my father,” Cillian murmured, his voice velvety and devoid of warmth. “The entertainment has changed.”
Rosamund’s lips parted, but no sound escaped. In the chair, Linnea stopped twisting the banknotes, her breath catching as the garden fell dead silent.
