Chapter 2
The French doors of the conservatory clicked open, and the rhythmic tap of a polished walking cane echoed across the terrace flagstones.
Arthur Westcott stepped into the golden light. At seventy-one, Cillian’s father was a relic of the family’s older, bloodier decades—his silver hair brushed flat against his skull, his pale eyes rheumy yet vicious, draped in an immaculate double-breasted charcoal blazer. Two veteran enforcers trailed half a pace behind him, their hands resting habitually inside their jackets.
“What is all this commotion, Cillian?” Arthur barked, his voice rasping over the quiet garden. “The band stopped playing before the toasts were finished.”
Rosamund hurried toward the old man, her stiletto heels clicking sharply on the stone. “Arthur, thank God. Cillian is making a scene over the girl. I was merely maintaining order among the household staff.”
Arthur looked past her, his gaze landing on Linnea sitting upright in the velvet armchair, soaked in vintage wine with Cillian’s broad silhouette towering over her shoulder. A dismissive chuckle rasped in the patriarch’s throat.
“A servant girl steps out of line, she pays the house tax,” Arthur said, leaning on his cane and looking at his son with undisguised contempt. “Don't embarrass your bride over a maid, Cillian. You’re forty-five years old. Learn to understand the difference between livestock and lineage.”
Cillian didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He took three unhurried steps forward, his handmade leather oxfords whispering over the terrace.
“You auctioned her dignity for five hundred dollars, Father,” Cillian said softly, every word landing with the weight of an executioner's stone. “In front of thirty city commissioners and four shipping magnates.”
“It was a parlor game!” Arthur scoffed, though his fingers tightened slightly on the gold handle of his cane. “The Bramley girl’s father died owing this family three million dollars in unpaid port duties. Her very breath on this estate is paid for by my charity. If Rosamund wants her to entertain our guests, she entertains them.”
“Is that so?” Cillian murmured.
He reached out and plucked the crystal flute from the tray of a nearby waiter. He didn't drink. He simply held the glass between two tattooed fingers, turning it slowly so the light fractured across the champagne.
“You tell me about lineage,” Cillian continued, his voice dropping into that chilling, intimate register that made the hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stand up. “Yet you invited Julian Hayes onto my private terrace. The same man who raised a banknote to watch a maid crawl.”
The guest who had held the money flinched, shrinking back into the shadows of the wisteria arbor.
“Julian is a senator’s nephew,” Arthur snapped, his brow furrowing. “He controls the zoning permits for the Brooklyn piers!”
“He is a parasite,” Cillian replied, never taking his eyes off his father. “And you allowed him to treat my house like a gutter brothel. You forget, Arthur. You stepped down from the ruling seat five years ago. You don't set the rules of this house anymore.”
Rosamund stepped between them, her diamond earrings swinging with frantic agitation. “Cillian, be reasonable! It was a joke! Everyone was laughing until you walked in here looking like you wanted to commit murder!”
Cillian turned his cold, grey gaze down upon his fiancée. The sheer physical gravity of his presence forced her to take half a step back, her heel catching on the hem of her gown.
“I don't look like murder, Rosamund,” Cillian whispered, his voice smooth and terrifyingly quiet. “Murder looks much worse than this. Now, tell me... whose idea was the auction?”
Rosamund’s throat bobbed. She looked at Arthur, but the old patriarch remained stone-faced, unwilling to shield her from the predator he had raised.
“Answer him,” Linnea’s small voice suddenly broke from the chair.
May you like
Every head turned toward the maid. Linnea stood up, the linen napkin held tightly in her bruised fingers. Her face was drenched, her uniform clung to her slender frame, but her hazel eyes burned with a fierce, quiet defiance that startled every guest on the terrace.
“Tell him why you poured the wine, Miss Rosamund,” Linnea said, her voice shaking but clear. “Tell him what you were trying to find in my apron pocket.”
