Chapter 3
The memorial dinner was a crowded, elegant affair, filled with the most powerful and influential white American figures in the criminal underworld. The bright, luminous video colors of the room highlighted the fair, rosy skin and expensive formal wear of the assembled guests. The soft elegant warmth of the cascading crystal chandeliers created an atmosphere of luxurious intimacy, while the tall candles flickering inside their glass hurricane holders cast dancing reflections across the gold-rimmed porcelain and polished silver.
Malcolm sat at the absolute head of the family table, an immovable anchor of masculine power. His dark three-piece suit absorbed the ambient light, contrasting with the crisp white collar of his dress shirt. Beside him sat his seventy-two-year-old mother, Evelyn Whitford. She wore an elegant silk dinner dress, accessorized with simple pearl earrings and low formal shoes. Her movements were careful and frail, her fair skin pale, and she spoke with a quiet, fragile voice. The grief of losing her husband one year ago still hung heavily over her delicate frame.
Directly opposite them stood Lucinda, playing the role of the perfect, attentive hostess in her sculpted satin evening gown.
"The roasted pheasant is absolutely divine, Malcolm," a senator from the East Coast remarked, his American accent ringing clearly over the polite hum of conversation. "Your father always had exceptional taste in culinary talent."
"Did he not always say that a man is measured by the quality of his table and the loyalty of his guests?" Malcolm inquired, raising his crystal stemware in a subtle, acknowledging toast.
"He certainly did," the senator chuckled warmly. "To his memory."
As the main courses were cleared by the seamless, silent staff, the time for the final, traditional tea service arrived. Wren Avery stepped out from the swinging kitchen doors, carrying a heavy silver tray. Her sophisticated black maid dress and neatly tied white apron looked impeccably sharp under the clean, clear lighting. On the tray rested the gold-rimmed teacups, matching saucers, and a small, ornate silver pot containing Evelyn’s special tea.
Wren’s fingers trembled slightly as she gripped the edges of the silver tray. She had watched Lucinda prepare the tea in the kitchen just moments before. Lucinda had poured a few drops of a clear, unidentifiable liquid from a small glass vial directly into the silver pot before waving Wren away. The sheer, terrifying implication of what she was about to serve to the elderly matriarch made Wren sick to her stomach.
"Is the tea prepared to her exact specifications, Wren?" Malcolm asked as the beautiful housemaid approached the head of the table.
"Yes, Mr. Whitford," Wren replied, her voice soft but steady, forcing her graceful posture to remain perfectly upright. "It is the exact blend Miss Hale provided."
"Does it smell different to you tonight?" Malcolm questioned, his cold, perceptive eyes locking onto the silver pot as Wren set the tray down on a nearby serving stand.
"It smells as it always does, sir," Wren answered, her expressive brows drawing together slightly. She didn't want to lie, but directly accusing the boss's fiancée of poisoning his mother in front of fifty powerful guests was tantamount to suicide.
"Shall we serve my mother before the dessert course arrives?" Malcolm asked, gesturing toward Evelyn with a heavily tattooed hand.
"Of course, sir," Wren nodded.
May you like
Lucinda, standing opposite them, leaned slightly forward, her diamond earrings catching the luminous light. She offered a tight, encouraging smile to the maid. "Please, Wren. Evelyn is looking quite tired. The tea will help her rest."
Wren picked up a delicate gold-rimmed saucer and a matching cup. She poured the steaming, fragrant liquid from the small silver pot. The scent of bitter herbs and dark florals rose into the bright, airy room. With her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs, Wren stepped up beside Evelyn’s chair, preparing to execute an action that could very well cost the elderly woman her life.
