Chapter 5
The camera pushed into a tight close-up of Wren Avery. The bright, airy lighting illuminated every detail of her movie-star beauty—the expressive brows drawn together in deep distress, the delicate cheekbones pale with fear, and the loose, low twist of her hair remaining perfectly polished despite her internal panic.
Wren looked directly toward Malcolm. She bypassed the furious, warning glares being shot at her by Lucinda and held the terrifying, perceptive gaze of the Mafia boss.
The entire room seemed to hold its collective breath. The polite hum of American accents and the clinking of crystal stemware vanished entirely. Every single guest stopped eating and speaking, turning their heads toward the patriarch.
Malcolm stared back at the housemaid, his masculine, angular face unreadable.
“Wren. Why did you stop?” Malcolm asked quietly.
His deep, low voice was incredibly measured, carrying a lethal, acoustic weight that resonated in the absolute silence of the dining hall. It wasn't a reprimand; it was an absolute, terrifying demand for the truth.
Wren swallowed hard. The muscles in her throat contracted visibly under the crisp white collar of her uniform. Her lips parted, drawing in a shaky breath of the rose-scented air. She closed her mouth once, her eyes darting frantically toward the cup of tea she was still holding mid-air, before she found the immense, suicidal courage to answer him.
Maintaining intense, unwavering eye contact with Malcolm, Wren spoke.
“She’s barely awake after this.”
Her voice was soft, fragile, and deeply strained, breaking the silence like a shattering crystal glass. Moisture rapidly gathered along her lower eyelids, her fair, rosy eyes shining with unshed tears in the golden chandelier light. Despite her terror, she kept her hand entirely steady, unwilling to lower the cup within Evelyn’s reach.
A collective, stifled gasp rippled through the gathered relatives and associates. To openly suggest that the boss's fiancée was heavily drugging the beloved matriarch of the family was an act of profound bravery—or sheer madness.
"What an absurd, hysterical exaggeration!" Lucinda shrieked, her voice pitching up, entirely abandoning her polished social poise. Her diamond earrings shook violently as she pointed a manicured finger at the maid. "She is a servant! How dare she speak out of turn!"
Malcolm did not look at Lucinda. He kept his cold eyes locked on the weeping housemaid.
"Is a servant forbidden from observing the decline of the woman she cares for?" Malcolm asked, the question hanging heavily in the luminous air.
"She is lying to make herself look important!" Lucinda argued, her chest heaving under the sculpted satin gown. "The tea is a mild herbal blend! You have seen her drink it yourself, Malcolm!"
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"Have I ever witnessed my mother consume a beverage that leaves her practically comatose?" Malcolm inquired, slowly shifting his gaze from Wren to the steaming porcelain cup suspended above the saucer.
Wren’s hand remained locked in Evelyn’s frail grip. The elderly woman looked up at her son, her faded eyes wide with a mixture of terror and desperate relief. The unspoken truth was sitting right in front of them, steaming in a gold-rimmed cup, and the apex predator of the family was finally ready to examine it.
