Chapter 2
The clatter of polished silverware against gold-rimmed porcelain provided a rhythmic backdrop to the overlapping conversations at the banquet table. Lydia kept her expressive eyes cast downward, moving seamlessly among the guests. Every movement felt robotic, her mind still reeling from the sheer, unprovoked violence of the afternoon. She kept her hands steady against the silver serving tray, desperately trying to remain invisible in the bright, airy lighting of the ballroom that offered absolutely no place to hide.
"Ensure the boss's glass is refilled, Lydia," the head butler instructed in a hushed whisper as they crossed paths near the champagne station. "He is making his way to the table now."
"I will take care of it immediately, sir," Lydia replied softly, her American accent carrying a fragile, trembling cadence that she fought desperately to conceal.
She took a silver water pitcher in her hands, her heart hammering violently against her ribs as she approached the head of the table. The proximity to the mafia boss was always intimidating; his sheer physical presence and the cold, observant intelligence in his eyes demanded a terrifying level of respect. But tonight, it wasn't Sebastian who terrified her. It was the woman sitting beside his empty chair.
Earlier that afternoon, a simple act of childish affection had ended in brutal humiliation. Six-year-old Jamie, Sebastian's son, had spent hours drawing a picture. He had run into the kitchens, handed it to Lydia, and happily called her "Mommy"—a word the boy had used increasingly over the past year as the gentle maid had become his primary source of comfort. Celeste had witnessed the exchange. In a fit of jealous, territorial rage over Sebastian's quiet affection for the maid, Celeste had cornered Lydia. With the help of her personal guards, she had forcibly shorn off Lydia's long, beautiful braid with a pair of shears, hanging the severed hair on the Christmas tree as a sick trophy before ordering her to finish her shift.
Now, Jamie sat quietly in his velvet chair, dressed impeccably in a navy suit and a burgundy bow tie. The six-year-old boy wasn't eating. He was staring at the towering Christmas tree, his small face a mask of silent distress.
"You are exceptionally quiet tonight, Jamie," Celeste noted, turning her polished smile toward the young boy. "Are you not enjoying the Christmas feast the chefs prepared?"
Jamie did not look up at his future stepmother. His fair cheeks were pale, and his small shoulders were drawn inward defensively. "I'm not hungry," he whispered.
"You must eat, sweetheart," Celeste insisted, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness for the benefit of the watching guests. "We wouldn't want your father to think you are ungrateful for such a beautiful evening, would we?"
Lydia stepped beside Sebastian’s empty chair. She kept her posture rigid, leaning forward slightly to place a crystal water glass onto the crisp white tablecloth. As she did, Jamie slipped out of his chair and walked toward the towering Christmas tree beside the head table.
Jamie reached into the low evergreen branches. He lifted a thick, ribbon-tied braid of dark hair from where it hung like a grotesque ornament. He turned and looked directly at the trembling housemaid.
"Mommy," Jamie said, his small, clear voice cutting through the ambient noise. "Is that your braid?"
May you like
Lydia’s fingers became completely still against the silver serving tray. The blood drained from her fair face. She slowly lifted her head, bypassing the little boy, and looked directly at Celeste.
"I begged you to stop," Lydia said quietly, her words slipping out through a ragged, trembling breath.
