Chapter 3
The cinematic, golden light of the chandeliers seemed to sharpen, catching the terrified devastation in Lydia’s eyes. She remained rooted to the spot beside the empty chair, unable to tear her gaze away from the woman who had stripped her of her dignity. The lively conversation of the fifty guests washed over her like static, ignorant of the psychological torture occurring at the head of the table.
Celeste shifted smoothly in her velvet dining chair, her luxurious emerald velvet evening gown rustling softly. She recognized that the moment had arrived. The polished facade she maintained for the capos was flawless, but beneath it lay a rotting core of extreme insecurity and malice. She met Lydia’s tear-filled gaze with absolute, unbothered calm.
A small, composed smile touched Celeste’s lips. It was a smile completely devoid of empathy, a weapon designed to remind the housemaid of her absolute insignificance in the hierarchy of the syndicate.
"Servants don't need beauty, darling," Celeste stated, her American accent dripping with condescending superiority.
The words echoed off the gilded wall panels, an arrogant deflection meant to cement her dominance. Celeste kept her gaze locked on Lydia, her tone light and conversational, attempting to frame the horrific mutilation as a simple, necessary household adjustment.
Before Lydia could take a breath, the heavy, measured footsteps of Sebastian Hale echoed behind her.
Sebastian returned to the head of the table. The imposing mafia boss stepped into the cinematic light, his broad shoulders shifting beneath his dark three-piece suit. He was prepared to take his seat and address his capos, but his sharp, calculating eyes immediately registered the disruption in his domain.
Sebastian stopped. He looked at Lydia.
His dark eyes took in the rumpled apron, the creased dress, and the askew headband. But what paralyzed him was the brutal, uneven hacking of her hair. The loose, disordered strands framed a face that was puffy and darkened from prolonged crying. The gentle woman he had quietly admired for months had been physically violated in his own home.
Slowly, his gaze shifted downward. He saw six-year-old Jamie standing by the tree, holding the thick, ribbon-tied braid of Lydia's hair in his small hands.
Sebastian did not explode. He did not yell. The absolute stillness of his muscular, masculine frame was infinitely more dangerous. He stepped directly beside Lydia. With immense, heartbreaking gentleness, he reached out with his tattooed hand and softly steadied her trembling elbow.
The effect on the room was instantaneous. The sheer, commanding authority in his physical presence sliced through the ambient chatter. Every single dinner guest at the long banquet table stopped eating. Forks hovered motionless over fine porcelain plates. Crystal glasses were lowered slowly back to the tables. The polite, affluent conversation died in their throats, replaced by a suffocating, terrified silence. Fifty faces turned toward the head of the table, watching the mafia boss.
Jamie, holding the braid carefully, looked directly at Celeste. His childish voice was small, but it carried a wounded certainty that cut straight to the bone.
"You said Daddy liked her hair," Jamie stated, exposing the true, venomous motive behind the attack.
May you like
Sebastian held his breath. He briefly lowered a softened gaze toward Lydia, feeling her violent trembling beneath his fingertips. Then, he slowly turned his head. His sharply defined jaw tightened slightly, the very short stubble bristling with suppressed, explosive violence. He held a cold, unwavering stare, locking his eyes directly on Celeste.
"Celeste," Sebastian asked quietly, his deep voice stripping away all the warmth in the room. "Did Lydia consent?"
