Chapter 2
The dinner service had moved with flawless, terrifying precision, a testament to the iron grip Julian held over his household. The main courses had been cleared by a silent, efficient staff, leaving only the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of crystal dessert plates. Lydia took a deep, steadying breath, her hands smoothing the crisp white fabric of her apron. She approached the head of the table, her heart hammering a frantic, irregular rhythm against her ribs.
She placed the large chocolate cake in the center of the table, slicing a generous piece for the birthday boy. She stepped up beside Owen’s champagne velvet chair, her eyes carefully avoiding the sharp gaze of the mafia boss.
"Happy birthday, young master," Lydia whispered, leaning down under the guise of placing a pristine dessert napkin beside his plate.
Owen offered a small, hesitant smile. He picked up his heavy silver fork, cutting into the dark, rich layers of the chocolate cake.
As the fork pulled away, the dark chocolate filling was exposed. Lydia’s breath hitched in her throat. Hidden within the rich ganache were small, crushed, pale fragments. Peanuts. Owen had a severe, life-threatening peanut allergy—a fact known to every member of the household staff, a fact written in the boy's medical files, a fact his father guarded with lethal intensity.
Owen raised the forkful of cake.
Lydia moved on pure instinct, her terror of the mafia boss entirely eclipsed by her need to protect the child. With a desperate, trembling hand, she reached out, gently catching Owen’s small wrist just before the silver fork reached his lips.
Lydia’s fingers trembled violently against the boy's cream shirt. The sudden, frantic movement caused Owen's polished shoes to scrape against the hardwood floor.
Julian, possessing the instincts of an apex predator, instantly followed the movement. His head snapped toward his son. His cold, perceptive eyes locked onto Lydia’s hand gripping Owen's wrist, and then shifted immediately to the housemaid's terrified, wide-eyed expression.
The small artistic tattoo on Julian's neck shifted as his sharply defined jaw tightened. He slowly turned his head, his gaze bypassing his fiancée completely. He looked directly into Lydia’s eyes, piercing through her with a terrifying intensity.
"Lydia," Julian said.
His deep, low voice dropped a full octave. He allowed a measured, agonizing pause to linger after her name. The sound was not a shout, but the cold accusation carried a gravity that commanded absolute silence. Every single guest stopped eating. Conversations died in their throats. Dozens of powerful men and women turned their heads toward the head of the table in total, suffocating silence.
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"Why grab my son?" Julian asked.
The golden light from the cascading crystal chandeliers suddenly felt harsh and exposing, bearing down on Lydia as she stood pinned by the mafia boss’s stare. The silence in the dining room was absolute, a heavy vacuum that amplified the sound of her own frantic heartbeat.
