Chapter 3
The tension in the grand dining room was a physical weight, pressing down on Lydia’s chest until she felt she could hardly breathe. She held Julian’s unyielding gaze, forcing herself not to look away from his cold, perceptive eyes, which were searching her softly oval face for any trace of a lie or a threat. Her inner brows lifted helplessly, an expression of profound, restrained terror for the boy sitting beside her.
Before Lydia could force the words past the lump in her throat, Valentina intervened.
Valentina smoothly adjusted her posture, the sculpted burgundy satin of her gown rustling softly against the upholstery. She met Julian’s stunned, intense gaze with a faint, concerned smile, projecting the image of a devoted, protective fiancée attempting to expose a malicious servant who was ruining a special occasion.
"She’s spoiling his birthday, darling," Valentina said, her voice sounding softly regretful, dripping with manufactured pity and amusement.
She offered the lie with effortless, chilling perfection. Her eyes frantically searched Julian’s angular face for any sign of agreement, any indication that he would accept her version of reality and dismiss the beautiful housemaid's intrusion.
Lydia refused to back down. She kept her hand firmly on Owen's wrist, her heart blazing with a fierce, protective fire for the boy. She knew the cost of defying the future bride of a mafia boss, but looking at the poisoned cake, she no longer cared.
"The filling has peanuts," Lydia said.
Her voice was thin, but it carried a shattering clarity across the silent room.
A collective, silent breath seemed to leave the room. The guests remained frozen in their champagne velvet chairs. Everyone in the inner circle knew of the boy's severe allergy. Anaphylaxis would claim his life in minutes if he ingested it.
Julian’s eyes remained locked on Lydia for a fraction of a second before he followed her terrified glance down toward the exposed filling of the chocolate cake on Owen’s plate. His sharp eyes caught the pale, crushed fragments hidden in the dark ganache.
With a terrifying, predatory calm, Julian reached out. His large, tattooed hand moved with deliberate slowness. He took the silver fork from Owen’s trembling hand and set it carefully beside the porcelain plate. The sharp clink of the metal against the china echoed loudly in the silent room.
The horrific realization of what had been brought to his table, what had nearly been fed to his son, washed over his angular face.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until it was broken by the smallest voice in the room.
Owen, sitting quietly in his dark waistcoat, looked directly across the table at Valentina. The seven-year-old boy’s lower lip trembled violently. Tears gathered rapidly along his lower eyelids, catching the golden light of the tall candles. He didn't look angry; he looked profoundly, devastatingly heartbroken. He stared at the woman in the burgundy gown who had arranged his birthday celebration.
"You said I’d get to see Mom," Owen said.
May you like
The words emerged quietly, his voice wavering with wounded confusion.
"But Mom is dead," Owen finished.
