Chapter 4
The silence in the opulent dining hall was a physical weight, pressing down on the chests of the elite guests who dared not draw a breath. The warm golden light from the crystal chandeliers suddenly felt incredibly harsh and exposing. The flickering flames of the ivory candles reflected in fifty pairs of wide, shocked eyes.
Rowan Whitmore did not flinch. His broad shoulders remained perfectly still beneath his tailored dark three-piece suit. He slowly lowered his gold-rimmed crystal glass to the table, the artistic tattoos on his hands flexing slightly.
He looked first at the six-year-old boy. Finn was trembling, tears rapidly filling his eyes as he stared at the woman who had terrorized his favorite maid.
With deliberate, terrifying slowness, Rowan shifted his gaze to the terrified young woman holding the crystal glass. He assessed Nell’s exhausted posture, the clear, steady panic that met his own, and the undeniable fear radiating from her delicate frame.
Rowan extended an open, tattooed hand toward Nell and met her eyes.
"Nell," Rowan said, his voice dropping an octave, echoing across the dead silent room. "Give me the glass."
"Rowan, darling, please," Celia stammered, the polished smile completely evaporating from her face. She reached out across the table, her manicured fingers shaking. "The child is confused! He misunderstood the situation! He has an overactive imagination. Rosa died of a heart attack!"
Rowan did not look at Celia. He kept his cold, observant eyes fixed on Nell, his open hand waiting. The sheer masculine power radiating from his angular face was suffocating. He allowed a natural, agonizing pause to stretch between them, letting the weight of his unblinking stare demand the absolute truth.
Nell looked directly at Rowan. Her hand shook so violently that a drop of the dark punch spilled over the rim, staining the white cuff of her uniform. She bypassed Celia entirely, stepping closer to the mafia boss.
With a slight tremor in her breath, Nell placed the untouched glass directly into Rowan’s large, tattooed hand.
"Celia said you ordered this," Nell whispered, her voice fragile but remarkably clear in the acoustic space of the high-ceilinged room.
The collective gasp from the surrounding velvet dining chairs was audible. The psychological torture Celia had just inflicted upon the grieving maid was so monstrous, so completely devoid of humanity, that even the mafia capos looked away in disgust. To use the boss's name to justify murder and fear was an unforgivable treason.
Rowan’s broad shoulders went completely rigid beneath his tailored suit. He stared at the dark liquid in the glass, the horrific reality of his fiancée's cruelty locking into his mind with terrifying precision.
He didn't yell. He didn't draw a weapon. He moved with incredibly gentle, deliberate care. Rowan slowly placed the glass of Christmas punch directly before Celia on the polished walnut table.
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Then, he stood up. His towering frame completely dominated the space. He stepped deliberately around the edge of the table, positioning his body firmly between Celia and Nell, creating an impenetrable wall of dark wool and muscle to shield the housemaid.
Finn, seeing his father move, scrambled off his chair. The little boy ran to Nell, reaching up with his small hands. Nell immediately knelt on the marble floor, allowing Finn to grab her free hand, pulling the child securely into her embrace.
