Chapter 3
The bright, luminous atmosphere of the ballroom felt suddenly oppressive as Nerissa Valegrove closed the distance. The fifty gala guests, previously engrossed in their champagne and networking, had now entirely ceased their conversations. All eyes were locked on the confrontation near the service entrance. The natural, clear lighting offered no shadows to hide the escalating violence.
Lysander subtly shifted his weight, his broad shoulders angling to place himself between Isolde and his furious aunt. He kept the fresh bread roll in his hand, a tangible symbol of the maid’s reckless loyalty.
"Do you believe you have the authority to discipline my personal staff, Nerissa?" Lysander asked, his deep, measured voice vibrating with a terrifying, contained fury.
Nerissa did not answer. Blinded by her ambition and enraged by the public defiance, she abandoned all pretense of high-society decorum. She lunged forward, bypassing Lysander’s defensive posture. With surprising strength, Nerissa grabbed Lysander’s wrist, her manicured nails digging brutally into his skin, right over the refined artistic tattoos that marked his status.
She twisted his arm sharply, trying to force the bread from his hand. "Drop it," Nerissa commanded sharply, her voice echoing in the silent room. "You haven’t earned it. You haven't earned any of this!"
At her aggressive movement, the two massive bodyguards flanked her instantly. The Black American guard stepped to her left, his hand resting ominously over the bulge of his suit jacket. The white American guard stepped to her right, his earpiece buzzing faintly in the quiet room. They formed a wall of muscle, ready to execute any order the estate administrator gave them, even against the sitting boss of the syndicate.
The physical pain was immediate, but it was the profound disrespect that burned hottest. Lysander’s jaw tightened, the muscles ticking violently beneath his short stubble. He refused to open his hand, holding onto the bread as if it were a lifeline.
Isolde, standing just inches away, saw Lysander wince. It was a microscopic flinch, barely noticeable to anyone who didn't spend hours observing his every movement, but to Isolde, it was a siren. The man who protected the entire city was being physically assaulted in his own home, and his men were standing by, paralyzed by the internal family politics.
Her breath came in short, terrified gasps. The white lace maid headband felt tight against her neatly pinned hair. She looked at the heavy, wheeled catering-waste bin standing just beside the service doors. It was made of thick industrial plastic and filled with discarded ice and heavy glass bottles from the early evening reception.
"Let him go," Isolde whispered, her voice barely audible over the roaring in her ears.
"Back away, girl, before I have you thrown in the river," Nerissa spat, not even looking at the maid, her entire focus on breaking Lysander's grip.
May you like
Lysander’s dark eyes narrowed into lethal slits. "Are you prepared to lose that hand when I decide I've had enough, Nerissa?"
But before Lysander could unleash the violence he was holding back, Isolde made a choice that would alter the hierarchy of the Valegrove syndicate forever.
