Chapter 4
The sheer audacity of Nerissa’s physical assault on the mafia boss sent a shockwave through the room, but it was nothing compared to what followed. The tension in the bright, cinematic lighting was so thick it felt tangible. The two bodyguards stood ready, their presence a looming threat, while Lysander refused to yield an inch of ground to his aunt.
Isolde Fairhaven, trembling in her sophisticated black maid dress, realized that no one else was going to intervene. The syndicate guests were waiting to see who would win the power struggle before declaring their loyalty. If Lysander struck his aunt first, it would be seen as a brutal, unprovoked attack on a respected elder, giving Nerissa the political leverage she needed to force the property transfer.
Isolde could not let that happen. She would not watch him be destroyed by his own blood.
She took a sharp, steadying breath. Without saying a word, Isolde pivoted on her flat shoes. She squared her delicate shoulders, focused her expressive eyes on the target, and kicked the heavy, wheeled catering-waste bin forward ONCE with every ounce of strength she possessed.
The industrial plastic bin, weighed down by heavy glass and ice, rolled forward with terrifying momentum. It struck Nerissa Valegrove squarely in the shins with a loud, sickening crack.
The impact was devastating. Nerissa let out a sharp, high-pitched shriek of pain. The sudden agony in her legs broke her violent grip on Lysander’s wrist instantly. She stumbled backward, her elegant evening gown tangling around her legs, her pearl jewelry swinging wildly. Unable to catch her balance in her high heels, Nerissa collapsed backward, crashing heavily into a plush, upholstered chair that had been pushed aside near the service entrance.
The heavy chair groaned under her weight, sliding back a few inches before coming to a halt. Nerissa sat sprawled in the seat, gasping in shock and pain, her carefully constructed image of invincibility completely shattered by a single, forceful strike from a housemaid.
Both bodyguards reacted instantly, their hands flying to their weapons as they reached toward her, torn between assisting their fallen employer and neutralizing the threat. They glared at Isolde, ready to tear her apart, but a sudden, terrifying shift in the atmosphere stopped them dead in their tracks.
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The nearby guests, who had been quietly snickering at Lysander’s initial humiliation, stopped laughing entirely. The silence that fell over the ballroom was absolute, heavy, and apocalyptic. No one spoke. No one moved. The entire room held its breath, staring at the beautiful, gentle maid who had just assaulted the estate administrator.
Isolde stood frozen, her chest heaving, the reality of what she had just done crashing down upon her. She had just signed her own death warrant in front of fifty witnesses. But as she looked at Lysander, standing tall and freed from his aunt's vicious grip, she knew she would do it again without hesitation.
