Nerys offered half her bread roll to a seated stranger, only for acting manager Winifred to rip the shoe from the girl’s foot, cram the food inside, and sneer that if she fed beggars, she would eat like one.

Desperation clawed at Winifred’s chest. The sight of her uncle—a man presumed to be in Genoa negotiating Mediterranean shipping charters for the last six months—paralyzed the room’s air. Driven by sudden, panicked instinct to assert control over the scene, she lunged forward, her manicured fingers reaching to seize Nerys by the arm and drag the child out of sight.

Her fingers never touched the girl’s cardigan.

Alaric moved with the blinding speed of a coiled spring. His left hand shot forward, iron fingers locking around Winifred’s wrist mid-air with bone-crushing force. Before she could scream, he levered her body around with brutal economy, driving her forward and slamming her forearm down against the low buffet table.

The impact sent a shockwave through the display. The silver basket tipped sideways with a metallic clatter. Golden brioche rolls, fresh baguettes, and linen napkins tumbled across the mahogany tabletop and spilled onto the plush Persian carpet.

Winifred froze, pinned face-down against the table, her breath trapped in her throat. She stared sideways into Alaric’s face. He was inches away, his dark eyes void of warmth, devoid of fury—carrying only the lethal, absolute calm of an executioner awaiting the nod.

No one spoke. The murmur of two hundred wealthy guests dissolved into terrified silence. Flutes of champagne remained suspended in mid-air.

One of the house bodyguards took a cautious, trembling step toward the table, his hands raised palms-out in utter submission. "Mr. Marwood, sir..."

Alaric did not look at the guard. He simply released his grip on Winifred’s wrist.

Winifred stumbled back, clutching her bruised arm against her designer pantsuit, gasping for air as red finger marks bloomed across her pale skin.

Alaric turned his back on her entirely. He knelt down onto one knee on the spilled bread, not caring that his tailored trousers pressed against the scattered crusts. He looked at Nerys, his weathered face softening into an expression of uncharacteristic, gravelly gentleness.

Nerys stood quietly, the clean piece of bread still held in her napkin. Her eyes drifted past Alaric’s broad shoulder, staring toward the heavy, iron-reinforced oak service door at the back of the buffet corridor.

"Can the other children eat now?" Nerys asked in a tiny, hesitant whisper.

Alaric went still. His eyes shifted from the girl's face to the heavy door. It was locked from the outside by a brass deadbolt and a steel security chain.

He stood up, towering over the room once more. Every guest within fifty feet shrank back from his presence.