Chapter 2
The engagement reception continued to swirl around the head table, a masquerade of clinking glasses and forced laughter. Beside the head table stood a narrow folding dessert table, groaning under the weight of porcelain cake stands, crystal fruit bowls, and polished silver plates. An open champagne bottle rested precariously within Octavia’s reach, its gold foil catching the cinematic lighting of the ballroom.
Florian sat rigidly in his chair, his broad shoulders tense beneath his tailored suit. His overcoat rested neatly on the back of his chair, a silent reminder that he had every intention of leaving this reception the moment social protocol allowed.
"You look stiff, darling," Octavia noted, tilting her champagne glass. "People are staring. They need to see a happy couple."
"They need to see a unified front," Florian corrected her, his voice low and dangerous. "I am not required to perform for them like a court jester."
"You are required to do exactly what is necessary for our families," Octavia countered, her polished smile never wavering as she leaned slightly closer to him.
"Do not mistake my patience for submission, Octavia," Florian warned, his artistic hand tattoos flexing as he gripped the edge of the table. "You have your ring. Do not push for more."
Octavia’s eyes flashed with a sudden, vicious cruelty. Without dropping her bright, performative smile for the watching guests, she smoothly tipped her crystal glass forward. The chilled, sparkling champagne poured directly down the front of Florian’s crisp white shirt and tailored vest.
The cold liquid soaked instantly through the expensive fabric. Florian’s jaw tightened. He planted his polished shoes on the marble floor and started to rise from his chair, a surge of masculine fury threatening to break his iron-clad control.
But as he moved, Octavia leaned in incredibly close. Her lips were mere inches from his ear, her voice dropping into a quiet, poisonous whisper.
"Smile," Octavia commanded, the absolute malice in her American accent sending a chill through the air. "Or your son disappears for good."
Florian stopped dead. The breath caught in his throat, his entire body going rigid as the threat registered.
"What did you do?" Florian demanded, his voice a barely audible, deadly rasp.
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"My men are upstairs," Octavia whispered, maintaining her bright smile for the crowd. "Smile for the cameras, Florian. Sit down and be a good husband, or the boy won't live to see the wedding."
Florian’s fingers tightened violently around his linen napkin, his knuckles turning white. The urge to wrap his hands around her throat was overwhelming, but the image of his young son paralyzed him. He was trapped in the luminous, crowded ballroom, surrounded by fifty guests, entirely unable to move without risking his child’s life.
