Chapter 5
The air in the ballroom crackled with explosive tension. The bright, natural light captured every bead of sweat on the faces of the terrified guests. Octavia’s chest heaved violently beneath her expensive evening gown. Stripped of her leverage and publicly humiliated, her calculated political mind gave way to sheer, unadulterated, primal fury.
"You arrogant bastard!" Octavia screamed, her voice tearing through the quiet room. "I will not be humiliated by a widower and his pathetic servant!"
She lunged sideways. Her manicured hand snatched the open champagne bottle from the edge of the narrow folding dessert table. Champagne sloshed wildly, spraying across the porcelain cake stands and crystal fruit bowls.
"Boss, watch out!" yelled one of Florian’s capos from the crowd, diving forward.
"Then you’ll learn to obey another way!" Octavia shrieked, her face twisted into a mask of pure hatred.
She raised the heavy glass bottle high above her head, her diamond jewelry flashing blindly under the chandeliers. She aimed the lethal, improvised weapon directly at Florian’s temple, putting the full weight of her body into the impending strike.
Florian was fast, but his movement was slightly hindered by the heavy overcoat draped over his shoulders, and the sudden, close-quarters nature of her attack caught him off guard. He raised his tattooed hands to block, bracing for the impact.
But Corisande moved faster.
The twenty-five-year-old housemaid did not retreat. She did not cower. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the bottle rising toward the man she deeply cared for. She stepped fiercely into the space directly beside Florian’s chair, putting herself between the mafia boss and the enraged socialite.
"Don't you dare touch him!" Corisande yelled, her voice ringing out with a fierce, protective power that commanded the entire ballroom.
"Get out of my way, you stupid bitch!" Octavia roared, adjusting her aim to bring the heavy bottle crashing down toward Corisande’s head instead.
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The two bodyguards flanking Octavia finally moved, realizing their employer had lost her mind. The Black American guard reached out, shouting, "Miss Wetherell, no!"
But the momentum was already in motion. The bottle began its violent descent. Corisande’s expressive eyes narrowed, her slender build belying the absolute, explosive adrenaline pumping through her veins. She was not a trained fighter, but she was fighting for the life of a man she loved, and for the child sleeping safely upstairs.
