Chapter 7
The paralyzing silence held for three long seconds before the reality of the situation broke over the room.
"Get her up!" shouted the white American bodyguard.
The two bodyguards rushed forward in a panic, their dark suits swishing as they knelt beside the wreckage of the dessert table. They hurriedly pulled the overturned tablecloth away, checking Octavia, who was groaning weakly amidst the shattered porcelain and crystal.
Corisande did not look at the fallen woman. She didn't look at the massive bodyguards, or the fifty guests staring at her in stunned awe.
She immediately turned her back on the chaos, pivoting on her flat shoes, and returned directly to Florian.
He was standing completely still, his cold, dangerous eyes locked on the housemaid. The artistic tattoos on his neck flexed as he swallowed hard, trying to process the fact that the gentle woman who cleaned his home had just laid out a mafia heiress with a single punch.
Corisande stepped into his personal space, her hands shaking violently as the adrenaline began to bleed out of her system. She reached up, her trembling fingers grasping the edges of his heavy overcoat.
"Let me fix this," Corisande whispered, her American accent wavering.
She gently pulled the edges of the dry overcoat together, carefully buttoning it over his soaked, champagne-stained shirt to protect his dignity in front of his men. Her expressive eyes flicked up, meeting his intense gaze.
"Breathe, sir," Corisande said softly, her voice a soothing, desperate balm against the violence of the room. "He’s safe. Stay with me. Please, just stay with me."
Florian looked down at her beautiful face. The anxiety and fierce devotion etched into her features broke through the hardened shell he wore as a boss. He saw the slight reddening on her knuckles where she had struck Octavia.
He didn't speak. He simply raised his large, masculine hand, the family signet ring gleaming under the chandeliers. He reached out and gently, deliberately covered her trembling hand with his own, pressing her fingers softly against his chest.
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The gesture was intimately protective, a public declaration of his affection and his absolute loyalty to the woman who had just fought for him. He held her hand securely, absorbing her tremors, his thumb lightly stroking the back of her knuckles.
Across the silent ballroom, from the ruins of the silver plates and crushed cake, Octavia groaned. Supported by her bodyguards, she slowly looked up from the wreckage, her face bruised and contorted in humiliated fury. She stared at Florian and Corisande, realizing that she had not only lost the war, but she had lost it to a housemaid.
