Chapter 4
The realization that her deepest, most fatal secret was resting in the hands of a veteran Mafia boss stripped Evelina of all rational thought. The bright, cinematic lighting of the ballroom offered no shadows to hide in, exposing the raw, ugly desperation on her rosy face.
Driven by pure, blind panic, Evelina lunged forward a second time. She didn't just reach for the envelope; she violently grabbed Benedict’s wrist with her left hand, her fingernails digging frantically into the sleeve of his tailored suit. In her right hand, she still clutched the solid wooden auction gavel.
"I said, give it to me!" Evelina screamed.
She raised the heavy wooden gavel high into the bright air, her eyes wide and feral, fully intending to strike the man she was supposed to marry in order to break his grip on the sealed envelope.
The wealthy American guests gasped in unison, stepping backward in a collective wave of horror. No one dared to physically assault Benedict Thornmere. It was a guaranteed death sentence.
Benedict did not flinch. His expression remained carved from stone. As the gavel began its downward arc, Benedict’s free hand shot upward. He caught Evelina’s raised wrist mid-strike, his thick, masculine fingers locking around her delicate bones like an iron vice. The sudden, immense kinetic force halted her arm completely in mid-air.
Evelina let out a sharp gasp of pain, struggling wildly against his grip.
With a slow, powerful twist of his wrist, Benedict forced her fingers to open. The wooden gavel slipped from her grasp. Benedict smoothly caught the handle of the gavel before it could fall to the floor. He pulled it completely free of her reach, simultaneously keeping his body angled to ensure three-year-old Orla remained perfectly shielded behind the heavy wool of his dark overcoat.
Evelina did not back down. Even with her wrist caught in a crushing grip, her frantic gaze remained absolutely fixed on the sealed envelope in Benedict’s other hand. Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving under the expensive fabric of her evening gown.
Benedict stared down at her. His fair, rosy skin betrayed no emotion, but the dark, imposing aura radiating from him was suffocating. He was analyzing her reaction, processing the sheer magnitude of panic she was displaying over a simple piece of sealed paper.
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There was no dialogue. The silence between them was thick, toxic, and highly combustible. The guests held their collective breath, the only sound in the vast ballroom being the soft, frightened whimpers of little Orla hiding behind her father’s legs.
Benedict held Evelina’s wrist for one more agonizing second, letting her fully comprehend the absolute futility of her physical struggle. He was entirely in control, a terrifying immovable object standing in the center of the bright, pristine room. And he was about to demand answers.
