Chapter 3
The smooth, rhythmic clinking of silverware against porcelain continued around the room, a jarring contrast to the suffocating tension at the head table. Maribel stepped directly into the lions' den, her flat shoes making no sound against the polished marble floor. She knelt gracefully beside Ansel’s chair, her fitted black maid dress rustling softly.
Her expressive eyes immediately darted from the humiliating butter stain on his trousers to the heavy medical sling securing his right arm. She reached out with the clean linen napkin, her fingers trembling slightly as she gently, meticulously blotted the cold butter from the dark fabric. She moved with extreme caution, her protective attention hyper-focused on avoiding any contact with his injured shoulder.
"I can have a fresh suit brought down immediately, Mr. Ravenshaw," Maribel whispered, her voice barely audible over the ambient noise of the banquet.
Ansel looked down at her. The cold, dangerous edge in his eyes softened for a fraction of a second as he took in her knitted brows and the genuine, fearful concern radiating from her delicate features.
"The suit is fine, Maribel," Ansel replied, his deep voice keeping its measured, slow cadence. "Do you think a stain changes who sits in this chair?"
Maribel swallowed hard, continuing to blot the fabric. She looked up, meeting his sharp gaze directly. The proximity allowed her to see the exhaustion lines framing his eyes, the physical toll of the ambush he was still fighting to recover from.
"Sir..." Maribel asked softly, her American accent laced with quiet devastation as she glanced at the empty porcelain plate on the table above them. "Did they leave you anything?"
Ansel shifted his gaze from her beautiful, worried face to the empty plate sitting in front of him. His jaw tightened, the neat stubble rough against his rigid skin. The public starvation was a calculated move by Quentin to demonstrate dominance, to prove to the thirty-five guests that the mighty Ansel Ravenshaw could not even secure a meal in his own mansion.
"It appears my appetite has been managed for me," Ansel stated quietly, the dangerous calm in his voice belying the absolute fury boiling beneath the surface.
"That isn't right," Maribel breathed, her hands dropping to her sides. She pushed herself up from the floor, her white lace headband catching the golden chandelier light. "I will fix it."
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"Maribel, do not intervene," Ansel warned, his tone low and protective.
But Maribel had already turned away, her fair, rosy face set with a terrifying, determined resolve as she walked swiftly back toward her wheeled serving trolley.
