Chapter 1
The banquet hall inside Rowan Hale’s mansion was a breathtaking display of luminous, airy elegance. Cascading crystal chandeliers hung from the soaring ceiling, casting clean, clear lighting with a slightly warm white balance across the vast expanse of the room. The gentle golden highlights reflected off gilded mirrors and carved walnut furniture, creating a soft elegant warmth that lacked any trace of a heavy yellow cast or muddy orange tint. Sufficient illumination clearly revealed the entire room, shining brilliantly over the cream marble floors and the plush velvet dining chairs. At the head of the banquet table sat Rowan Hale, a handsome, masculine mafia boss whose broad shoulders were perfectly encased in a tailored dark three-piece suit. His angular face, sharp jawline, and neatly trimmed stubble were framed by thick, swept-back hair.
Beside Rowan sat his six-year-old son, Finn, dressed in a neat formal shirt, trousers, and polished dress shoes. Opposite Rowan sat his fiancée, Sabina Rowe. Sabina was twenty-nine, her fair, rosy skin glowing beneath the ambient light. She wore an elegant satin evening gown and diamond earrings that caught the chandelier’s brilliance with every tilt of her head. Though she wore a polished public smile, a sharp possessiveness lingered in her American accent as she conversed with the elite guests surrounding them.
Standing quietly beside Rowan’s place setting was Tessa Lane, a twenty-five-year-old maid of delicate, breathtaking beauty. Her expressive eyes and loose low bun gave her an air of gentle grace. She wore a sophisticated black maid dress with a cinched waist, a short A-line skirt, a white apron, and pristine white cuffs and collar, topped with a white ruffled maid headband. A thick, white medical bandage was wrapped securely around her right hand.
Tessa stepped forward, moving with practiced silence. She reached out with her uninjured left hand to place a crystal water carafe beside Rowan’s silver goblet, keeping her bandaged right hand tucked closely against the fabric of her white apron. Rowan, a man of intense observation and measured movements, caught the subtle shift in her posture. The artistic tattoos across his hands and fingers flexed as he paused his conversation, his deep, low voice fading. He noticed the stark white bandage, and a heavy, terrifying silence began to ripple outward from the head of the table.
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Rowan looked directly at Tessa. His dark eyes searched her delicate features, seeing the suppressed pain she was desperately trying to hide. Tessa met his gaze for a fleeting second, the unspoken affection between them passing in the space of a heartbeat, before she briefly lowered her eyes in submission.
“Tessa, who hurt your hand?” Rowan asked, his deep, measured voice cutting through the ambient noise like a blade.
