Chapter 4
The cinematic, golden light of the chandeliers seemed to sharpen, catching the tears glistening on Molly’s eyelashes. The air around the low marble ledge was thick with suffocating tension. Scarlett stood tall, radiating the arrogant power of a woman who believed her position was entirely untouchable.
Before Scarlett could issue another cruel command to the broken maid, a small, cheerful figure bounded toward the dining-room entrance.
Six-year-old Ben Rook, Julian’s son, walked up to the marble ledge. He was dressed impeccably in a festive green sweater that brought out the rosiness in his fair cheeks. In his small hands, he happily clutched a brightly painted wooden toy train. The motherless boy possessed his father's dark hair and observant eyes, but his spirit was entirely innocent. Over the past year, he had found unwavering comfort in Molly, adopting the gentle maid as the maternal figure he so desperately craved.
Ben stopped right beside Molly. He looked cheerfully up at Scarlett, completely unaware of the horrific humiliation that had just transpired. He had witnessed Molly eating from the silver bowl the day before, but in his six-year-old mind, shielded by Scarlett's twisted lies, he believed it was a playful activity.
"Auntie!" Ben announced loudly, his childish voice carrying clearly over the ambient noise of the dining salon.
A few feet away, Julian had been conversing with Vincent. Hearing his son’s voice, the mafia boss paused and turned his broad shoulders toward the dining-room entrance.
Ben looked down at the silver dog bowl sitting on the marble ledge, then smiled brightly at his future stepmother.
"Auntie, Mommy shared Biscuit’s bowl yesterday!" Ben declared.
The childish, clear American accent sliced through the sophisticated chatter of the ballroom with the devastating force of a detonating bomb. The word "Mommy" echoed off the gilded mirrors, but it was the innocent revelation of the sharing game that sent a shockwave of absolute horror through the room.
Julian Rook stopped moving entirely. His entire body went rigid beneath his dark three-piece suit. He looked at his son, processing the cheerful, innocent words. Then, his dark, observant eyes shifted to the silver dog bowl resting on the marble ledge. Finally, he looked directly at the woman standing beside it.
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He saw Molly’s creased dress, her rumpled apron, and her crooked headband. He saw the hollow, exhausted devastation in her puffy eyes.
The realization of the absolute, degrading torture that had occurred in his home cemented itself in his mind. The cinematic light seemed to dim as the calm, composed host was instantly replaced by the ruthless, cold-blooded king of the syndicate.
