Chapter 6
The admission hit the room with the devastating force of a physical blow. The absolute, unvarnished truth spoken from the mouth of a starving servant was a catastrophic verdict.
A collective, quiet gasp rippled through the elite guests standing near the banquet table. The sheer, sociopathic malice of starving a human being and forcing her to eat animal scraps was shocking even to seasoned syndicate members who dealt in violence daily. To degrade a woman in the boss's own home was an insult that demanded blood.
Scarlett’s face drained of all color. The fair, rosy skin turned a sickly, translucent white beneath her champagne satin gown. The polished, elegant public manner she had maintained all evening fractured completely.
Her eyes flicked nervously toward the watching guests, seeing the disgust and shock registering on the faces of the capos and donors. She realized in a fraction of a second that her carefully constructed narrative of the clumsy, lazy maid was entirely destroyed.
Scarlett took a shallow breath, forcing the muscles in her face to obey her frantic mind. A practiced, artificial smile returned to her lips, but it arrived slightly too late, a grotesque mask of aristocratic composure attempting to extinguish the raging fire.
She faced Julian, lifting her chin with an arrogant, unyielding pride that only a true narcissist could muster in the face of such exposure.
"Scraps are enough for a servant," Scarlett stated.
The words echoed off the gilded mirrors. It was a brazen, callous defense, an attempt to gaslight the entire room into believing that starving a maid was simply a harsh but necessary disciplinary measure for the working class.
Julian’s jaw tightened slightly. The extremely short stubble on his face bristled with suppressed, explosive violence. The artistic tattoos on his hands flexed as his fists clenched at his sides. He did not yell. He did not reach for a weapon. His restraint was a masterclass in terror.
He did not even look at his fiancée.
Instead, Julian turned his broad shoulders slightly. He reached out with his right hand, the heavy family signet ring catching the light from the crystal chandeliers. He gripped the heavy, carved back of the plush velvet dining chair situated directly beside his own place setting at the head of the banquet table.
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With a slow, deliberate scrape of wood against marble, Julian pulled out the velvet dining chair.
He turned his body, his natural, swept-back hair immaculate, and offered the seat of honor to the disheveled, starving housemaid with an open hand.
