Chapter 4
The defensive lie hung in the bright, airy dining room like a guillotine waiting to drop. The soft, elegant warmth of the cinematic lighting starkly illuminated the sheer terror now gripping Seraphina Vale’s face. She looked frantically around the massive table, desperately searching for an ally. No one moved. The elite members of the Westbrook syndicate were entirely loyal to the man standing at the head of the table, and they recognized a fatal miscalculation when they heard one.
"Are my halls a testing ground for your family's debts?" Harlan asked smoothly, tilting his head slightly.
He didn't wait for another pathetic excuse. He turned his head slightly, his perceptive eyes locking onto the heavy oak doors at the end of the dining room.
"Marcus?" Harlan called out softly.
The massive, suited head of security stepped forward instantly from the shadows of the hallway. "Yes, Boss."
"Is Ms. Vale’s vehicle ready?" Harlan inquired, his tone chillingly calm.
"It can be at the front doors in sixty seconds, Boss," Marcus confirmed grimly.
"Will you ensure she is placed inside it immediately?" Harlan asked, looking back at Seraphina. "Will you ensure she leaves this estate with absolutely nothing but the clothes on her back?"
"Harlan, no! Please!" Seraphina screamed, her facade completely shattering. She lunged forward, trying to grab his arm. "I love you! We are getting married! You can't humiliate me in front of these people!"
Harlan didn't even flinch. He simply stepped back, allowing her desperate hands to grasp empty air. Two bodyguards stationed near Marcus moved with terrifying, silent efficiency. They closed the distance in seconds, grabbing Seraphina firmly by her upper arms.
"Are we finished here?" Harlan asked the room at large, his voice echoing off the carved walnut paneling.
The guards hauled the screaming, sobbing woman backward out of the dining room, her heels dragging uselessly across the expensive carpet. The heavy doors slammed shut behind her, finalizing her exile.
The engagement dinner had suddenly become a quiet, tension-filled wake.
Harlan stared at the empty space where his fiancée had stood for a long moment. He slowly reached out, his tattooed fingers picking up the massive engagement ring she had abandoned on the table in her frantic struggle. He dropped it carelessly into a nearby crystal water glass. It sank to the bottom with a quiet, definitive clink.
"Are we continuing dinner?" Harlan asked the room at large, his voice devoid of any emotion.
A collective, silent exhale rippled through the room. The capos and politicians immediately picked up their silver cutlery, the polite murmur of conversation resuming as if a woman hadn't just been violently banished from their ranks. In their world, survival meant adapting instantly to the whims of the boss.
Harlan didn't sit back down immediately. He turned his attention back to the beautiful housemaid standing quietly behind his chair.
Anya hadn't moved an inch. She stood tall in her sophisticated black maid dress, her chest heaving slightly as she processed the extreme violence of the power dynamic she had just witnessed. She expected the terrifying mafia boss to turn his wrath upon her next for violating protocol, for speaking out of turn.
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"Anya," Harlan said gently, the deep, rumbling timber of his voice shifting from lethal executioner back to a quiet, controlled warmth. "Will you walk with me to the library?"
"Yes, Mr. Westbrook," Anya replied, her voice shaking only slightly.
