Chapter 5
Blinded by a toxic mixture of jealousy and profound arrogance, Tamsin made the final, fatal mistake of her life. Refusing to back down under Orson’s terrifying gaze, she lunged sideways out of her chair, reaching her manicured hand aggressively toward Mara’s inhaler once again.
She never even got close.
Orson reacted with an explosion of violence that was as fast as it was devastating. He caught Tamsin’s wrist in mid-air. His heavily tattooed hand clamped down on her forearm like an industrial steel vice. The negative space in his artistic tattoos flexed as his grip crushed the expensive bracelets against her skin.
Tamsin gasped, her eyes widening in sudden, sharp pain as her forward momentum was violently halted.
Without a single word, Orson violently tore her hand away from his daughter. He twisted her arm, forcing her to stand upright and exposing the side of her face. The charming, romantic look of the loose hair falling over his forehead was entirely overshadowed by the demonic, cold rage burning in his eyes.
Orson drew his right arm back and delivered one thunderous, open-handed slap across Tamsin’s face.
The sound cracked through the dining hall like a whip. The kinetic force behind the blow was staggering. Tamsin was lifted entirely off her feet. She spun wildly backward, her luxurious dinner gown whipping around her legs as she lost all sense of balance.
She staggered backward, crashing violently into the long, elegant dessert table positioned against the wall.
The impact was catastrophic. Intricate glass tiered trays collapsed. Crystal bowls shattered. Dozens of expensive porcelain plates were knocked completely off the surface, bursting into jagged white fragments across the polished floor. Gourmet pastries, cakes, and fresh fruit scattered wildly, ruining the pristine elegance of the room. Tamsin collapsed into the wreckage, sliding down the side of the table until she hit the floor in a humiliated, groaning heap. A bright red handprint immediately bloomed across her fair, rosy cheek.
There was no dialogue. The entire dining hall remained absolutely, horrifyingly silent.
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Instantly, two massive white American bodyguards in professional dark suits stepped forward from the shadows of the room. They moved with silent, military precision, flanking the ruined dessert table and cutting off any possible avenue of escape for the woman bleeding on the floor.
Orson stood perfectly still in the center of the room. He slowly adjusted the cuffs of his dress shirt, smoothing the fabric of his dark suit. He did not look at the mess on the floor. His breathing was completely controlled, even, and calm, as if he had merely swatted a fly. The sheer contrast between his brutal violence and his immaculate composure was the true source of his intimidating power.
