Chapter 7
The cinematic light seemed to focus entirely on the beautiful, disheveled housemaid. Faye steadied her trembling breath, her expressive eyes filled with undeniable, devastating sincerity.
"Isabel," Faye answered, her voice quiet but carrying perfectly through the silent room.
The single name was a knife to the chest of the entire syndicate. A collective, quiet gasp rippled through the elite guests standing near the velvet sofas. The sheer, audacious malice of a fiancée torturing the boss's heir was shocking even to seasoned mafia capos.
"Since this morning," Faye added, her voice breaking slightly. "She said the child was a burden."
The admission hit the room with the devastating force of a physical blow. The absolute, unvarnished truth spoken from the mouth of a servant was a catastrophic verdict.
Isabel Cross stood frozen a few yards away. The polished public smile she had worn all evening had become a rigid, grotesque mask. Her eyes flicked nervously toward the open hatch, staring into the dark void that had just ended her reign before it even began.
She realized in a fraction of a second that her carefully constructed narrative of the loving future stepmother was entirely destroyed. The physical evidence was clinging to Lucian’s lapel, and the verbal testimony had been delivered in front of fifty witnesses. To deny it now would only make her look weak and pathetic.
Isabel returned her gaze directly to Lucian. She took a slow, deliberate breath, steadying her trembling shoulders. She lifted her chin, meeting the mafia boss's terrifying gaze with an arrogant, unyielding pride that only a true narcissist could muster. She stripped away the sweet facade, exposing the cruel, calculating monster beneath.
Isabel’s careful smile tightened, pulling her lips into a thin, defensive line.
"That child is always in the way," Isabel stated.
The words echoed off the gilded mirrors. It was a brazen, callous defense, an attempt to gaslight the entire room into believing that locking a toddler in a freezing cellar was simply a harsh but necessary disciplinary measure to ensure a flawless reception.
"She was constantly crying for you, Lucian," Isabel continued, her American accent dripping with condescending superiority. "I merely needed peace to prepare the estate for our guests. A few hours in the dark builds character. You cannot possibly humiliate me in front of our families over a crying toddler."
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Lucian did not yell. He did not reach for a weapon. His restraint was a masterclass in terror.
He slowly turned his broad shoulders, holding his daughter securely against his chest. He looked at the woman he had intended to marry, his eyes absolute voids of lethal intent.
