Chapter 2
Before Clara could force herself to step away from the poisoned cup, a tiny, cheerful figure bounded over. Toby Hawthorne, Ronan’s three-year-old toddler son, possessed round rosy cheeks, tousled curls, and tiny dimples that could melt the coldest hearts. He wore a soft cream sweater embroidered with a smiling reindeer, bright red corduroy overalls, and little brown boots that tapped happily against the marble floor.
Toby stopped right beside Clara, looking up at her with bright, innocent eyes. He noticed the porcelain cup on the console and pointed a small finger toward it. He looked helpfully at Clara, his face beaming with the pride of a child repeating something new he had learned.
"Auntie's juice," Toby said softly, his voice cutting through the ambient noise with distinct toddler pauses. "Baby bye-bye."
The innocent words hung in the air, chilling Clara to the bone. Toby had overheard Veronica’s private phone call. He didn't understand what he was saying, but the implication was devastatingly clear.
Suddenly, the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. The ambient chatter of the party faded into absolute silence as a towering figure stepped out from the crowd.
Ronan Hawthorne moved with lethal grace. The thirty-three-year-old mafia boss was a devastatingly handsome, masculine man with broad shoulders and an angular jaw. His naturally swept-back hair and extremely short stubble gave him a rugged, dangerous edge. He wore a tailored dark three-piece suit, a family signet ring gleaming on his hand, and a luxury wristwatch peeking from his cuff. Artistic tattoos with negative space decorated his hands and fingers, and a small, intricate tattoo appeared just above his crisp collar.
Without a single word, Ronan immediately took the untouched cup and saucer away from Clara’s hovering fingers.
Every guest in the immediate vicinity fell silent and turned toward him. The tension was suffocating. Ronan did not look at the deadly liquid, nor did he look at his fiancée. He looked directly at the trembling maid.
"Clara," Ronan said quietly, the measured pause in his deep voice carrying more weight than a scream. "Our child?"
Clara met his intense, piercing gaze. The secret she had carried for months, the terrifying burden she had borne in silence, was suddenly laid bare. She rested a protective hand firmly against her bump, her fair skin pale with sheer terror. She steadied a trembling breath.
"Yes," Clara whispered, her voice fragile but clear. "Veronica made me stay silent."
Veronica’s eyes flicked nervously toward the porcelain cup in Ronan’s hand before returning to his rigid profile. Her careful, polished smile hardened into a mask of pure contempt.
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"Your heir won't come from a maid," Veronica hissed.
Ronan moved with deliberate, terrifying calm. He set the cup and saucer on the far end of the console, out of reach, and stepped smoothly between Veronica and Clara. Toby stayed close beside Clara, grabbing her skirt. Clara kept her protective palm against her bump as Ronan fixed Veronica with a cold, unwavering stare.
