The cruel Christmas ornament that ruined the mafia boss's engagement.

Beyond the heavy silk drapes separating the main ballroom from the service hallways, Mia Ellis leaned weakly against a polished marble column. The twenty-five-year-old housemaid was breathtakingly beautiful, possessing delicate features and clear, expressive eyes. Tonight, however, she possessed an exhausted, deeply vulnerable manner that sharply contradicted the festive elegance of the estate.

She wore a fitted black maid dress with a cinched waist, a white apron, white collar and cuffs, and a white ruffled maid headband. But her pristine uniform was a ruin. Her black dress was noticeably creased, her white apron was terribly rumpled, and her lace headband sat entirely crooked in her disheveled hair. She kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her knuckles white, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Worse than her uniform was her hair. The long, beautiful braid she had carefully maintained for years was gone. Her dark hair had been unevenly shortened, hacked away with brutal, chaotic force, leaving ragged, choppy ends falling around her pale face.

"Mia, you cannot stay hiding out here," the head butler whispered harshly, adjusting his own collar as he passed her. "The reception is in full swing. The guests require more champagne."

"I am trying, sir," Mia replied, her American accent trembling so violently she could barely form the words. "But if Miss Shaw sees me again... I don't know what she will do."

"Miss Shaw is the future lady of this house," the butler interrupted coldly. "Whatever reprimand you received today, you must endure it quietly. Now dry your eyes and do your job."

Mia squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back a wave of profound fatigue and physical agony. The reprimand had not been a simple scolding. Just a few hours ago, Damian had casually complimented Mia’s intricately braided hair as she served him morning coffee. It was a fleeting, innocent remark, but Juliette had witnessed it. Driven by a sadistic, territorial rage, the socialite had cornered Mia in the laundry room. With the help of her personal guards, Juliette had physically held the maid down and forcibly severed the braid with sewing shears, threatening to have Mia killed if she spoke a word of it to Damian.

"I will pour the champagne," Mia whispered, wiping a trembling hand across her rosy cheeks, trying to ignore the humiliating draft on the back of her newly shorn neck.

Before she could push through the drapes, a small, cheerful figure bounded past the marble columns.

Three-year-old Ella Voss, Damian’s toddler daughter, was navigating the corridor with bright, innocent enthusiasm. The motherless girl possessed round rosy cheeks, soft dark curls, and tiny dimples that appeared whenever she smiled. She was dressed impeccably in a cream cable-knit dress with a red velvet sash, white woolly tights, little red shoes, and a small velvet hair bow.

"Mommy!" Ella announced happily, running straight toward the terrified maid.

"Hello, my sweet girl," Mia whispered, forcing a fragile, loving smile onto her face as she dropped to her knees to hug the toddler.

Over the past year, the little girl had found unwavering comfort in the gentle maid, adopting Mia as the maternal figure she desperately craved. It was a pure, innocent bond that fueled Juliette's hatred even further.