Chapter 4
The opulent grand salon was suffocatingly quiet. The ivory candles burning in their glass hurricane holders seemed to cast harsh, judgmental shadows over Cecily’s emerald velvet gown. The composed public smile that usually charmed the syndicate members had completely evaporated, leaving behind a feral mask of desperation and cornered panic.
Mara felt the crushing weight of fifty gazes, but the only eyes that mattered were the ones burning into hers. The mafia boss’s dark, intense stare was demanding absolute honesty. She knew that answering this question could easily seal her death warrant if the boss chose to believe his high-society fiancée over a disheveled servant.
Tears gathered heavily along Mara’s lower eyelids, making her highly expressive, clear eyes shine brilliantly in the golden light. She steadied a trembling breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly against her rumpled white apron. She kept the bandaged hand perfectly still against her waist, refusing to cower.
She faced Damian, drawing on a well of courage she didn't know she possessed. Her voice was incredibly quiet, yet it carried a devastating, undeniable truth that sliced through the silent room.
"For feeding Teddy," Mara stated, her American accent unwavering. "Cecily forbade it."
The devastating confession dropped onto the polished marble floor like toxic acid. Murmurs of absolute shock and outrage rippled through the syndicate members. The room was suddenly paralyzed. The woman destined to be the queen of the Whitlock syndicate had just been publicly accused of intentionally starving the boss's toddler son, and physically torturing a household servant with hot wax for providing the child with a piece of bread.
"That is an outrageous lie!" Cecily shouted, stepping forward, her pearl earrings swinging wildly. The aristocratic polish was completely gone. "She is a lying whore trying to ruin our evening, Damian! The boy was acting out! I was instilling discipline! She is trying to turn you against me to extort this family!"
"Do you expect me to accept the premise that a three-year-old child and a maid conspired to invent such a specific, treacherous lie, Cecily?" Damian asked, his deep voice effortlessly drowning out her frantic excuses.
"He is a toddler, Damian!" Cecily cried, pointing a shaking finger at Teddy. "Children have vivid imaginations! He is confused! You cannot take the word of a confused boy and a lying maid over your future wife!"
"Is it your custom to starve my son for the treacherous optics that you orchestrated in my own home?" Damian asked, his tone so terrifyingly calm that several guests physically recoiled.
"I am protecting this family's image!" Cecily shrieked defensively, slamming her manicured hands against her emerald velvet gown. "She is overstepping her boundaries! She is constantly coddling the boy! I had to assert dominance to remind the staff of their place! He was ruining the schedule!"
Cecily’s eyes briefly flicked toward the attentive, silent guests, calculating the political damage of the moment. When her gaze returned to Damian, the last remnants of her careful, composed smile faded entirely. She lifted her chin, attempting to project an aura of untouchable aristocratic defiance, meeting his gaze with controlled defiance. She believed her family's power could still shield her from his wrath.
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"He eats when I allow it," Cecily stated coldly, her voice dropping into a ruthless, uncompromising tone.
The sheer audacity of the confession, delivered in the presence of the mafia boss and his entire syndicate, was staggering. She had not denied the torture; she had merely attempted to justify it as her absolute right as the future matriarch.
