Chapter 6
The question was not born of curiosity; it was a deadly demand for confirmation, dripping with the absolute promise of violent retribution for whoever had orchestrated the cruelty.
The silence in the grand salon became a physical, suffocating pressure. The dozens of ivory candles flickering in their ornate brass candelabras seemed to be the only things moving in the entire, luminous space.
Mara swallowed hard, her pulse racing frantically. She met Roman’s dark, commanding gaze. Her chest heaved rapidly beneath the fitted black fabric of her creased dress. She knew the extreme danger of answering that question. She knew the power of the Rowe family, and she knew Camille’s capacity for vindictive, fatal violence.
But looking into Roman’s eyes, feeling the absolute, terrifying demand for the truth radiating from his masculine frame, Mara found she had no choice. The presence of the mafia boss stripped away her ability to lie. He had just physically intervened, exposing the trap before the entire syndicate.
Mara steadied a trembling breath, parting her lips before she could force the fragile words out into the open. She refused to look at the woman in the champagne gown. She kept her eyes locked on the man who commanded the city.
"Camille," Mara answered, her voice quiet but devastatingly clear.
The single name was a knife to the chest of the entire syndicate. To brutalize a servant in the boss's own home was an insult that demanded immediate blood.
Mara closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, the memory of the afternoon’s terror flashing through her mind. She looked back at Roman, the undeniable truth spilling from her lips.
"I asked for my wages," Mara finished, her voice breaking slightly as a single tear escaped her expressive eyes. "I just wanted to leave."
Roman Ashford stopped breathing. His jaw tightened instantly, the extremely short stubble on his face bristling with suppressed, explosive violence. The artistic tattoos on his hands flexed as his fists clenched at his sides. He realized in a fraction of a second that the woman he was supposed to marry had tortured his staff simply because she had demanded what was rightfully hers.
He slowly turned his head, his naturally swept-back hair catching the light. He locked his cold, lethal gaze directly onto Camille.
Camille’s eyes flicked nervously toward the watching guests, glaring with absolute venom at the crowd witnessing her exposure. She realized instantly that her carefully constructed narrative of the benevolent future wife was entirely destroyed.
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She turned her gaze back to Roman. Her careful, polished smile hardened into a mask of raw, unadulterated panic, though she desperately tried to maintain her aristocratic arrogance.
"Roman, darling, you must understand," Camille whispered, her voice pitching slightly higher with defensive anxiety. "She was being insubordinate. I was merely teaching her a lesson in respect."
