Chapter 7
Miles stared down at his open palm. The glossy paper rested against his negative-space tattoos. The photograph had been torn violently, right down the middle, separating his own smiling face from the beautiful, tragic face of the woman who had given him his son.
Miles Ashford stopped breathing. His jaw tightened instantly, the neat stubble on his face bristling with suppressed, explosive violence. The muscles in his neck strained against his crisp white collar. He realized in a fraction of a second that the woman he was supposed to marry had not only physically assaulted his staff, but had engaged in a psychotic, jealous campaign to erase the mother of his child from existence.
He slowly turned his head, his naturally swept-back hair catching the amber light of the chandeliers. He locked his cold, lethal gaze directly onto Brielle.
Brielle’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.
She turned her gaze back to Miles. Her careful, polished expression hardened into a mask of raw, unadulterated malice, though she desperately tried to maintain her aristocratic, possessive arrogance.
"Miles, darling, you must understand," Brielle whispered, her voice pitching slightly higher with defensive anxiety as she faced the terrifying silence of her fiancé. "It was just old clutter. We are starting a new life together."
The sheer, brazen audacity of the defense echoed off the gilded mirrors. It was a callous admission of psychological torture, an arrogant attempt to gaslight the room into believing her actions were simply the harsh, necessary realities of maintaining the syndicate's future.
Miles did not yell. He did not reach for a weapon. His restraint was a masterclass in terror.
"Brielle," Miles said, his voice dropping into a low, measured rumble that shook the crystal glasses on the nearby tables.
He allowed a heavy, agonizing pause to stretch between them, letting the sheer weight of his authority press down on her chest.
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"You burned the others?" Miles asked.
The question hung in the bright, golden air, a staggering confirmation of profound insecurity and sociopathic violence. To burn a family's history out of jealousy was a level of instability that threatened the entire foundation of the mafia empire. It was an act of treason against his bloodline.
