Chapter 8
The silence in the grand reception room became a physical, suffocating pressure. The dozens of ivory candles flickering inside their tall glass hurricane holders seemed to be the only things moving in the entire, luminous space.
Brielle stared back at him, her chest heaving violently beneath her emerald velvet gown. She briefly glanced toward Noah, her eyes flashing with pure hatred for the toddler who had exposed her, before she forced herself to hold Miles’s terrifying gaze.
She knew there was no point in denying it. The ashes were still warm in the study's wastebasket. If she showed weakness now, the sharks in the room would smell blood.
Brielle lifted her chin, her expression hardening into an unyielding, arrogant mask.
"He needs to forget her," Brielle stated, her American accent dripping with cold, unapologetic defiance.
The words echoed off the polished marble floors. It was a brazen, callous defense, a desperate attempt to assert dominance in a room that no longer belonged to her. She believed her family's wealth and political power made her entirely untouchable, even to the man standing before her.
"I am the future of this family, Miles," Brielle continued, her voice rising slightly. "I will not share my home with ghosts. The boy needs a strong mother, not a shrine to a weak woman. You should be thanking me for handling the unpleasantness."
Miles’s reaction was deliberate, fueled by a cold, terrifying, protective adrenaline.
"Does handling unpleasantness require assaulting the woman who actually cares for my son?" Miles inquired softly, his perceptive eyes narrowing into cold slits.
"She is a maid!" Brielle shrieked, pointing a shaking, diamond-adorned finger at the space behind Miles, though she shrank back under his lethal glare. "She is nothing! I am the daughter of a king! You cannot humiliate me in front of our families over a meaningless piece of paper!"
"You humiliated yourself the moment you resorted to the tactics of a coward," Miles replied coldly.
He slowly swept his gaze across the room, taking in the numerous capos, donors, and relatives standing frozen among the burgundy velvet seating. His eyes locked onto Vincent, his most trusted lieutenant.
"Have you all finished your drinks?" Miles asked the room at large.
May you like
It was phrased as a polite question, but the command hidden within it was unmistakable and absolute.
Guests practically scrambled toward the exits. There were no polite farewells, no lingering handshakes. Men in tailored suits and women in expensive evening gowns fled the bright, elegant room with frantic urgency, eager to escape the blast radius of Miles Ashford’s wrath.
