Chapter 3
The heavy, arched oak doors of the dining room were supposed to be locked from the outside to ensure privacy for the dinner party. But the lock had just been bypassed with the turn of a heavy brass key.
The doors swung open, casting a long, imposing shadow across the polished floor.
Aldric stood in the threshold. At thirty-eight years old, he possessed the kind of rugged, deeply masculine presence that commanded a room the moment he entered it. He was handsome as a leading movie star, with a sharp, angular jawline, piercing eyes, and broad shoulders that filled out his tailored button-down shirt. His fair skin was flushed from travel, and a heavy, expensive leather suitcase was gripped firmly in his right hand.
He was not supposed to be home for another two weeks. The overseas business acquisition had closed early, and he had taken the first available private flight back, eager to surprise his family.
Instead, the surprise was entirely his.
Aldric froze in the doorway. His sharp eyes instantly took in the cinematic, brightly lit tableau before him. He saw the wealthy, well-dressed guests staring uncomfortably at their plates. He saw Heloise, standing tall and arrogant in her designer gown. And then, his gaze dropped to the floor.
He saw his five-year-old daughter.
Thora was trembling uncontrollably, dressed not in the beautiful party dresses he had bought her, but in a degrading, stiff black-and-white maid’s uniform. She was struggling to hold up a massive silver serving tray, her tiny chest heaving with silent, terrified sobs. And burning brightly on her fair, rosy cheek was the unmistakable, hand-shaped welt of a violent slap.
The air in the room seemed to evaporate.
"Aldric?" Heloise gasped, the cold superiority instantly draining from her face. Her voice hitched, her American accent suddenly losing its smooth, practiced rhythm. "You... you aren't supposed to be home until the fourteenth."
Aldric did not answer her. He didn't even look at her. His entire world narrowed down to the weeping, traumatized child standing in the center of the room.
"Thora," Aldric said. His voice was not loud, but it possessed a deep, resonant gravity that rattled the crystal glasses on the tables.
Thora turned her head. When she saw her father standing in the doorway, the heavy silver tray slipped from her numb fingers. It crashed against the hardwood floor with a deafening clatter, sending hors d'oeuvres scattering across the Persian rug.
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"Daddy?" Thora whispered, her voice breaking. She didn't run to him; she was too frozen by the fear that had been systematically drilled into her over the past month. She just stood there, holding her burning cheek, her small shoulders shaking.
Aldric’s grip on his leather suitcase tightened until his knuckles turned pure white. The slow, boiling rage that ignited in his chest was a dark, terrifying thing. He dropped the suitcase. It hit the floor with a heavy, final thud.
