Chapter 3
The camera of the room's attention was entirely fixed on the head table. Elena moved with urgent, fluid grace, her fitted black maid dress cutting a sharp silhouette against the bright, golden highlights of the dining hall. She bypassed the stunned capos and approached Adrian’s wheelchair without a second of hesitation.
Ignoring Victor’s looming, arrogant presence, Elena reached into the silver basket. Her delicate fingers selected a fresh, warm bread roll. She placed a clean, bone-white porcelain plate directly in front of Adrian and set the bread gently upon it. She did not retreat to the serving station. Instead, she anchored herself firmly beside his wheelchair, her posture radiating an elegant, unyielding defiance.
Victor straightened up, his eyes narrowing as he glared at the young housemaid who dared to interrupt his moment of dominance.
Elena lifted her chin, looking directly into Victor’s eyes. Her voice was firm, carrying a resonant clarity that sliced through the stunned silence of the room.
"He built the club you’re standing in," Elena stated, her expressive eyes flashing with protective fury.
Victor’s smirk vanished, replaced by a cold, humiliated rage. He leaned aggressively across the back of the wheelchair, deliberately invading Adrian’s physical space, trying to use his height and mobility to diminish the seated boss.
"Then he can watch me take it," Victor replied coldly, his gaze shifting from the maid back to his uncle.
Determined to break the last ounce of Adrian's perceived authority, Victor raised his hand again. He pulled his arm back, preparing to deliver a second, more devastating strike to Adrian’s injured side.
Elena saw the raised palm. She saw the aggressive shift in Victor's shoulders.
Before Victor’s hand could begin its descent, Elena stepped smoothly and forcefully between them. The short A-line skirt of her uniform flared as she planted her flat shoes onto the hardwood floor.
With blinding speed, Elena brought her hand up and delivered one sharp, resounding, open-handed slap across Victor’s face.
The crack of the impact was explosive. Victor staggered backward, entirely unprepared for the sheer force of the blow. He tripped over his own polished shoes and crashed heavily into an empty, upholstered dining chair situated two steps behind him.
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The heavy chair skidded slightly across the floor with a harsh, scraping sound. As Victor collided with the wooden armrest, the brass manager badge clipped to his tailored jacket caught on the ornate carving. The metal pin tore through the expensive fabric and dropped onto the floor with a sharp clatter.
Elena remained standing perfectly still between Victor and Adrian. Her chest heaved slightly, but she offered no additional strike, no physical retaliation. She simply held her ground, an impenetrable shield of black and white lace, protecting the king from the traitor.
