Chapter 2
Moving with seamless, quiet grace through the bright, airy room was Alma Bennett. At twenty-seven, the housemaid was exceptionally beautiful, resembling a movie star with her softly rounded face, delicate cheekbones, and expressive brows. Her fair, rosy skin was pale tonight, reflecting a deep, internalized dread. She wore a sophisticated black maid dress featuring a cinched waist, a slim fitted silhouette, and a short A-line skirt. A neatly tied white apron, paired with a crisp white collar and cuffs, completed her polished appearance.
However, her formerly long, immaculate braid was gone. It had been brutally hacked off, leaving uneven, jagged hair gathered loosely and haphazardly at the nape of her neck.
Beside Alma walked Elodie Rook. The seven-year-old girl was a heartbreakingly precise reflection of her father, possessing the same fair skin and bright, observant eyes. Dressed in an elegant party dress and flat shoes, she watched the glittering engagement dinner with quiet, trembling apprehension. In her small hands, she carried something dark and woven.
Alma approached the space directly to the right of Nathaniel’s champagne velvet chair. She struggled violently to contain her distress, forcing her breathing to remain even so as not to frighten the little girl any further.
With meticulous care, Alma reached out and set Nathaniel’s crystal water glass down on the gold-rimmed coaster. Her hand trembled slightly, but she quickly pulled it back, pressing it flat against her white apron.
Elodie stepped forward into the luminous golden light.
The seven-year-old girl raised her hands, carefully holding the severed, dark braid of hair. She presented it toward her father like a broken artifact. She looked directly into his cold, observant eyes, her own expressive brows drawn tightly together with worried, desperate hope.
“Can you fix it, Daddy?” Elodie asked.
Her high, fragile voice broke the sophisticated hum of the dining hall.
Nathaniel remained perfectly still. His cold, perceptive eyes tracked the movement, dropping to the severed braid resting in his daughter's small hands. Slowly, his gaze shifted upward, locking onto Alma. He noticed the jagged, uneven hair gathered at her nape, a violent defacement of her movie-star beauty.
"Is this a game you are playing, Elodie?" Nathaniel asked, his voice so low it seemed to vibrate against the crystal glasses on the table.
May you like
"No, Daddy," Elodie whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. "It's Alma's."
Across the table, Vivian Cross stopped cutting her steak. The polite, radiant smile vanished from her face for a fraction of a second. Her fair, rosy skin paled slightly under the warm golden light. She had explicitly orchestrated this cruelty in the shadows, fueled by a toxic jealousy of the child's deep attachment to the beautiful maid. She had not anticipated the child bringing the evidence directly into the blinding light of the engagement dinner.
