Chapter 6
The question was not born of curiosity; it was a deadly demand for confirmation, dripping with the absolute promise of violent retribution for whoever had orchestrated the cruelty.
The silence in the grand salon became a physical, suffocating pressure. The dozens of ivory candles flickering in their ornate brass candelabras seemed to be the only things moving in the entire, luminous space.
Elena swallowed hard, her pulse racing frantically. She met Nathaniel’s dark, commanding gaze. Her chest heaved rapidly beneath the fitted black fabric of her creased dress. She knew the extreme danger of answering that question. She knew the power of the Mercer family, and she knew Celine’s capacity for vindictive, fatal violence.
But looking into Nathaniel’s eyes, feeling the absolute, terrifying demand for the truth radiating from his masculine frame, Elena found she had no choice. The presence of the mafia boss stripped away her ability to lie. He had just physically intervened, stopping the trap before it could shred her feet.
Elena steadied a trembling breath, parting her lips before she could force the fragile words out into the open. She refused to look at the woman in the burgundy gown. She kept her eyes locked on the man who commanded the city.
"Glass," Elena answered, her voice quiet but devastatingly clear.
The admission was a knife to the chest of the entire syndicate. To brutalize a servant in the boss's own home was an insult that demanded immediate blood.
Elena closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, the memory of the previous night’s dance flashing through her mind. She looked back at Nathaniel, the undeniable truth spilling from her lips.
"For dancing with you," Elena finished, her voice breaking slightly.
Nathaniel Ashford stopped breathing. His jaw tightened instantly, the extremely short stubble on his face bristling with suppressed, explosive violence. The artistic tattoos on his hands flexed as his fists clenched at his sides. He realized in a fraction of a second that the woman he was supposed to marry had tortured his staff simply for a moment of innocent joy.
He slowly turned his head, his naturally swept-back hair catching the light. He locked his cold, lethal gaze directly onto Celine.
Celine’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 was entirely destroyed.
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She turned her gaze back to Nathaniel. Her careful, polished smile hardened into a mask of raw, unadulterated malice.
"Servants don't dance with their betters," Celine stated, her American accent dripping with cold, unapologetic defiance.
