Chapter 2
Moving with quiet, desperate grace through the bright, airy room was Lottie Hayes. At twenty-seven, the housemaid possessed a beauty that rivaled any woman seated at the velvet dining chairs. She had a softly tapered face, delicate cheekbones, and highly expressive brows. Her fair, rosy skin was pale and drawn tonight, reflecting a deep, internalized agony. Her thick hair was gathered meticulously into a loose low bun, ensuring not a single strand detracted from her polished professionalism. Her sophisticated black maid dress featured a cinched waist, a fitted silhouette, and a short A-line skirt. A neatly tied white apron, paired with a crisp white collar and cuffs, completed her elegant appearance.
“Make sure the gold-rimmed plates are placed exactly an inch from the edge,” the head butler whispered sharply as she passed him.
“I will be careful, Mr. Harrison,” Lottie replied, her voice trembling slightly.
She retrieved a silver tray laden with delicate desserts and stepped into the warm golden light of the dining hall. Just that morning, Dorian Westbrook had explicitly granted Lottie emergency leave to rush to the bedside of her dying mother. Yet, here she was, trapped in the blinding light of the engagement dinner. Moments before she was scheduled to serve the final course, a phone call to the kitchen had delivered the devastating news: her mother had passed away.
Lottie approached the space directly to the right of Dorian’s chair, moving with careful, measured steps. She struggled violently to contain her own distress, forcing her breathing to remain even so as not to draw the attention of the apex predators filling the room.
“Excuse me, sir,” Lottie whispered, her American accent fragile and breathless as she stepped up to the head table.
She carefully lowered the dessert plate before Dorian, ensuring the porcelain made no sound against the polished walnut. Then, she reached out to carefully straighten his silver dessert spoon. As she touched the cold metal, her composure fractured. Lottie’s fingers remained against the spoon a moment too long, her hand frozen as a wave of paralyzing grief washed over her.
Dorian remained perfectly still. His cold, perceptive eyes tracked her movement, dropping to her trembling fingers resting on the silver spoon. Slowly, his gaze shifted upward, locking onto Lottie’s softly tapered face. He noticed the unmistakable dampness of her wet eyelashes and the immense, visible effort behind her controlled, ragged breathing.
“Did something happen with the dessert service?” a nearby guest muttered to his wife, noticing the sudden stillness at the head table.
“I have no idea,” the wife whispered back, her eyes wide.
Dorian looked directly into Lottie’s eyes, waiting in complete silence until the grieving housemaid finally gathered the strength to return his terrifying gaze.
“Lottie. Why are you still here?”
Dorian’s voice was low, deep, and incredibly deliberate. The question dropped into the silent, luminous room like a heavy stone into still water. Every single guest at the massive, crowded table stopped eating and speaking, turning their heads in unison toward the Mafia boss.
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