Chapter 5
The camera angle shifted to a tight close-up of Lottie. The bright, clear lighting illuminated every detail of her beauty—the expressive brows drawn together in deep distress, the delicate cheekbones pale with grief, and the loose low bun remaining perfectly polished despite her internal agony.
Lottie could feel the heavy, terrifying weight of the room pressing down upon her. She was entirely exposed beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers, standing beside the most powerful man in the city. The cold, dismissive laughter from the woman in the satin gown echoed in her ears, trivializing the most devastating loss of her life.
Lottie looked directly at Felicia.
The fear that had paralyzed her moments before evaporated, replaced by a profound, hollow despair. She did not raise her voice. She did not shout. But the tears that had been gathering heavily along her lower eyelids finally broke free. They spilled over her dark lashes, cutting clean, silent paths down her fair, rosy cheeks.
“She died waiting for me.”
Lottie spoke the words with a devastating clarity. Her voice stayed barely above a whisper, yet it carried across the dead silent room, shattering the elegant illusion of the evening. After delivering the final, crushing word, Lottie’s mouth tightened immediately, pressing her lips together in a desperate attempt to hold back a sob.
The absolute, terrifying implication of the housemaid’s words crashed over the dining hall. Felicia had not just delayed a visit; she had actively, maliciously denied a daughter the right to hold her mother’s hand as she passed away from this world.
A collective, horrified gasp swept through the seated guests. In the violent, unpredictable world of the American Mafia, violence was a currency, but the sadistic, emotional torture of a loyal servant was an act of high treason against the unwritten codes of respect.
“Did she just say her mother passed?” a senator’s wife whispered, covering her mouth in horror.
“Yes. She died alone because of that woman,” another guest muttered back, staring at Felicia with open disgust.
The close-up shifted instantly to Dorian.
His cold, observant eyes rested on Lottie’s weeping face for one silent, agonizing beat. He absorbed the sheer trauma radiating from the woman standing beside him, the innocent civilian who had been forced to carry a crushing grief to serve a plate of sugar.
A shallow, controlled breath left Dorian, barely parting his lips.
Then, he slowly turned toward Felicia. His eyes moved first, locking onto his fiancée, before his head followed in a smooth, predatory motion. His sharply defined jaw firmed, the muscles flexing visibly beneath his neat stubble. He held Felicia’s eyes with cold, unwavering attention.
The visual standoff suspended the dining hall in a state of impending doom. Every single guest in the massive, opulent room remained perfectly silent, facing him, paralyzed by the public unmasking of the future bride. The trap had been sprung, and there was absolutely no escape. End before Felicia answers.
Share
