Chapter 4
The camera angle held a tight close-up on Annie. The bright, clear lighting illuminated every detail of her beauty—the expressive brows drawn together in deep distress, the delicate cheekbones marred by the faint bruising, and the soft French twist remaining perfectly polished despite her internal panic.
Annie held Kieran’s intense, perceptive gaze. She felt the heavy, terrifying weight of the room pressing down upon her. She was entirely exposed beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers, trapped between the man who owned the city and the woman who was about to marry him.
Her inner brows lifted helplessly, an expression of profound vulnerability and quiet agony. Moisture gathered rapidly along her lower eyelids, shining in the golden candlelight. Her lips trembled slightly as she tried to form the words.
If she spoke the truth, Miranda would undoubtedly try to destroy her. But looking into Kieran Ashbourne's cold, demanding eyes, Annie realized that lying to him was an impossibility. The truth was burning in her chest, fueled by her desperate need to protect the little girl sitting beside her.
Maintaining direct, unwavering eye contact with Kieran, Annie made her choice.
“She made Flora count.”
Annie answered in a fragile, soft voice. It was breathless, yet the words carried clearly across the dead silent room, shattering the elegant illusion of the evening like a hammer against glass. The words caught slightly on Flora’s name, a heartbreaking sound of profound empathy.
After speaking, Annie lowered her hand and settled it gently, protectively over Flora’s small fingers resting on the table.
A collective, stifled gasp rippled through the gathered relatives and associates. To state that the bride-to-be had physically assaulted a servant was one thing; to reveal that she had forced a six-year-old child to actively participate in the psychological torture of her caregiver was a horrifying revelation that disturbed even the hardened criminals sitting at the table.
The camera angle shifted instantly to a tight close-up of Flora.
The six-year-old girl, still clutching Annie’s hand, looked directly up at Kieran. Her fair, rosy cheeks were pale, her large eyes wide with a mixture of fear and the desperate need to be believed. The trauma of the afternoon was etched into her delicate features.
Her lower lip trembled slightly as she opened her mouth. She spoke with the careful, chilling certainty of a child remembering an unwanted, horrifying task.
“I counted ten, Daddy.”
The absolute, terrifying implication of the child's words crashed over the dining hall. Miranda had not just slapped the maid once as she had claimed. She had struck the beautiful housemaid ten times, forcing the sobbing child to tally every single blow.
May you like
Miranda’s fair skin drained entirely of color. Her eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated panic. She looked wildly around the table, desperately seeking a single ally among the dozens of powerful syndicate members, but the faces staring back at her were stony and unforgiving.
The close-up shifted back to Kieran. His cold, observant eyes remained on Flora for one silent, agonizing beat. He absorbed the sheer trauma radiating from his daughter. Then, he slowly shifted that lethal gaze toward Miranda.
