Chapter 2
The heavy silk curtains framing the tall windows seemed to absorb the ambient noise of the dining hall as Elodie stepped closer to the bassinet. Camilla had been fiercely adamant before the dinner began, giving strict orders to the entire household staff that six-month-old Theo was completely exhausted and must remain utterly undisturbed beneath his thick, knitted blanket. It was a bizarre demand, but in the Blackwell household, one did not question the future bride of the mafia boss.
"Is the infant still resting, Elodie?" an older guest inquired from a nearby champagne velvet chair, offering a polite, rosy-cheeked smile.
"Yes, ma'am, he seems very quiet tonight," Elodie replied, her American accent soft and respectful.
Elodie reached out with her slender fingers, intending to gently rock the bassinet and adjust the edge of the blanket that had slipped slightly askew. As her hand brushed against the wrapped bundle, she expected to feel the soft, yielding warmth of the sleeping infant. Instead, her fingers grazed something entirely wrong.
Beneath the fabric, a rigid, unnatural shape protruded. Elodie’s breath hitched in her throat. She pressed her fingers slightly firmer against the blanket. It was a plastic hand.
Elodie immediately stopped rocking. Her entire body went rigid, freezing in place as if she had just been struck by lightning. Her fingers remained completely still against the soft fabric of the blanket, her heart hammering violently against her ribs.
Soren, whose cold, perceptive eyes were constantly scanning his environment, instantly noticed the housemaid’s sudden, terrifying stillness. He watched the way the blood drained from her delicate cheekbones, leaving her fair skin ashen.
He moved with deliberate, predatory grace, stepping away from his velvet chair. He closed the short distance and looked directly into Elodie’s wide, terrified eyes.
"Elodie. Why did you stop?"
Soren’s voice was deep, quiet, and incredibly deliberate. He spoke with a measured, chilling pause after her name. The sheer, commanding authority in his tone sliced through the ambient chatter of the room like a straight razor.
The effect was instantaneous and absolute. Every single guest at the polished walnut tables stopped eating and speaking. Forks hovered motionless over fine porcelain. Crystal wine glasses were lowered slowly. Dozens of faces turned toward the head of the room, watching the mafia boss direct his terrifying, unbroken focus onto the housemaid.
Camilla, sensing the sudden shift in the room's atmosphere, immediately stepped forward. She met Soren’s cold gaze, forcing her lips into a faint, reassuring smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
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"The baby's finally sleeping, darling," Camilla stated, her tone flawlessly smooth and bright.
She offered the lie with the effortless ease of a woman accustomed to controlling the narrative. Her eyes frantically searched Soren’s angular face for a sign of acceptance, silently urging him to play along and not cause a scene in front of their powerful guests. She desperately needed him to turn away from the bassinet.
