Billionaire Fiancée Cut the Poor Maid’s Hair to Destroy Her Dignity—Until the East Coast’s Most Feared Mafia King Broke Down the Gates and Demanded Blood

Theodore looked at the thumb drive with confusion. “What is this, Dragan?”

“Before I do business with any family,” Dragan said, his tone devoid of warmth, “I place my own surveillance sweeps across the property to ensure counter-intelligence. My men tapped the interior security feeds of this mansion forty-eight hours ago.”

Clarissa’s face turned from pale to pure ash.

“No...” Clarissa whispered, her voice cracking. “Theodore, don’t listen to him! He’s trying to sabotage our shipping contract!”

Theodore hesitated, then walked over to the coffee table, picked up the drive, and plugged it into his laptop resting on the sideboard.

The screen flickered to life.

A high-definition security camera angle appeared, showing the master bedroom from earlier that evening, at precisely 7:15 PM.

On the screen, Clarissa could be seen walking into her own dressing room.

She took the heavy emerald necklace from her jewelry box.

She walked out of her room, climbed the service stairs to Nadia’s attic room, and slipped the velvet pouch directly into the seam of Nadia’s mattress.

Then she walked downstairs, waited ten minutes, and began screaming that she had been robbed.

Theodore stared at the screen in absolute horror.

“Clarissa...?” Theodore turned toward his fiancée, his hands shaking with fury. “You... you framed her? You put my grandmother’s necklace in her bed?”

Clarissa’s eyes darted frantically around the room. “Theodore, listen to me! She was insolent! She looked at me with disrespect! She needed to be removed! Why do you care about a pathetic maid over your future wife?!”

“Shut your mouth,” Dragan said.

The command was so absolute that Clarissa’s jaw snapped shut instantly.

Dragan walked over to the chaise lounge where Nadia lay. He gently took Nadia’s left hand, turning her wrist upward to reveal the ten-year-old burn scar under the light.

Dragan looked at Theodore.

“Do you know where this scar came from, Hawthorne?” Dragan asked.

“The... the textile fire ten years ago,” Theodore stammered. “Her mother died in it.”

“Do you know who ordered the emergency exit doors welded shut to prevent garment workers from taking fabric scraps home?” Dragan continued, his voice dropping into a register that made the blood run cold. “Do you know whose father owned the shell company that collected the insurance payout on that building?”

Theodore frowned in confusion. “The factory was owned by an offshore holding group called Merrill Logistics...”

Theodore stopped mid-sentence.

His eyes slowly shifted from the laptop to Clarissa Merrill.

“Merrill...” Theodore whispered.

Clarissa backed away until her spine hit the grand piano. “It was business! That was ten years ago! My father resolved that in court!”

“Your father paid off corrupt inspectors and let forty women burn to death,” Dragan said coldly. “And for the last three years, you have used the chemical supply lines from that same illegal offshore operation to manufacture your ‘Kind Beauty’ products, poisoning thousands of consumers while laundering the proceeds through Theodore’s shipping fleet.”