Chapter 2 - THE LINEN CLOSET
The second floor hallway was quiet at ten minutes past midnight.
The crystal chandeliers had been dimmed to a pale amber glow.
Elena Whitlock stood by the service alcove with her fingers curled around the edge of a silver tray.
Her silk dress was the color of champagne cream.
Her hair was pinned in an elaborate twist that caught the light from the wall sconces.
She was waiting.
And when Marin Hollis walked out of the banquet hall carrying a stack of soiled linen napkins, Elena stepped directly into her path.
Marin stopped.
She kept her head down, the way all service staff were trained to keep their heads down in the presence of family guests.
"You're the new girl," Elena said.
Her voice was smooth, cool, and sharp as a razor blade.
"Marin Hollis, ma'am," Marin murmured, shifting the heavy napkins in her arms.
"Yes."
Elena took one slow step closer.
The scent of expensive jasmine filled the narrow corridor.
"You dropped a fork during the senator's dinner," Elena noted, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Marin's gloved hands.
"It echoed across the entire room."
"I apologize, Miss Whitlock. The tray was unbalanced."
"You clumsy little rat," Elena hissed.
Without warning, Elena's hand flashed out.
She struck Marin across the face with an open palm.
The sound of skin hitting skin echoed off the marble walls like a pistol shot.
Marin stumbled back against the linen shelves, dropping the napkins onto the floor.
Her cheek bloomed with a bright red mark.
She didn't cry out.
She didn't raise her hands to defend herself.
Instead, her left hand immediately dropped behind her hip, pressing tightly against her thigh in that same familiar, defensive reflex.
"Pick them up," Elena ordered, her nostrils flaring.
"And if you ever drop another piece of silver in front of my fiancé again, I will personally see to it that you never work in this city."
Marin bent down in silence.
Her fingers trembled as she gathered the white linen napkins off the floor.
She didn't look up.
She didn't utter a single word of protest.
Around the corner, standing in the shadows beside the mahogany pillar, Abel Ferraro froze.
His hand rested on his lapel.
He had stopped walking the moment he heard the slap.
Abel stared at Elena Whitlock with an expression of cold, absolute horror.
He knew the rule.
He knew every single pause in the master's voice when he spoke that rule.
No one is allowed to lay a hand on someone who couldn't fight back.
And Elena Whitlock had just broken it under the very roof of the Santoro estate.
Abel turned on his heel and walked swiftly toward the private elevator.
He had to tell Rafe.
May you like
And he knew that by sunrise, nothing in this city would ever be the same again.
THE END OF CHAPTER 2
