Then, Enzo turned to face Camilla. His face was a mask of unreadable granite.
“She snatched my glass,” Camilla snapped, trying to reclaim her dignity, though her voice shook. “Ask her! She humiliated me!”
Enzo’s gaze shifted back to Adeline. “Why did you take it?”
Adeline’s fingers tightened around the lapels of his coat, pulling it closer. And for the first time that night, real terror flickered in her eyes. It was not the fear of Camilla’s crop, but something far deeper.
The corridor remained deathly quiet. Camilla waited with a satisfied, triumphant smile, convinced that the maid had finally trapped herself in a lie.
The heavy velvet drapes of the Marchetti estate hung like funeral shrouds over the grand hall, swallowing the golden light of the chandeliers. Adeline Croft pulled the collar of her starch-white uniform tighter against her throat, trying to blend into the shadows between the mahogany pillars. Eleven days. Eleven days she had spent walking these polished marble floors, learning the silent language of survival in the home of Chicago’s most dreaded man.
In Enzo Marchetti’s house, survival meant invisibility. It meant stepping backward into alcoves when boots echoed on the stairs, keeping eyes trained on the ground, and above all, pretending not to see the dark stains that sometimes appeared on the upholstery before being swiftly scrubbed away by older staff.
Tonight was different. Tonight, the house was alive with the glitter and noise of two hundred elite guests. Senators sipping aged scotch, corrupt judges laughing with shipping magnates, and criminal overlords draped in bespoke silk—all gathered to celebrate the upcoming union between the Marchetti family and the Ashford dynasty. The air smelled of expensive perfume, Cuban tobacco, and power.
Adeline moved through the crowd with a tray of crystal flutes, her breathing measured. She knew her place. She was just another ghost in an apron. But across the room, near the grand sweeping staircase, Camilla Ashford was holding court.
Camilla, dressed in a crimson gown that looked like spilled blood against the white marble, was already three glasses deep into the champagne. Her cheeks were flushed, her laughter sharp and shrill. In her left hand, she held a sleek, silver-tipped riding crop—a cruel fashion accessory she had chosen to carry for the evening’s equestrian-themed charity auction.
Adeline observed her from afar, noting the precise moment Camilla’s balance faltered. The heiress was swaying near a group of federal judges, her words slurring as she gestured wildly with her glass. Champagne sloshed over the rim, droplets landing on the judge’s sleeve. Camilla didn’t notice. She raised the glass again, her eyes glassy, about to make a scene that would humiliate the Ashford name—and reflect terribly on the Marchetti hospitality.
Adeline didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, her movements practiced and swift. With a quiet, smooth motion, she glided past Camilla and gently slid the glass from the heiress’s fingers, replacing it with a napkin before the liquid could ruin the judge’s coat.
“Pardon me, Miss Ashford,” Adeline murmured, keeping her voice low.
The reaction was instantaneous. Camilla’s head snapped around, her face twisting into a mask of pure fury. The humiliation of being managed by a domestic servant in front of high society ignited a sudden, explosive rage.
“How dare you?” Camilla gasped, her voice echoing over the hum of the orchestra.
Before Adeline could step back, Camilla struck. The leather riding crop sliced through the air with a sickening crack, catching Adeline across the forearm. The pain was sharp and blinding, but Adeline didn’t cry out. She simply bit her lip, blood instantly rising to the surface of her skin.
Guests turned. Conversations died. The music faded into an awkward silence as the two hundred powerful men and women of Chicago formed a silent circle around the corridor.
“Get on your knees,” Camilla hissed, her eyes wild as she raised the weapon again.
Adeline pressed herself against the cold marble wall, covering her face with her arms. Blood began to bead near her wrist, dripping onto her clean white apron. The crop came down a second time, then a third. The strikes tore through the fabric, leaving raw, angry welts on her skin.
“You embarrassed me in my future husband’s home!” Camilla screamed, her voice cracking with hysterical authority.
“I was doing my job,” Adeline whispered, her arms trembling.
“You took a glass out of my hand!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“In front of everyone!”
“Yes.”
Camilla’s mouth tightened into a cruel line. “And you still think you did nothing wrong?”
Adeline said nothing. She looked into the crowd. She saw senators who passed laws, judges who ruled on life and death, and men who ordered executions with a nod. Not one of them looked away, yet not one of them moved to stop it. They watched with a cold, detached amusement, fascinated by the violence as if it were a private theatrical performance.
Camilla raised the crop a fourth time, pulling her arm back with all her strength.
The fourth blow never landed.
A large, calloused hand caught the leather strap in midair. The tension in the air shattered instantly.
Enzo Marchetti se tenait derrière Camilla. Il la dominait de toute sa hauteur, vêtu d’un costume anthracite parfaitement taillé, ses yeux sombres plus froids que l’hiver dehors. Il ne criait pas. Il n’élevait pas la voix. Il n’en avait pas besoin. Le simple poids de sa présence imposait un silence absolu.
« Lâche-moi », dit doucement Enzo.
Camilla se figea, le visage blême. « Enzo… »
“Lâcher.”
Ses doigts s’ouvrirent, inertes. La cravache claqua inutilement sur le sol en marbre.
Enzo ne regarda pas sa fiancée. Son regard sombre et perçant la suivit, se posant sur les bras ensanglantés d’Adeline et son corps pâle et tremblant. Sans un mot, il déboutonna sa veste, la laissa glisser de ses larges épaules et s’avança.
« Monsieur, je vais bien », balbutia Adeline en se recroquevillant contre le mur.
“Non.”
«Je n’ai pas besoin de—»
“Adeline.”
