Chapter 5 - The Gala Test
The true test came that evening during the private dinner in the formal dining hall. Although it was framed as a family meal, the presence of two high-ranking syndicate associates seated across from Ronan made it clear this was a test of loyalty and nerve. I stood quietly behind the matriarch’s chair, wearing my dark apron over a fresh white collared shirt, pouring water into heavy crystal glasses.
Julian Vance, a ruthless syndicate elder with silver hair and cold eyes, watched me over the rim of his wine glass. "I hear the Cain estate has a new pet, Ronan. A stray found wandering the East Wing."
Ronan didn't look up from his plate, cutting his steak with slow, deliberate precision. "She's domestic staff, Julian. Nothing more."
"A domestic who wears ink that matches the family crest," Vance pressed, a thin smile touching his lips. "Odd choice for a maid. Perhaps she’d like to pour a glass for me and explain where she got that falcon on her wrist."
The tension in the room spiked so sharply I could hear the faint hum of the crystal chandelier overhead. I froze, my hand tightening around the silver pitcher. If I spoke, I risked exposing the fragile truce with Ronan; if I stayed silent, Vance would demand my sleeve be rolled up right there at the table.
Before I could move, Ronan set his knife and fork down with a sharp clatter that made everyone at the table flinch. He leaned back in his black leather chair, his chest tattoos visible through the open collar of his black shirt as he fixed Vance with a terrifying, dead-eyed stare.
"My mother’s staff answers to my mother and to me," Ronan said, his voice dangerously low and smooth. "If Julian Vance is suddenly so interested in the domestic arrangements of my estate, perhaps we should discuss your recent shipping discrepancies instead."
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Vance’s smile vanished, color draining slightly from his face as he dropped the subject with a tight nod. "A misunderstanding, Ronan. Merely curious."
I let out a slow, silent breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. When Ronan briefly glanced back over his shoulder, his dark eyes met mine for a fraction of a second. There was no warmth in his gaze, but there was something else—a silent acknowledgment that the battle lines had been drawn, and we were standing on the same side.
