Chapter 3 - The Calculation of a Predator
Vivienne shoved her chair back violently, the wooden legs screeching loudly against the polished floorboards.
"This is insane!" Vivienne shouted, her voice tight with rising hysteria as she stood up. "You’re interrogating a toddler at our engagement dinner based on a child’s fairy tale? Have you lost your mind?"
I slowly stood up to my full height, towering over her across the mahogany table.
I didn't yell. I didn't slam my fists. I simply looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time in the two years we had been together.
She wasn't frightened. Not truly.
Her eyes weren't wide with the shock of a wrongfully accused innocent person. Instead, her gaze was darting rapidly toward the doors, measuring angles, calculating exit strategies, weighing public perception against private exposure.
She was calculating.
And that realization terrified me more than any weapon ever could.
Behind the service doorway, standing quietly in the shadows just as he had been instructed for a decade, my chief of security, Marco, appeared instantly at the first twitch of my hand.
I raised two fingers without looking back.
Marco stepped fully into the room, a hulking, silent presence in a dark suit.
"Escort the guests to the drawing room," I said quietly, never breaking eye contact with Vivienne.
Vivienne stared at me, the blood draining completely from her face. "Damian, what are you doing? You can't just—this is our night! Our friends are right here!"
"Move them," I repeated to Marco.
Nobody at the table dared to move until Marco cleared his throat politely and gestured toward the double doors leading to the east wing. One by one, the wealthy elites, lawyers, and business partners stood up in stiff, uncomfortable silence, casting furtive glances at us before shuffling out of the room like actors fleeing a collapsing stage.
Within ninety seconds, the grand dining room was completely empty, save for Vivienne, little Rosie, Marco standing by the exit, and me.
Rosie looked up at me with big, confused eyes. "Mister Damian? Can I go find cookies now?"
I softened my expression for the child, kneeling down. "Marco, take Rosie to the kitchen. Have Mrs. Gable give her hot chocolate and her favorite cookies. Stay with her until I come down."
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"Yes, Mr. Vance," Marco said gently, scooping the little girl up into his arms. Rosie buried her face against his shoulder, perfectly content as she was carried away from the storm.
The heavy doors clicked shut, locking us inside with the truth.
