Part 2: The Mafia Boss's Fiancée Poured Wine On A Poor Maid—The Next Few Seconds Changed Everything

Marin hesitated, then pushed herself to her feet, clutching the silver tray against her soaked apron. She kept her eyes lowered, acutely aware of the murderous glare burning into her skull from Genevieve Vance.

Damian stood up beside her, turning his gaze toward the table. The silence in the banquet hall was deafening. Even the grandfather clock in the corner seemed to tick with muffled caution.

"Damian, this is absurd!" Genevieve spat, her voice trembling between humiliation and sheer outrage. "She’s a servant! She practically threw the bottle at me! Are you really going to humiliate me in front of our guests over trash?"

Damian didn't raise his voice. He never had to. When he spoke, it carried the weight of an executioner's blade.

"I watched your hand move, Genevieve," Damian said smoothly. "You pushed the bottle. And then you threw the glass."

Genevieve’s breath hitched. "I... I slipped! The floor was slick!"

"You lied," Damian said, stepping toward her. Genevieve instinctively leaned back, the arrogance evaporating from her posture. "And worse, you caused a scene in my home, spilled wine that costs more than your father’s first sports car, and attempted to strike someone who cannot hit you back."

"She was spying on me!" Genevieve blurted out, panic cracking her composed facade.

Marin’s heart stopped.

Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly, a predatory gleam flashing in the candlelight. "Is that so?" he asked softly. He turned back toward Marin, whose breath was trapped in her throat. "Did you spy on my fiancée, Marin?"

Marin knew that one wrong word would end her life. But her street-born instinct whispered that Damian Hail already knew more than he let on. "I was polishing the silver in the south salon as assigned, Mr. Hail," she replied, keeping her voice completely steady. "I only see what passes before my eyes."

A ghost of a smirk played at the corner of Damian’s mouth. He turned back to the guests, who sat frozen like statues.

"The dinner is concluded," Damian announced, his voice slicing through the room. "The cars will take you to your hotels."

The guests didn't need to be told twice. Murmuring rushed apologies and hasty nods, they practically scrambled for the double mahogany doors.

Genevieve rose furiously, tears of rage threatening her mascara. "We aren't done talking about this, Damian!"

"You're right," Damian replied, not even turning to look at her. "Pack your bags. You are returning to your father's estate in the morning."

"You can't do that! The merger—"

"Get out of my sight before I have Hollis throw your luggage into the Atlantic," Damian whispered.

Genevieve let out a choked cry of disbelief, glaring at Marin with pure, unadulterated hatred, before turning on her high heels and storming toward the grand staircase.

Damian stood in the center of the vast, emptying room. He looked at Marin, his eyes sweeping over her ruined, wine-soaked uniform.

"Hollis," Damian called out.