Chapter 2 - The Cold Shift
The dining room descended into a suffocating, absolute silence.
The low hum of the chandeliers seemed to grow louder as twelve high-level executives held their breath. Selene sat rigid in her black satin gown, her knuckles white where her hand clutched the evening bag.
Damian did not shout. He did not move abruptly. Instead, he slowly rested both forearms on the mahogany table, the dark ink on his skin catching the candlelight. His sharp jawline flexed as he stared down the woman sitting beside him.
"Damian, darling," Selene began, her voice pitching higher than usual as she attempted a dismissive chuckle. "You aren't seriously going to take the word of a seven-year-old servant over mine, are you? She's confused. She probably saw one of the housekeeping staff."
"Lily," Damian said softly, never breaking eye contact with Selene. "What color was the light on the door when she walked out?"
Lily looked up from her seat, kicking her cream Mary Jane shoes gently under the table. "It was red, then it turned green when she swiped that card. Then she put it in her purse and ran down the back stairs."
A subtle rustle passed through the dinner guests. Everyone at the table knew that Damian’s private study on the third floor housed the encrypted shipping manifests for the entire Bellucci maritime fleet—documents worth tens of millions of dollars, as well as private syndicate ledgers. The door was secured with a military-grade biometric lock that required a primary keycard held exclusively by Damian.
Selene’s fair skin turned pale. "She's lying! Nora probably put her up to this to get attention!"
Nora gasped from where she stood near the service entrance, clutching her apron. "I would never—Mr. Bellucci, please, we didn't mean to cause trouble!"
"Quiet, Nora," Damian said smoothly, his tone gentle toward the maid. He turned his full, terrifying gaze back onto Selene. "Hand me the bag, Selene."
"No!" Selene snapped, drawing the clutch closer to her chest. "This is humiliating! You are insulting me in front of our investors and board members over a child's fantasy!"
Damian slowly stood up. At six-foot-three, his broad-shouldered frame loomed over the head of the table like a shadow. He extended his right hand, palm up.
"The bag," Damian commanded, his voice dropping an octave into a low, lethal register that made the executives around the table sit straight up in terror. "Now."
Selene swallowed hard. Her arrogant facade cracked completely. Trembling under the weight of his gaze, she slowly slid the black satin clutch across the white tablecloth.
Damian picked up the bag. With calm, methodical precision, he unzipped the top compartment and tipped the contents onto the table. A diamond compact, a lipstick tube, and a sleek, black plastic card with a gold microchip slid onto the wood.
It was Damian's master security card—the one that had been missing from his inner jacket pocket since five o'clock that afternoon.
The corporate executives at the table murmured in shock, several of them sitting back in their chairs, realizing the magnitude of the betrayal taking place before their eyes.
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Damian picked up the card, turning it over in his fingers. He looked at Selene with an expression devoid of all human warmth.
"You weren't marrying me for the fleet, Selene," Damian stated coldly. "You were working for the Moretti family."
