Sibella cruel enough to rip the wig from a sick woman’s head and publicly degrade her beside a gilded charity portrait

The ballroom of the Rookmere estate was a masterpiece of architectural brilliance, flooded with a clean, luminous light that banished every shadow from the polished marble floors. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls from the vaulted ceilings, casting a brilliant, daylight-like clarity over the gathering. The vivid, bright colors of the evening gowns and tailored suits were sharp and intoxicating. Every guest in attendance possessed a fair, rosy complexion, their skin glowing under the immaculate, warm illumination of the charity gala. It was a flawless American high-society event, a perfect facade masking the dark, violent undercurrents of the man who funded it all.

Alban Rookmere stood on the mezzanine, looking down at the crowded floor. At forty-eight, he was a man of terrifying, masculine elegance. Handsome as a silver-screen icon, his thick, slightly wavy hair was slicked back, though a few rebellious strands fell across his angular forehead, giving him a deceptively romantic air. He wore a tailored dark three-piece suit with an open-collar shirt. An artistic, sharp tattoo crept up the side of his neck, hinting at the brutal Mafia empire he commanded with an iron fist.

Below him, the fundraiser was in full swing. Near a towering floral display of bright red roses and crisp white lilies stood a glamorous, life-sized portrait of a young woman.

That woman, Nerelle Davenby, was currently navigating the crowded floor. At twenty-five, she was a housemaid, but tonight she looked like a ghost haunting her own memorial. Her fair skin was pale, her rosy cheeks flushed not with health, but with the exhausting, nauseating heat of ongoing cancer treatments. She wore her standard black housekeeping dress and a pristine white apron, her flat shoes making no sound. Upon her head rested a thick, carefully styled auburn wig, hiding a closely shaven scalp. Her arms trembled as she balanced a heavy silver serving tray loaded with crystal champagne flutes.

"Keep your head up, Nerelle," hissed a sharp voice from her left.

Sibella, Alban’s thirty-six-year-old fiancée, stepped into the bright light. She was a vision in a sweeping, vivid sapphire evening gown. Heavy diamond earrings swung against her flawless, rosy neck, and a massive engagement ring sparkled on her finger. As the organizer of the fundraiser, she was in her element, basking in the adoration of the wealthy donors.

"I'm trying, Miss Sibella," Nerelle murmured, her American accent soft and breathless. "The tray is just... a bit heavy today. The medication makes me dizzy."

"I did not ask for excuses," Sibella snapped, her smile remaining fixed for the sake of the nearby guests, though her eyes were completely devoid of warmth. "This entire gala is in your honor. Alban insisted we open the estate to fund your recovery. You will walk through this crowd, you will serve the drinks, and you will look grateful."

"I am grateful," Nerelle whispered, her hands gripping the edges of the silver tray so tightly her knuckles turned white. "I just need a moment to rest."

"You don't rest until I tell you to," Sibella replied, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Do you think these people are handing over thousand-dollar checks because they care about a maid? They are paying for the tragedy. And frankly, you look far too healthy in that expensive hairpiece."