Chapter 3
Alban slowly knelt beside the serving trolley. His tailored dark suit pulled taut across his broad shoulders as he reached into the pile of discarded napkins. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, and dripping with a cold, controlled danger. His tattooed fingers gently grasped the auburn wig, lifting it from the trash. He stood back up, shaking off a damp napkin that had clung to the hairpiece.
He turned his towering frame toward Nerelle. The young housemaid was shaking uncontrollably, her fair, rosy cheeks stained with tears, her eyes squeezed shut as if bracing for a physical strike.
Alban stepped within inches of her. He reached out and placed the wig gently into her trembling hands.
"Look at me," Alban said. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble, devoid of any shouting, yet it resonated with an authority that commanded total obedience.
Nerelle slowly opened her eyes, looking up into the sharp, predatory face of her boss.
Alban met her gaze. His expression was completely composed, but the muscle in his sharply defined jaw was tight, ticking with a suppressed, lethal rage. He did not look at her bald scalp with pity or disgust; he looked at her with the calculating intensity of a man trying to solve a very dark puzzle.
"Nerelle," Alban spoke slowly, inserting controlled pauses between his words. "Why are you working... during treatment?"
Nerelle clutched the wig against her white apron like a shield. She swallowed hard, her chest heaving as she struggled to find her voice. She looked past Alban’s shoulder for a fraction of a second, catching the wide, panicked eyes of Sibella.
"Alban, really, this isn't the time or the place," Sibella interjected quickly, stepping forward and reaching for Alban’s arm. "The donors are waiting for your speech. The girl insisted on working. You know how proud the staff can be. They don't like accepting charity without earning it."
Alban did not turn his head. He merely shifted his broad shoulder, shrugging off Sibella’s touch as if a fly had landed on his suit.
"I asked Nerelle a question," Alban murmured, his volume dropping even lower, making the threat infinitely more terrifying. "If anyone else answers for her, I will have them removed from this estate. Permanently."
The threat hung in the bright, luminous air. Sibella froze, her rosy skin paling rapidly.
Alban looked back down at the weeping housemaid. "Speak to me, Nerelle. You are under my protection. Why are you carrying trays when you should be resting?"
Nerelle’s lips trembled. She looked directly at Alban, the absolute sincerity in his cold eyes giving her the desperate courage she needed to speak the truth.
"I had to pay for my medication, Mr. Rookmere," Nerelle said, her voice quiet and strained, echoing clearly in the dead silence of the ballroom. "The hospital called three weeks ago. They said the accounts were empty. I needed the extra shifts just to afford the co-pays for the radiation."
Alban’s dark eyebrows drew together in a microscopic frown. "Empty?"
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"Yes, sir," Nerelle whispered, a fresh tear sliding down her cheek. "Sibella said... Sibella said you stopped paying."
Alban’s gaze slowly, methodically moved away from Nerelle, turning with the heavy inevitability of a loaded gun, until it locked directly onto his fiancée.
