Julian Mercer did not look at Margaret.

He sat at the head of the table, his fingers laced together.

His dark gray eyes were fixed entirely on Vanessa.

The silence stretched until it felt heavy enough to crush us.

Julian stood up slowly.

He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, wearing a tailored black suit.

He walked down the length of the table, his leather shoes silent on the Persian rug.

He stopped right beside me.

I could smell his cedarwood cologne.

“Julian, get this servant and her brat out of my sight,” Vanessa said, her chin high.

Julian didn’t look at Vanessa.

Instead, he reached down and gently patted Emma’s head.

“Apologize,” Julian said.

His voice was quiet, but it held the weight of an anchor.

Vanessa blinked, her expression tightening. “What?”

“Apologize to Claire,” Julian repeated.

A murmur went through the elite guests.

Vanessa’s face turned a mottled red under her makeup. “You cannot be serious. She ruined the table. She is a maid.”

“She is an employee of this house,” Julian said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And you will apologize to her. Now.”

Vanessa stared at him, her mouth opening and closing.

None of the guests spoke.

None of them dared to defend her.

They all knew what Julian Mercer was capable of, even if they never spoke the word *mafia* aloud.

I grabbed Emma’s small hand, pulling her close to my apron.

My cheek still throbbed.

I wondered how we had gotten to this point.

Just three weeks ago, I had been a desperate widow with no options, begging Margaret for a chance.

I had been so careful to keep Emma hidden in the background.

Now, the secret of how she had charmed her way into this house was about to face the light.

The dining room doors creaked open behind us.