Chapter 4 - Mia’s Testimony
Down in the west wing study, the fire crackled in the massive stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across rows of leather-bound books and heavy mahogany furniture.
Claire Bennett sat perched on the edge of a velvet armchair. Her designer beige trench coat was slightly rumpled, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight, frantic ponytail. When the heavy oak door swung open, she snapped her head up, a rehearsed look of indignation washing over her features.
“Dominic! What is the meaning of this? Your thugs at the gate treated me like a common criminal!” Claire demanded, standing up and marching toward him with her hands outstretched. “I have bridal fittings in Manhattan! Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is?”
Dominic didn't flinch. He walked past her, poured two fingers of unaged bourbon into a heavy crystal glass, and took a slow sip.
“Sit down, Claire,” he said.
The casual authority in his voice stopped her dead in her tracks. She narrowed her eyes, studying his face. The usual warmth—or at least the polite detachment—she was used to seeing was entirely gone. His eyes were dead black pits.
“What are you talking about? I’m not sitting down until you explain why your men are holding me hostage in my own home!”
“Your home?” Dominic raised an eyebrow. “Funny. The deed is still registered entirely under my corporate trust. You haven't signed the pre-nup waivers yet.”
Claire’s breath hitched for a microsecond. She recovered quickly, forcing a disbelieving laugh. “Oh, please. Don’t start with your paranoid business nonsense. Is this about that maid? That little peasant you let sleep in the servants' quarters? She’s a thief, Dominic! She stole a bottle of Petrus and hid it in the cellar. Nathan and I caught her red-handed!”
“Nathan and you caught her,” Dominic repeated, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
“Yes! Ask him!”
“I did,” Dominic said softly. “He said you locked her down there alone to protect the reserve collection.”
Claire blinked. A sudden wave of panic flashed across her eyes as she realized Nathan and she hadn't synchronized their cover stories under pressure.
“Well... we... we both agreed!” she stammered, stepping back. “Dominic, you’re looking at me like that over a maid? After everything we’ve planned? Our wedding is six weeks away!”
“Was,” Dominic corrected coldly.
“What?”
“The wedding is canceled, Claire.”
The room seemed to drop into a vacuum. Claire stared at him, her mouth slightly open, the calculated mask of the grieving, misunderstood fiancée shattering into pieces.
“You can’t do this,” she hissed, her voice dropping its sweet, aristocratic cadence, revealing the sharp, venomous edge underneath. “My family name opened doors for you in European banking! Without me, you’re just another thug with a gun!”
“Without you,” Dominic stepped forward, towering over her until she was forced to lean back against the edge of the desk, “I’m a man who just realized he was about to marry a viper.”
Before Claire could scream or reach for the heavy glass paperweight on the desk, the door banged open.
Marcus stood in the threshold, looking grim.
“Boss. You need to come down to the basement holding room right now.”
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Dominic looked down at Claire, then past her to Marcus. “What happened?”
“Nathan didn't wait for the interrogation,” Marcus said grimly. “He used a razor blade he had hidden in the lining of his belt. He cut his own throat five minutes ago.”
