Chapter 3 - The Night of the Gala
By eight o’clock in the evening, the grand ballroom of the Whitfield estate looked like a scene from a fairy tale.
Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden light over three hundred members of New England’s elite. Diamond necklaces gleamed under the soft glow, champagne flutes clinked, and a live string quartet played soft classical melodies near the arched marble entrance. Politicians, tech moguls, and old-money aristocrats laughed and mingled, admiring the grand architecture of the house.
In the back corner of the ballroom, set apart near the floor-to-ceiling glass doors opening onto the garden, sat Lily’s pink table.
It was small, delicate, and incongruous with the rest of the room’s overwhelming grandeur, but it was filled with warmth. Surrounding the table were seven wrapped boxes. Four were from Nathaniel—wrapped in crisp silver paper with silk ribbons. Two were from Mrs. Donnelly and the kitchen staff—wrapped in newspaper decorated with hand-drawn flowers. One was a small, crudely wrapped box from Elena herself, containing a wooden bird her late father had carved years ago.
Lily sat proudly on a pink velvet chair, her little legs swinging, taking tiny, polite bites of her strawberry cake.
Several wealthy guests had stopped by the table out of genuine curiosity.
“Who is this precious little angel?” an older woman in a navy dress asked, smiling softly down at Lily.
“This is Lily,” Nathaniel’s voice answered smoothly.
Nathaniel stepped out from the crowd, looking devastatingly handsome in a tailored black tuxedo. He didn't look like an untouchable billionaire at that moment. He carried a small glass of apple juice, setting it gently beside Lily’s cake.
“It’s her third birthday today,” Nathaniel told the woman, reaching down to gently ruffle Lily’s brown curls.
“Happy birthday, Lily!” the woman cooed, reaching into her designer clutch and pulling out a small silver charm, placing it on the table. “How sweet of you, Nathaniel. I didn't know you had a niece!”
“She’s not my niece,” Nathaniel said, his dark eyes softening as he looked down at the toddler. “She’s the heart of this house.”
Standing a few feet away near the service entrance, dressed in her black maid’s uniform and white apron, Elena felt a lump form in her throat. Her heart throbbed with a terrifying mix of gratitude and fear.
Nathaniel was being kind. He was giving her daughter a night she would remember forever. But Elena could see what Nathaniel couldn't—or refused to—see.
Across the ballroom, Victoria Hale was watching.
Victoria stood surrounded by her father, Arthur Hale, and three prominent socialites. But her eyes were fixed entirely on the corner of the room. She watched Nathaniel bend down to wipe a smear of strawberry icing from Lily’s nose. She heard the murmurs of the crowd, praising Nathaniel’s tender, fatherly side.
To the elite guests, it was a sweet, humanizing moment for a grieving widower.
To Victoria, it was an intolerable humiliation.
She had spent six months trying to break through Nathaniel’s icy walls. She had submitted to his coldness, endured his silence, and maneuvered her way into his inner circle, all to secure his fortune and save her family from public bankruptcy. Yet he had never looked at her with the tenderness he was currently bestowing upon a maid’s daughter.
“Victoria, darling,” her father whispered, leaning close, his voice strained with desperation. “The contract for the merger is in Nathaniel’s study. Has he signed it yet? The banks are threatening to freeze our accounts by Monday.”
“Not yet,” Victoria muttered through clenched teeth, her red lips tightening. “He keeps making excuses.”
“You need to push him tonight,” Arthur warned, his hand trembling around his champagne glass. “If this engagement falls through, we are ruined. The newspapers will tear us apart.”
“I know!” Victoria hissed softly.
She took a long, heavy sip of her champagne, the alcohol stoking the fire of jealousy burning in her chest. She looked at Lily’s bright, happy face. She looked at Elena standing in her maid’s uniform, watching her daughter with eyes full of quiet love.
They don't belong here, Victoria thought, her fingernails digging into the stem of her glass until her knuckles turned white. That peasant girl thinks she can slide into Nathaniel’s life through her child. I will not be replaced by a housemaid.
Victoria set her empty glass down on a passing tray, smoothed her emerald silk dress, and began walking across the marble floor.
Her heels struck the stone with a rhythmic, sinister precision.
The string quartet continued to play softly. Guests continued to laugh. Nathaniel had been called away for a moment by his estate lawyer near the fireplace.
Lily was sitting alone at her pink table, holding "Mr. Bun," admiring the bright silver ribbons on her birthday boxes.
Elena saw Victoria approaching. Every instinct in her body screamed that danger was coming. She immediately stepped out from the service corridor, walking quickly toward her daughter.
“Lily, sweetie,” Elena called out softly, trying to keep her voice steady. “Let’s clean up the cake now—”
“Leave the table, Elena,” Victoria’s voice cut through the air, cool and sharp as broken glass.
Elena froze.
Victoria stopped right in front of the pink table. The green silk of her dress rustled as she looked down at the toddler. Her face was a mask of cold, unyielding aristocratic disgust.
Several nearby guests turned to look, sensing the sudden drop in temperature.
“Miss Hale,” Elena whispered, taking a protective step between Victoria and Lily. “If we are in the way, I can take Lily back to the staff cottage immediately—”
“Oh, you are definitely in the way,” Victoria said loud enough for the surrounding circle of guests to hear. “In fact, this entire ridiculous circus is an insult to every person in this room.”
Lily looked up from her chair, her wide brown eyes blinking in confusion. She didn't understand the words, but she understood the cruelty in the tall woman’s voice. She clutched her stuffed rabbit tighter against her pink dress.
“Miss Hale, please,” Elena begged softly, her voice shaking. “She’s only three.”
“And she belongs in the servants’ quarters,” Victoria declared, her voice ringing out clearly across the ballroom.
May you like
The music of the string quartet faltered. The chatter near the terrace died down. One by one, three hundred of the most powerful people in Connecticut turned their attention toward the pink table.
Victoria smiled—a terrifying, sharp smile—and reached out her manicured hand.
