Chapter 4

The morning sun poured through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the dining room, but the air inside felt like a freezer.

Arletta sat at the very end of the long mahogany table. Her head hung low. Her fingers nervously picked at the linen napkin in her lap. Her eyes were swollen red, puffy from crying.

Dori Patton, Josue's stepmother, sat to the right of the head chair. She held a bone china coffee cup, glaring daggers at Arletta over the rim.

The heavy, rhythmic thud of a wooden cane echoed from the hallway. Cornelius, the patriarch of the Mcconnell family, walked into the room. His face was carved from stone.

Everyone at the table stood up instantly. No one breathed until Cornelius lowered himself into the head chair.

Cornelius's sharp, hawk-like eyes swept the room. He picked up his solid silver butter knife and slammed it flat against the table. The crack made everyone jump.

"Explain the alarms in the east wing," Cornelius demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Why is my estate being run like a cheap downtown nightclub?"

Dori slammed her cup down. "It's this uneducated girl, Cornelius," she spat, pointing a manicured finger at Arletta. "She has no idea how to behave. Kyler was sleepwalking, and she panicked like a lunatic and triggered the alarms."

Arletta violently flinched. Her hand jerked, knocking her silver fork off the table. It hit her bone china plate with a loud, piercing clatter that cut Dori off completely.

Arletta looked up at Cornelius like a terrified deer caught in headlights. Tears instantly spilled over her lower lashes, tracking down her pale cheeks.

"M-Mr. Kyler smelled like liquor, sir," Arletta stammered, her voice thick with tears. "He fell on me in the dark. He said he was going to throw me out the window."

She kept her eyes wide and innocent. She purposely changed Kyler's sexual assault into a threat of physical violence, playing the part of a naive girl who didn't even understand what a man in her bed meant.

Cornelius's eyebrows pulled together. He knew exactly what kind of degenerate Kyler was. Arletta's terrified, confused explanation fit perfectly.

Dori's face turned red. "He was drunk and walked into the wrong room! That's all!"

Cornelius let out a harsh, barking laugh. "He walked into the wrong room, and he was so intoxicated his legs gave out and he couldn't stand up? Is that what you're telling me?"

Dori opened her mouth, but no words came out. She ground her teeth together, swallowing her rage.

Cornelius turned his piercing gaze to Arletta. He stared at her, trying to find a crack in her story.

Arletta didn't look away. She stared back at him, her eyes swimming with pure, unadulterated fear and a desperate need for his protection.

Cornelius looked away. He decided she was exactly what she appeared to be: a harmless, pathetic shield for his grandson. His disgust for Kyler deepened.

"Kyler's trust fund allocations are suspended for three months," Cornelius announced to the room. "He is grounded to the west wing for a week."

Dori's knuckles turned stark white as she gripped her napkin. She looked like she wanted to murder someone, but she bowed her head. "Yes, Cornelius."

Cornelius stood up. He looked at Evelyn. "Assign two personal maids to Arletta. They will stand guard outside the room at night."

It sounded like protection, but Arletta knew it was Cornelius officially recognizing her place in the house.

The meeting dismissed. As Dori walked past Arletta's chair, she leaned down. "You're going to pay for this, you little rat," she hissed.

Arletta shrank back into her chair, trembling until the room was completely empty.

Once the doors closed, Arletta stopped shaking. She picked up her napkin and elegantly dabbed the tears from her eyes. Her gaze turned ice-cold.

She had tested the waters. Cornelius cared about order. Dori wanted the money.

She stood up, smoothed out her cheap shirt, and walked toward the stairs. She needed to wake Josue up.

As she turned the corner, she didn't see Fernanda standing in the shadows of the second-floor landing, staring at her back with pure, toxic hatred.