His Fiancée Poured Hot Tea on the Maid in Front

The rain fell in heavy, rhythmic sheets against the glass greenhouse on the north side of the Moretti estate. Inside, the air was warm and humid, thick with the scent of wet earth, blooming orchids, and crushed tomato leaves.

Elena Brooks wiped her hands on a cloth apron, kneeling beside a flat of delicate fern seedlings. Her left arm still throbbed faintly beneath the gauze, but the terror of that first night had slowly given way to a quiet, steady focus. Working in the gardens was peace; it was a place where no one screamed, no one threw boiling water, and no one looked at you as if you were disposable.

Footsteps crunched softly on the gravel pathway behind her.

Elena didn't turn around immediately, assuming it was Mrs. Vance bringing her the afternoon delivery schedule.

“You’re missing a spot on the third row, dear,” a smooth, overly sweet female voice echoed through the humid air.

Elena’s blood ran cold.

She stood up slowly, turning around. Standing by the glass door, holding a white umbrella that dripped rainwater onto the flagstones, was Camille Whitaker.

Camille wasn't wearing her champagne silk dress today. She wore a tailored black trench coat, dark sunglasses that hid her eyes despite the dim light, and red leather gloves that looked like drops of fresh blood against the green foliage.

Elena stepped back, her hand instinctively flying to her bandaged arm. “Ms. Whitaker... you’re not allowed on the property. Mr. Moretti gave strict orders—”

“Oh, spare me the security briefing, little girl,” Camille interrupted, stepping further into the greenhouse, her heels clicking with a predatory rhythm. She pulled off her sunglasses, revealing eyes that looked hollow and crazed with exhaustion and malice. “Gabriel isn't here. He’s down at the harbor dealing with a customs seizure that my friends at the federal bureau were so kind to initiate this morning.”

Elena’s heart hammered against her ribs. She looked toward the main house, but it was too far away through the sheeting rain. No one could hear her.

Camille stopped two feet away from her, looking Elena up and down with an expression of profound, burning disgust.

“Look at you,” Camille whispered, shaking her head. “A rat in a silk nest. You think because he gave you some ointment and doubled your wages that you’re special? You think you’re a lady now?”

“I don't think anything, Ms. Whitaker,” Elena said, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to keep it steady. “I just work here. Please... just leave.”

Camille’s face twisted. She reached into her trench coat pocket and pulled out a thick envelope—the very same manila envelope Julian Vance had given her at the Union Club.

“Gabriel thinks he can discard me,” Camille said, her voice rising into a sharp, hysterical note. “He thinks he can throw away three years of my life for a nobody who smells like bleach and dirt. Well, I’m going to make sure he loses everything. And you’re going to help me.”

Camille shoved the envelope hard against Elena’s chest.

“What is this?” Elena gasped, dropping it onto the damp soil.

“It’s a signed affidavit stating that Gabriel Moretti used your bank account to launder payoff money to union officials,” Camille lied smoothly, her eyes glittering with madness. “You’re going to sign it, you’re going to swear to it in front of the federal prosecutor tomorrow morning, and when Gabriel goes to prison for twenty years, I’ll be right there to watch them lock the heavy doors.”

Elena stared at the envelope lying in the dirt. A cold wave of horror washed over her.

“I won't do it,” Elena whispered. “It’s a lie. Mr. Moretti saved my mother’s insurance. He didn't do anything illegal with my account.”

Camille’s hand moved with lightning speed.

Slap.

The crack echoed off the glass panels of the greenhouse. Elena stumbled backward against a wooden potting bench, knocking a ceramic planter to the floor where it shattered into a dozen pieces. Her cheek burned fiercely, turning bright crimson.

“You will sign it,” Camille hissed, stepping into her personal space, grabbing a fistful of Elena’s collar and jerking her forward. “Or I swear to God, I will find your mother at Mount Sinai, I will pull her off her dialysis machine with my own hands, and I will leave her to suffocate in an alley just like you should have suffocated when I poured that tea.”

Tears spilled over Elena’s eyelashes, hot and fast. She looked at Camille—at the twisted, hateful face of a woman who had lost her kingdom and blamed the world for burning it down.

“You’re a monster,” Elena choked out.

“And you’re dead,” Camille snarled, raising her hand to strike her again.

Before the blow could land, the greenhouse door blew open with a deafening crash.

Rain lashed inward, but no one cared about the water.

Standing in the doorway, soaked to the skin, his dark suit clinging to his broad shoulders, his face carved from dark, absolute granite, was Gabriel Moretti.

Behind him, Marco had his hand resting on the butt of his pistol, his eyes locked on Camille like a sniper acquiring a target.

The silence that fell over the greenhouse was absolute.

Camille’s hand froze mid-air. Slowly, imperceptibly, the color drained entirely from her face until she looked like a corpse standing in a garden.

Gabriel didn't run. He walked slowly, heavily, down the gravel path, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Camille’s shaking fingers still tangled in Elena’s collar.