The scream sliced through the Moretti dining room and climbed all the way up to the crystal

The heavy deadbolt clicked into place with a sound that reverberated like a gunshot through the opulent dining room. The heavy oak doors were thick enough to muffle screams, built decades ago when Gabriel’s father ran the family business with an iron fist. Tonight, they served a different purpose. They were a cage.

Camille’s mother dropped her crystal wineglass. Red wine blossomed across the ivory tablecloth like fresh blood, but no one moved to blot it. The room had shifted from a high-society dinner party to an interrogation chamber, and everyone present knew the rules of the Moretti household: when Gabriel closed a door, you stayed seated until he opened it.

“Gabriel, this is absurd!” Camille’s mother, Victoria Whitaker, finally gasped, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to sound imperious. “You are treating us like criminals! My daughter is a Whitaker. She does not answer to house staff, and she certainly does not answer to this... this bizarre cross-examination!”

Gabriel didn't even look at Victoria. His eyes remained locked on Camille, whose champagne-colored silk dress seemed to drain the color straight from her face.

“Marco,” Gabriel said softly. His voice never rose above a conversational tone, which made it infinitely more terrifying. “Bring the tablet.”

“Already loaded, Boss,” Marco replied, stepping forward from the shadowed corner of the room. He handed a dark, heavy tablet to Gabriel.

Camille took a step backward, her high heels clicking sharply against the marble. Her posture was still rigid, but the icy composure she had worn all evening was fracturing at the edges. “Gabriel, listen to me. She’s lying. She’s been stealing from the house. I caught her taking silver from the pantry three nights ago. I confronted her, she fell, and now she’s trying to ruin my reputation before I can have her fired!”

Elena let out a ragged, sob-choked breath. She pressed herself tighter against the mahogany sideboard, her hands trembling so violently she could barely hold the clean towel Marco had handed her. “I never stole anything, Mr. Moretti. I swear on my mother’s grave, I never took a cent.”

“Shut your mouth!” Camille spat, her refined Newport accent completely disappearing, replaced by something harsh and sharp. “You don't speak to my fiancé!”

“He isn't your fiancé,” Gabriel said smoothly.

He didn't look at the ring sitting cold and black on the table next to his discarded cufflinks. He tapped the screen of the tablet. The low hum of the room drowned out as a video file began to play. Gabriel didn't turn the screen toward the guests; he held it up directly in front of Camille’s face.

The timestamp in the corner of the screen glowed red: 02:13:42 AM.

On the high-definition monochrome feed, the west hallway of the estate was quiet and dark. Then the door to Camille’s guest suite opened. Elena was walking down the hallway, carrying a tray of pressed linens. In the video, Camille stepped out, intercepted her, and grabbed the front of Elena’s uniform. There was no audible sound on the feed, but the violence was undeniable. Camille shoved the younger woman hard against the wood-paneled wall. When Elena tried to pull away, Camille picked up a heavy antique brass figurine from a side table and struck her across the face.

The camera caught the exact moment Elena hit the floor. The exact moment blood welled on her lower lip. And the exact moment Camille leaned down, grabbed Elena by her hair, and whispered something into her ear before stepping back into her room and shutting the door.

Camille stared at the screen. The silence in the dining room became suffocating.

“You... you have cameras in the west wing?” Camille whispered, her voice barely audible.

“I have cameras everywhere in this house, Camille,” Gabriel replied coldly. “I built my reputation on knowing everything that happens within my walls. Did you really think you could bring violence into my home and hide it in the dark?”

“Gabriel, she disrespected me!” Camille’s voice turned desperate, her manicured hands reaching out toward his arm, though she didn't dare touch him. “She was rude! She talked back to me in front of the interior decorator last week! I was going to be the mistress of this house! I had to establish authority!”

“Authority?” Gabriel looked at her like she was a bug he was deciding whether to crush. “You don't establish authority by beating people who can't fight back. That isn't authority, Camille. That’s weakness.”

He turned away from her and walked over to Elena. The housekeeper was clutching the damp towel to her forearm, her eyes wide with terror as she looked up at the man who held the power of life and death in the city.

Gabriel knelt down in front of her. A man worth billions, a man whom the police chief called 'sir', kneeling on the marble floor in front of a maid in a tea-stained uniform.

“Why didn't you come to me after the first time?” Gabriel asked softly.

Elena swallowed hard, a tear spilling over her reddened cheek. “Because... because Miss Whitaker said if I told you, she’d make sure my brother lost his scholarship at the university. She said your family owned the board of trustees. She said no one would ever believe a maid over a Whitaker.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened so hard a muscle twitched near his ear. The Whitakers were wealthy, old-money elite who looked down on the Morettis’ rumored mafia origins, yet they were more than happy to use his terrifying name as a weapon to terrorize a working-class girl.

Gabriel stood up slowly and turned to face the dining room.

Camille’s parents were standing now, looking horrified—not by what their daughter had done, but by the absolute destruction of the merger between their families.

“The dinner is over,” Gabriel announced quietly. “Victoria, Arthur... take your coats and leave through the kitchen exit. My driver will take you home.”