Chapter 2: The Name That Brought Time to a Standstill

The silence in the ballroom was absolute. Even the string quartet, which had been playing a soft waltz moments before, had frozen with their bows hovering over their instruments.

Dominic DeLuca didn’t blink. His dark, impenetrable gaze remained locked on Grace.

She stood her ground, her chin tilted up just a fraction. Her black server’s dress was simple, cheap, and entirely out of place among the sea of silk and diamonds, but she wore it like armor. She had dropped the tray. The shattered crystal wine glasses still glittered around her scuffed black shoes like a broken halo.

"Dominic... don't," Margaret repeated, her voice frail but lined with the steel of a matriarch who had survived worse than Vivian Whitmore.

Dominic finally looked down at his mother. The icy composure on his face didn't shatter, but something in his jaw tightened. He stepped around Vivian as if she were nothing more than a piece of discarded furniture.

"Are you hurt, Mother?" His voice was a low rumble, devoid of panic but heavy with a lethal kind of care.

"I am perfectly fine, thanks to this young woman," Margaret said, her elegant, wrinkled hand reaching out to weakly pat the armrest of her wheelchair. "Vivian was... having a moment of poor judgment."

"Poor judgment?" Vivian shrieked, the veneer of high society completely peeling away from her face. Her red dress seemed to flame with her indignation. "Dominic, this little tramp assaulted me! She grabbed my arm! She works for the catering company, for God's sake. Have her arrested!"

The murmurs in the crowd began to swell. The elite of the city leaned in like vultures, hungry for a scandal.

"Quiet."

Dominic didn’t yell. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply dropped a single word into the room, and the murmurs died instantly.

He turned his attention back to Grace. He stepped closer, close enough that Grace could smell his cologne—something expensive, sharp, like cedar and cold night air. He was a head taller than her, his broad shoulders blocking out the light of the chandeliers.

"What is your name?" he asked softly.

"Grace," she replied. She hated that her voice trembled, just a little.

"Well, Grace," Dominic murmured, his eyes dropping briefly to her reddened hands, bearing the faint marks of carrying heavy trays all night. "You caused quite a scene."

Before she could defend herself, the red-faced manager of the catering company burst through the crowd, sweating profusely. "Mr. DeLuca! I am so incredibly sorry! This is entirely unacceptable! You there—Grace! You're fired. Get your things and get out! I will have security escort you off the premises. Mr. DeLuca, I assure you, our company does not employ—"

"Did I say you could speak?" Dominic interrupted, his tone freezing the manager in his tracks.

Dominic slowly reached into his impeccably tailored tuxedo jacket and pulled out a sleek, black leather wallet. He extracted a crisp business card and held it out.

"You are fired from this catering company," Dominic said, his eyes never leaving Grace's face. "Because as of five seconds ago, you are employed by me. My mother requires a new personal companion. Someone with... fast reflexes."

Vivian gasped loudly. "Dominic! Are you insane? You're bringing a nobody into your home?"

Dominic finally turned to Vivian, his eyes completely dead. "Vivian, if you ever come within ten feet of my mother again, I won't need a server to stop you. I will dismantle your family's shipping company by sunrise, and I will make sure you spend the rest of your life flying commercial. Get out of my sight."