Chapter 4

The wineglass never reached my hand.

Clarissa's fingers opened just as mine brushed the stem.

The glass slipped between us and struck the front of her white couture gown.

Red wine spread across the expensive fabric, blooming like blood against freshly fallen snow.

"Ah!"

Clarissa let out a piercing scream.

She staggered backward two steps, then collapsed onto the marble floor, her legs folding beneath her.

The sound of shattering glass echoed through the Delgado mansion's ballroom.

Within seconds, the entire room fell silent.

The string quartet stopped playing.

Conversations died mid-sentence.

Dozens of guests turned toward us, their expressions shifting from surprise to open curiosity.

I stood perfectly still, the silver serving tray balanced in my left hand.

I'd barely touched the glass.

Clarissa had let go before I could take it.

But judging by the way she was sitting on the floor, trembling and staring at her stained gown, anyone would have thought I'd deliberately thrown the wine at her.

"Clarissa!"

Lewis's voice cut through the silence.

He pushed past two senior members of the Delgado organization and strode toward us.

The crowd parted immediately.

After all, nobody wanted to stand in the way of the Delgado family's heir when he was angry.

Lewis dropped to one knee beside Clarissa.

He caught her by the shoulders and helped her to her feet.

"What happened?"

His voice was low and dangerous.

His gaze swept over her disheveled appearance, the wine soaking into her white dress, and the tiny fragments of glass scattered across the floor.

"Are you hurt?"

Clarissa shook her head.

Tears spilled down her cheeks.

"Lewis..."

She clutched his sleeve.

"It's not Abigail's fault."

I almost smiled.

There it was.

The familiar opening line.

Lewis frowned.

"What do you mean?"

Clarissa lowered her head, her voice trembling.

"I didn't hold the glass tightly enough. Abigail was only trying to take it from me."

She sniffled.

"Maybe..."

She hesitated, then touched the sapphire necklace resting against her collarbone.

"Maybe she just couldn't bear to see me wearing her mother's necklace."

A few guests exchanged knowing looks.

Someone whispered my name.

Clarissa hurriedly shook her head.

"But I understand, Lewis. It belonged to her mother. Of course she'd be upset."

She looked at me with tear-filled eyes.

"I'm sorry, Abigail. I shouldn't have worn it tonight."

Lewis's head snapped toward me.

His expression turned ice-cold.

I met his gaze without flinching.

I could have told him exactly what had happened.

I could have explained that Clarissa had released the glass before my fingers closed around it.

I could have reminded him that I'd spent three years serving wine at Delgado family functions without dropping a single glass.

But what would have been the point?

Lewis had already decided whom to believe.

And explanations had never been included in my service agreement.

"Apologize."

His voice was quiet.

I didn't move.

Lewis straightened.

"Abigail."

He took one deliberate step toward me.

"I said apologize."

The guests around us watched in silence.

Some looked uncomfortable.

Others were openly enjoying themselves.

For New York's Mafia elite, the evening had suddenly become far more entertaining than an ordinary welcome-home banquet.

The discarded mistress of the Delgado heir was about to be publicly humiliated.

Lewis looked down at my black staff uniform.

"You're working as a server tonight."

His lips curled.

"You spilled wine on a guest's dress."

He glanced at Clarissa.

"Don't you think you owe her an apology?"

I stared at him.

Then I began calculating.

The Fox family's debt had finally been paid off, but Lewis still owed me my final salary, outstanding commissions, and the compensation I'd earned under our agreement.

If I refused to apologize, he'd probably find some excuse to withhold the remaining payments.

Worse, he might use the incident to complicate the settlement of my mother's necklace.

I couldn't afford another financial dispute with the Delgado family.

Not now.

Not when my father was still receiving treatment at a private hospital.

I looked at the wine staining Clarissa's gown.

Then at the smug faces surrounding us.

Dignity was expensive.

Unfortunately, it didn't pay hospital bills.

I lowered the tray onto a nearby table.

Then I bent forward.

A full ninety degrees.

"I'm sorry, Miss Simmons."

My voice was steady enough to carry across the silent ballroom.

"My hand slipped, and your dress was stained."

I paused.

"I'll take responsibility for the dry-cleaning costs."

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Lewis stared at me.

Perhaps he'd expected me to argue.

Perhaps he'd wanted tears, excuses, or a desperate plea for him to believe me.

Instead, I'd given him exactly what he'd demanded.

A professional apology.

Nothing more.

Then a cold laugh escaped his throat.

"Dry-cleaning costs?"

I slowly straightened.

Lewis looked me up and down.

"You think you can afford to compensate Clarissa for that dress?"

I didn't answer.

He turned toward the banquet table.

Before anyone could react, he picked up an open bottle of expensive red wine.

A few guests stepped back.

Lewis returned to stand directly in front of me.

His expression was almost bored.

"You said you'd take responsibility."

I looked at the bottle in his hand.

"Lewis..."

He raised it.

Then he tipped it over my head.

Cold red wine poured directly onto my hair.

For one stunned second, I couldn't breathe.

The liquid ran down my scalp and across my forehead.

It soaked my eyelashes, streamed into my eyes, and slid over my cheeks.

The sharp smell of alcohol filled my nose.

I pressed my lips together, but some of the wine still seeped into my mouth.

It was bitter and sour.

The fabric of my black uniform clung to my shoulders as the wine soaked through.

I stood motionless.

Around us, the ballroom remained silent.

Nobody intervened.

Not the wealthy guests.

Not the senior Mafia figures who'd spent years watching me accompany Lewis to their private gatherings.

Not even the servants who knew how much work I'd done for this household.

The bottle finally emptied.

Lewis lowered his hand.

"That's what taking responsibility looks like."

He placed the empty bottle on the table.

The glass made a soft, deliberate sound against the polished surface.

I kept my eyes closed.

Wine continued dripping from my hair, running down my neck and into my collar.

My burned wrist throbbed beneath my sleeve.

The skin was still blistered from that morning.

Now the alcohol stung the injured area, making the pain almost unbearable.

But I didn't cry.

I waited until the last stream of wine had stopped.

Then I slowly opened my eyes.

Lewis was watching me.

His expression was unreadable.

I raised my uninjured hand and wiped the wine from my face.

"Understood, Mr. Delgado."

My voice was calm.

I looked directly at him.

"Are we even now?"

Something flickered across his face.

For a moment, he seemed to have forgotten what he wanted to say.

Then Clarissa called his name softly.

"Lewis..."

He immediately turned toward her.

I picked up my serving tray.

Without another word, I walked away.

Behind me, the string quartet eventually resumed playing.

The guests began talking again.

Laughter returned to the ballroom.

And just like that, my humiliation became another amusing story for New York's criminal elite to share over champagne.

By the time the banquet ended, I was shaking.

My hair was sticky with dried wine.

My uniform smelled of alcohol.

The burns on my right hand had swollen, and every movement sent a sharp sting through my wrist.

But the worst part was the exhaustion.

For days, I'd barely slept.

Between negotiating the final settlement of the Fox family's debt, managing Lewis's demands, and dealing with Clarissa's arrival, I'd been running on coffee and sheer determination.

My body had finally reached its limit.

That evening, Clarissa developed a high fever.

At least, that was what the household staff said.

Apparently, the shock of having wine spilled on her gown had been too much for her delicate constitution.

Lewis immediately summoned the Delgado family's entire private medical team.

Within an hour, two physicians, several nurses, and a specialist had arrived at the mansion.

The second floor was filled with quiet footsteps and urgent instructions.

Lewis remained at Clarissa's bedside the entire time.

He ordered the staff to keep the house silent.

He had fresh flowers brought to her room.

He even canceled a late-night meeting with two of the family's most important capos.

All because Clarissa had developed a fever.

I had one too.

By the time I returned to the small servants' quarters at the back of the mansion, my skin was burning.

My head throbbed.

I took a quick shower, but the dried wine had irritated my already injured hand.

After wrapping the burns as best I could, I changed into clean clothes and collapsed onto the narrow bed.

There was no doctor waiting for me.

No nurse checking my temperature.

Nobody even knew I was sick.

I lay beneath the thin blanket, staring at the ceiling.

The contrast was almost funny.

Clarissa Simmons had spilled a glass of wine and received an entire medical team.

I'd been scalded, cut, and publicly drenched in alcohol.

And I was lying alone in a servant's room.

I closed my eyes.

Just three more months, I told myself.

Once the transition period ended and Lewis settled every outstanding payment, I'd leave the Delgado family behind for good.

I wouldn't have to see him again.

I wouldn't have to hear Clarissa's name.

And I wouldn't have to spend another night pretending that being treated like property was normal.

At ten o'clock, my phone vibrated.

The sharp buzzing dragged me out of a feverish sleep.

I reached for it with my uninjured hand.

An unfamiliar number appeared on the screen.

I almost ignored it.

Then I noticed the hospital's caller ID.

My stomach tightened.

I answered immediately.

"Hello?"

"Am I speaking with Ms. Abigail Fox?"

"Yes. This is Abigail."

The woman on the other end sounded tense.

"I'm calling from St. Catherine's Medical Center regarding your father."

I sat up.

"What happened?"

There was a brief pause.

"Ms. Fox, your father suffered a sudden cardiac arrest approximately ten minutes ago."

My mind went blank.

"What?"

"His medical team is performing emergency resuscitation. The attending physician has determined that he may require immediate surgical intervention."

I gripped the phone.

"But he was getting better."

My voice trembled.

"The doctor told me his condition had stabilized."

"I'm very sorry, Ms. Fox. His condition deteriorated unexpectedly."

I pressed my free hand against my forehead.

The room seemed to tilt.

"Is he conscious?"

"No, ma'am."

"Can I speak to his doctor?"

"The team is still working on him."

I swallowed hard.

Then the woman continued.

"There's also an urgent financial matter."

My heart sank.

"The hospital requires an additional fifty-thousand-dollar surgical deposit to authorize the next stage of treatment."

I stared at the wall.

"Fifty thousand?"

"Yes, Ms. Fox."

Her voice softened.

"We need the payment confirmed within thirty minutes."

Thirty minutes.

My fingers went numb.

"Please," I whispered. "Don't stop treating him."

"The emergency team is continuing resuscitation, but we need to resolve the payment authorization as quickly as possible."

"I'll get the money."

I forced the words out.

"Please tell the doctor I'm arranging it right now."

I ended the call.

For several seconds, I sat motionless.

Then I opened my banking app.

My available balance appeared on the screen.

$30,000.

That was everything I had left.

Every other dollar I'd earned had gone toward repaying the Fox family's debt.

I'd spent three years working for Lewis, taking on dangerous negotiations, handling acquisitions for his organization, and enduring whatever humiliation he decided to throw at me.

I'd finally cleared the fifty-million-dollar obligation.

But my final wages and commissions still hadn't reached my account.

Lewis's finance department was holding the remaining payment pending his authorization.

Under ordinary circumstances, I would have waited.

I knew the money was legally owed to me.

I knew I had the documentation to prove it.

But my father didn't have time for an accounting dispute.

He was lying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life.

And I was twenty thousand dollars short.

I pushed the blanket aside.

The moment my feet touched the floor, dizziness washed over me.

I grabbed the bedside table to steady myself.

My vision blurred.

For a few seconds, black spots danced at the edges of my sight.

I waited until they faded.

Then I stood.

I didn't bother changing out of my plain clothes.

I slipped my phone into my pocket and hurried out of the servants' quarters.

The corridors were quiet.

Most of the household staff had already retired for the night.

I climbed the main staircase, gripping the banister with my uninjured hand.

Each step made my head pound harder.

By the time I reached the second floor, my breathing had become uneven.

A faint strip of warm light spilled from the master bedroom.

The door was slightly ajar.

I stopped outside.

Through the opening, I could see Lewis sitting on the edge of the enormous bed.

Clarissa lay beneath a silk duvet, her cheeks flushed.

Lewis held a glass of water against her lips.

"Just a little more," he murmured.

His voice was gentle.

"That's it."

Clarissa took a small sip.

Then she shook her head weakly.

"I don't want any more."

"All right."

Lewis placed the glass on the bedside table.

He reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead.

"Get some rest. The doctor will check on you again soon."

I stood in the doorway, watching.

For three years, I'd never heard him speak to me like that when I was sick.

Not once.

But there was no time to think about it.

I pushed the door open.

"Lewis."

He turned sharply.

The tenderness vanished from his face.

His eyebrows drew together.

"Who told you to come in here?"

I gripped the doorframe.

My legs felt unsteady.

"Lewis, I need to talk to you."

"Get out."

His voice was harsh.

"Can't you see Clarissa's resting?"

I swallowed.

"Please. It's urgent."

His expression darkened.

"What now?"

I looked directly at him.

"Pay me my wages."

He stared at me.

"What?"

"My outstanding salary and commissions."

I tightened my grip on the doorframe.

"I need you to release the payment tonight."

Lewis looked at me as though I'd lost my mind.

"Are you fucking serious?"

He stood and lowered his voice.

"You're barging into my bedroom at ten at night to demand money?"

I took a shaky breath.

"Yes."

His jaw tightened.

"Keep your voice down. Clarissa just fell asleep."

Behind him, Clarissa shifted beneath the covers.

I forced myself to remain calm.

"Lewis, my father is in the hospital."

He frowned.

"Your father?"

"He's suffered a cardiac arrest. They're trying to resuscitate him right now."

My voice cracked.

"The hospital needs a surgical deposit immediately."

I looked into his eyes.

"I'm not asking you for charity. I'm asking you to pay the money I've already earned."

Lewis's expression turned cold.

He walked toward me.

For one brief moment, I thought he might finally listen.

Instead, he grabbed my arm and pushed me backward into the hallway.

"Out."

I stumbled.

Pain shot through my burned wrist.

Before I could recover, Lewis stepped into the corridor and pulled the bedroom door shut behind him.

The lock clicked.

Now we were alone.

He towered over me, his expression dark with irritation.

"Your father's being resuscitated?"

I nodded quickly.

"Yes."

Lewis gave a short, contemptuous laugh.

"Abigail, do you really expect me to believe that?"

My heart sank.

"What?"

"Last month, you told me your father was recovering."

"He was."

"And now, the moment you want money, he's suddenly dying?"

His lips curled.

"That's a pretty convenient story."

I stared at him.

For a moment, I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Lewis, I'm telling you the truth."

He folded his arms.

"You expect me to believe your father had a medical emergency at exactly the moment you decided to demand payment?"

I felt something inside me go cold.

"He's in the hospital," I repeated.

My voice was trembling now.

"He's being resuscitated. You can call and verify it yourself."

Lewis didn't move.

I stepped closer and caught his sleeve.

"Please."

The word came out before I could stop it.

I'd spent three years swallowing my pride in front of this man.

I'd promised myself that once the Fox family's debt was settled, I'd never beg him for anything again.

But my father was fighting for his life.

And pride wasn't going to save him.

"Just give me what you owe me."

My fingers tightened around his sleeve.

"I have thirty thousand dollars in my account. The hospital needs fifty."

I looked up at him desperately.

"Even twenty thousand would be enough."

My voice broke.

"Please, Lewis."

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"I'm not asking for a favor."

Tears blurred my vision.

"It's my money."

I held on to his sleeve.

"Just let me have it so I can save my father."