Chapter 8 - The Crimson Stain
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Saturday night arrived with a freezing, torrential downpour.
The grand foyer of the hotel was a chaotic sea of wet umbrellas, expensive fur coats, and shivering socialites. I stood in the cramped coat check booth for three hours, taking tickets, hanging heavy wool, and ignoring the dismissive glares of the elite.
I wore my standard black uniform, my hair pulled back tightly. I played the role of the invisible servant flawlessly.
At 9:00 PM, the rush had finally died down. I was organizing the hangers when the click of stiletto heels echoed across the marble floor.
Selene approached the booth. She was breathtaking in a glittering silver gown, dripping in diamonds. But her eyes were manic, fueled by champagne and arrogance.
“Nora,” she slurred slightly, stopping at the counter. “I need my wrap. It’s freezing in the ballroom.”
“Ticket number, please,” I said politely.
“I don't have the ticket, you idiot,” she snapped. “It’s the white mink. Fetch it.”
I turned around, locating the expensive fur, and brought it to the counter.
As I handed it to her, Selene didn't take the coat. Instead, she deliberately bumped her arm against the counter, violently knocking the half-full glass of red wine she was holding directly toward me.
I tried to step back, but there was no room. The dark red liquid splashed heavily across the crisp white apron of my uniform, staining it instantly.
“Oh, my,” Selene gasped, her tone dripping with fake dismay. “How clumsy of me. Look at you. You look like you’ve been slaughtered. You really should go change. You’re an embarrassment to the estate.”
She snatched the fur coat from my hands, smiling a vicious, triumphant smile.
Before I could even reach for a towel, a heavy, masculine hand reached over the counter and gently took the stained apron string.
I looked up.
Damian Bellucci was standing right beside Selene. He wore a flawless black tuxedo, his jaw tight, his gray eyes blazing with a cold, terrifying fury.
He didn't look at Selene. He looked entirely at me.
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He reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a pristine, white silk handkerchief, and handed it to me.
“The only embarrassment in this room,” Damian said, his voice a low, lethal rumble that echoed loudly in the quiet foyer, “is the woman who resorts to spilling wine to feel powerful.”
