Chapter 2 - The March of the Heir
The low-angle camera tracked backward rapidly, staying just ahead of Daniel as he swept his dark coat back, his long strides cutting through the sea of masked faces. The guests shrank back against the heavy crimson drapery, their crystal flutes trembling in their gloved hands.
Daniel’s gaze did not drift to the gawking crowd, nor did it soften when it landed on his stepmother standing in her blood-red gown. His focus was pinned entirely to the small, crumpled figure weeping on the floor.
"Daniel, stay out of this," Victoria warned, her voice tightening, though her hand holding the steel shears remained poised above Clara’s head. "This is a domestic matter. She broke protocol."
Daniel did not slow down. He closed the twenty-yard gap in seconds, his presence filling the grand hall like a storm front rolling over a dead valley. As he passed a pair of wealthy donors whispering behind their silk fans, his arm whipped out, knocking a silver tray of champagne glasses from a waiter's hand. The glass shattered against the tiles in a deafening explosion, liquid spraying across the hems of several designer gowns, but no one dared complain.
He reached the center of the room. Without taking his eyes off Victoria, Daniel reached down, his large, calloused hand gripping Clara’s upper arm with astonishing gentleness, lifting her up from the cold marble floor.
Clara stumbled, her knees weak, her body shivering violently as she pressed her left hand against her stomach. Her copper hair was half-severed, a jagged, ruined mess hanging over one shoulder, while the six-inch lock lay abandoned on the floor between them.
"Can you stand?" Daniel asked her softly, his voice dropping an octave into a low, rumbling timbre that only she could hear.
Clara looked up at him through tear-rimmed eyes. Her pale lips parted, but no sound came out. She merely nodded, her small fingers clutching the lapel of his black double-breasted coat as if holding onto the edge of a cliff.
Daniel stepped in front of her, placing his broad frame directly between Clara and his stepmother. The contrast between them was absolute: Victoria, a statue of ancient, cruel crimson velvet; Daniel, a dark force of nature wrapped in black silk.
"You've lost your mind, Victoria," Daniel said, his voice flat, devoid of any filial respect.
Victoria adjusted her posture, tilting her chin up, though her knuckles were white around the handles of the heavy steel shears. "I am the mistress of this estate, Daniel. Your father left the household management to me. This girl was caught sneaking through the east wing wing after midnight. She was warned."
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"She was carrying medical supplies to the keeper’s lodge," Daniel fired back, taking a single, heavy step forward that forced Victoria to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "On my orders."
A quiet, collective gasp rippled through the gathered crowd. Victoria’s eyes narrowed into dangerous, icy slits.
