The freezing morning wind swept into the grand foyer, carrying with it an oppressive, suffocating tension.
Harrison Monroe walked through the double doors.
He leaned heavily on a silver-headed cane shaped like an eagle. His silver hair was perfectly slicked back, and his sharp, predatory eyes missed nothing. He was the patriarch, the shadow ruler of the Monroe empire.
Harrison stopped in the center of the foyer. He looked up at the second-floor landing, taking in the sight of Keven on the floor and Jacquelin trembling against the wall.
The temperature in the house plummeted.
Jacquelin's demeanor shifted instantly. The furious banshee vanished, replaced by a weeping, fragile victim. She hurried down the stairs, practically throwing herself at Harrison.
"Harrison, thank god you're here," she sobbed, clinging to his arm. "It's absolute madness."
Harrison looked at her with mild disgust. He pulled his arm away and slammed the metal tip of his cane against the marble floor.
Clack.
The sharp sound cut through the room like a gunshot.
"Everyone. In the living room. Now," Harrison ordered. His voice wasn't loud, but it demanded absolute obedience.
Dara took a deep breath, forcing her heart rate to slow down. She needed to channel Donavon's arrogant, detached persona perfectly.
She walked down the stairs with slow, heavy steps. Donavon followed closely behind her, his face pale but his jaw set.
They entered the massive living room. Harrison walked straight to the single leather armchair at the head of the room and sat down. He rested both hands on the head of his cane.
He stared directly at Dara.
"Explain to me why your wife is assaulting your brother in the hallway," Harrison demanded.
Dara met his gaze coldly. "Keven provoked her. He took a swing and missed. He's weak."
Harrison's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. The blatant disrespect in his son's tone was unacceptable.
Harrison slowly turned his head, locking his predatory gaze onto Donavon.
"You," Harrison spat, his voice dripping with aristocratic contempt. "Three years in this house, and you still reek of the gutter. You are a commoner who got lucky, and you dare raise your hand against a Monroe?"
Donavon stood perfectly still. Hearing his own father speak to his wife with such vile, unfiltered hatred made his blood run cold.
"Pour me my drink," Harrison ordered, flicking his fingers toward the crystal bar cart in the corner.
It was a blatant submission test. He was treating the lady of the house like a servant.
Dara tensed, her eyes darting to Donavon. She knew Donavon's pride. She prayed he wouldn't snap.
Donavon ground his teeth together. For the sake of the NDA and their survival, he swallowed his pride. He walked over to the bar cart.
He grabbed the expensive bottle of Macallan. He didn't bother with the silver tray. He didn't use the ice tongs to place the spherical ice.
He just splashed a heavy pour of whiskey into a glass, walked over, and slammed it down onto the glass coffee table with one hand.
The glass hit the table with a loud, disrespectful clatter.
Harrison stared at the glass. No ice. No tray. Slammed down like a cheap beer in a dive bar.
His face turned a violent shade of purple. He saw this as an unforgivable act of defiance from a woman he already despised.
Harrison surged to his feet. He gripped his silver cane with both hands, raising it high into the air.
With a vicious grunt, he swung the heavy metal rod down, aiming directly for Donavon's collarbone.
A strike that hard would shatter the bone instantly.
