Chapter 6 - Caged in the Cream Velvet
With a fluid, brutal pivot of his hips, Dante shoved Victoria Vance backward across the polished floor.
Her heels lost traction on the slick marble, and she went flying toward the second cream-colored upholstered chair beside the table.
Her body struck the heavy cushioned seat with a dull, heavy thud, knocking the wind straight out of her lungs.
The elegant armchair slid back two inches, its wooden legs groaning in protest against the stone floor.
The voluminous folds of her golden-yellow gown billowed upward, tangling around her legs and pinning her into the deep seat.
Her platinum hair spilled in disarray over her flushed face, several strands sticking to the sweat coating her forehead.
She recoiled into the cushions, her chest heaving violently as she pressed both hands against the armrests to push herself up.
Before she could even lift her hips from the velvet, Dante closed the distance and loomed over her like a monolith.
He planted one foot firmly between her golden shoes, blocking every possible avenue of physical egress.
He did not touch her again; his hands simply dropped to his sides, resting inches from his tailored pockets.
The physical restraint was unnecessary; the sheer, crushing aura of his presence pinned her deeper than any iron chains.
“Try to stand up again, Victoria,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a register so dark it made the hair on her arms stand up.
“Try to move toward that door one more time, and I will forget that you were ever invited into this house.”
Victoria froze, her manicured fingers clutching the cream fabric of the chair until her knuckles turned ghostly white.
The arrogance that had defined her for three years of high-society galas evaporated into a hollow, shivering silence.
Her gaze darted toward the entrance, but the distance might as well have been ten thousand miles across an ocean of fire.
Behind Dante, Donna Sofia watched from her own chair, her trembling left hand resting against her racing heart.
Elena had managed to push herself up into a kneeling position, tears carving clean trails through the dust on her bruised face.
The young maid looked at the fallen socialite with a mixture of profound relief and lingering, traumatized dread.
Victoria swallowed hard, her throat clicking dryly as she looked up into the unforgiving face of the man she had tried to ruin.
May you like
“You have no proof,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her disintegrating confidence.
“You have nothing but the word of a senile old woman and a dirty little maid who cleans my toilets.”
