Chapter 2: The Weight of the Jacket
The silence in the grand ballroom was absolute. Whitney Whitmore’s hands flew to her mouth, her eyes darting between the man who controlled half of San Diego’s industry and the girl she had treated like trash. Silas Veyne didn’t move. He stood, his massive frame shielding Nora from the prying, gawking eyes of the elite. He didn't speak to Whitney yet. He just stood there, his presence radiating a lethal, cold authority that made the temperature in the room seem to drop ten degrees.
"Are you hurt?" Silas asked, his voice low, vibrating with an intensity that made the surrounding guests recoil. He wasn't asking about the wine. He was looking at the bruises on her arms—the result of overworking and malnutrition—and the exhaustion etched into her features.
Nora pulled the heavy, expensive wool of his jacket closer. It smelled of cedar, tobacco, and something metallic—the scent of power. "I’m fine," she whispered, her voice failing her. "I just wanted to do my job."
Silas turned his head slightly, his gaze landing on the woman who had poured the wine. Whitney shriveled. She had never seen eyes like his before; they weren't just cold, they were devoid of any mercy. "Whitney Whitmore," Silas said, his voice smooth as silk but sharp as a razor. "I believe you were looking for a partnership with my firm. You wanted to discuss shipping logistics, didn't you?"
May you like
Whitney nodded, her throat clicking as she tried to swallow. "Yes, Mr. Veyne. I—I didn't know—"
"You didn't know that the woman you just humiliated is the reason I am standing here tonight?" Silas took a step forward, and Whitney took three back. "You didn't know that three months ago, this woman pulled me from the jaws of death while your kind would have stepped over me to keep your shoes clean?"
