Ariana’s POV
The dining room was massive, with chandeliers hung from the ceiling, crystal, gold, and expensive. The table was long, at least thirty seats, with white linen, fine china, and silverware that cost more than I made in a year.
Everything was perfect, just as it should be and the way Mrs Anderson wants it.
The maids were lined up along the wall, waiting and ready to serve. We had been drilled all day. Walk this way, hold the tray this way, pour the wine this way.
Don’t make eye contact, don’t speak unless spoken to, don’t exist unless you’re needed.
I stood at the end of the line with my hands clasped in front of , my mask was in place, my uniform was crisp, and my hair was pulled back.
I don’t know why, but I’ve been feeling strangely off since I walked into the dining room. I had this odd feeling I couldn’t shake, a feeling like sothing was about to happen, sothing that I wouldn’t like
The guests were arriving, and Mrs. Anderson was greeting them, her voice loud, fake, cheerful. Mr. Anderson was standing beside her, stiff, uncomfortable. He hated these things, hated the pretense, hated the performance.
Natasha was at the end of the table wearing a red dress, tight, expensive, and her hair was perfect, her makeup was flawless.
The other guests took their seats.
Old money, new money, important people, people who mattered, people who didn’t notice the servants who made their lives comfortable.
I kept my head down, my eyes on the floor, not daring to look at anyone; I couldn’t.
It was the most important rule.
Never look into the eyes of the guests, never make eye contact, never acknowledge their existence, or you would be dealt with severely.
I had seen it happen.
So I kept my head down, my eyes on the floor, with my heart pounding and hands sweating.
The first course was served.
Soup, a fancy soup, sothing with lobster and cream and herbs I couldn’t pronounce. The maids moved in unison, gliding across the floor, placing the bowls in front of the guests.
I carried a tray of bread, fresh and warm from the basket, which was heavy. I moved down the line, offering the bread to each guest.
So took a piece, and so waved away.
The second course was salad, the third course was fish, and the fourth course was so kind of at. I don’t rember.
My brows furrowed as I felt that feeling hit again. I could feel it in my bones, in my blood, in my soul.
The main course was served and I was carrying a pitcher of red wine, expensive, the kind that cost more than my monthly salary asI moved down the line pouring carefully, not too much, not too little, just enough and then I made the mistake of looking my eyes moved down the table past Mrs. Anderson, past Mr. Anderson, past the other guests, past Natasha, and then they landed on him.
The man at the head of the table is the guest of honor, I presu.
My heart stopped, my blood ran cold, my hands started shaking.
Dante.
Dante Russo.
My husband, the father of my children, the man I had left, the man I had let believe I was dead.
He looked different.
Older, thinner, his hair was shorter, his face was harder, there were shadows under his eyes, lines on his forehead.
He did look as dominating and ruthless as before, but deep pass that, he looked tired, sad, and broken.
But it was him.
There was no mistaking it in his jaw, his nose, his eyes. Those eyes that used to look at like I was the only woman in the world.
My hand trembled, the pitcher tilted, wine poured not into the glass, not onto the table, but onto Mrs. Anderson.
The red wine spilled all over her white dress, her perfect, expensive white dress.
Gasps filled the room around the table, and murmurs shocked disbelief.
Mrs. Anderson stood up with her face red, her eyes were wild, and her mouth was open.
"You stupid girl!" she scread. "Look what you’ve done! This dress costs more than you’ll make in a lifeti!"
I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but stare at Dante. He was looking at , at my mask, at my eyes with his face confused, curious, like he recognized sothing, like he felt sothing, like he knew.
"I’m sorry," I finally managed to say, my voice shaking. "I’m so sorry. I didn’t an—I wasn’t—"
Before I could finish, Natasha was on her feet and had crossed the space between us in three quick strides, and her hand flew through the air, her palm connecting with my cheek.
The slap was loud, echoing in the silent room, even though I was wearing my mask, I felt the sting. The fabric pressed against my skin, the force of the blow sent my head to the side, and tears filled my eyes.
"How dare you!" Natasha scread inches from my face. "How dare you ruin my mother’s dress! How dare you ruin my engagent dinner and embarrass our family in front of our guests!"
I held my cheek; the mask was still in place, thank God. "I’m sorry, I didn’t an to. I was just—"
"Just what?" Natasha’s eyes were wild. "Just clumsy? Just stupid? Just pathetic? You piece of crap."
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