Chapter 2

Blake POV

The service bar was a claustrophobic chute of stainless steel and high-octane stress.

The air reeked of burnt coffee and sour citrus peels.

I forced myself back inside, my hands trembling-not from fear, but from a volatile rage I was struggling to cork.

I had already retrieved her cigarettes.

I had placed them gently on her table.

She hadn't even deigned to look at me.

Now, the ticket machine was screaming again.

Table 4 (VIP): 1 Espresso Martini. Extra Foam. Hot.

"She sent the first two back," the bartender muttered, pouring a perfectly good cocktail down the drain with a grimace.

"Says they're cold. She wants you to run this one."

"Me?"

"She asked for the 'incompetent one' by name."

I inhaled a sharp, steadying breath.

I could walk away.

I could pick up the phone and call my father right now.

One call, and this building would be swarmed by men who would happily peel the skin off anyone who looked at me sideways.

But I didn't need a rescue; I needed leverage.

My father didn't operate on hurt feelings.

He operated on cold, hard proof.

If I was going to dismantle the Bishop alliance, I needed to demonstrate that Connor was unfit to lead.

I needed Connor to hang himself with his own rope.

I grabbed the saucer.

The cup was steaming hot.

I strode down the VIP corridor.

The lights dropped low, the industrial steel giving way to walls lined with velvet that cost more than most people earned in a year.

Jaden was waiting for me.

She wasn't at her table.

She was leaning against the wall in the bottleneck of the hallway, effectively blocking my path.

She was alone.

"Finally," she drawled, pushing herself off the wall with practiced languor.

"Your drink, Miss Juarez," I said, keeping my voice flat as I extended the tray.

She didn't take the cup.

Instead, her eyes dropped to my hands.

I had a small, distinct callus on my thumb from years of gripping a paintbrush.

Austin, the chef, had noticed it once. He called it the mark of a creator.

Jaden just sneered at it.

"You think you're better than me, don't you?" she whispered, the venom barely concealed.

"I'm just doing my job," I replied.

"You're looking at me like I'm trash," she spat, stepping closer. "I see it. You think just because you work here, you're part of the family? You're nothing."

She reached out.

My muscles tensed, expecting her to take the saucer.

Instead, she slapped the bottom of the tray.

Time seemed to fracture.

The porcelain cup tipped.

The scalding, pitch-black liquid splashed over the rim.

It didn't hit the floor.

It coated my hand.

The pain was instantaneous and blinding-a white-hot branding iron searing into my flesh.

I gasped, the tray slipping from my grasp.

It shattered on the floor, a violent crash that echoed down the silent hallway.

My hand was already turning an angry, mottled red.

Blisters began to rise before my eyes.

I clutched my wrist, my breath hitching in my throat.

Jaden laughed.

It was a cruel, jagged sound.

"Oops," she said, stepping delicately over the broken shards. "You really are clumsy. I should tell Connor to fire you. Liability and all that."

I looked up at her.

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

"You did that on purpose," I said, my voice trembling with shock.

"Who's going to believe you?" she asked, leaning in until I could smell her expensive perfume. "The help? Or the woman who saved the Don's sister?"

Mark came running around the corner.

He took in the scene instantly.

He saw the shattered glass.

He saw Jaden standing over me.

He saw me clutching my scalded hand.

"What happened?" Mark demanded.

"She threw it at me!" Jaden shrieked instantly, recoiling in a performance of victimhood. "She tried to burn me because I complained about the service!"

I looked at Mark.

His gaze dropped to my hand.

He saw the blisters forming.

He knew.

He had to know.

But he turned his back to me.

"I am so sorry, Miss Juarez," Mark said, bowing his head in deference. "Are you hurt?"

"Mark," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "My hand."

He didn't even look at me.

"Clean this up, Blake," he snapped, his voice devoid of warmth. "And get out of her sight before I have security throw you out."

I stood there, the agony in my hand throbbing in rhythm with my heartbeat.

The physical pain was sharp, distinct.

But the betrayal?

That was a hollow ache spreading through my chest.

Mark was a made man.

He was sworn to protect the family's interests.

And he was throwing me to the wolves to save his own skin.

"I need ice," I said, my voice steady.

"Kitchen," Mark barked. "Now."

I turned and walked away.

I didn't run.

I didn't cry.

I walked with the steel spine of a Shaw.

Every step was a mental tally mark.

One for the disrespect.

One for the burn.

And one for Connor, who had allowed a snake into our garden.