Dinner was a theater of cruelty. Alistair sat at the head of the table, recounting stories of his “captivity” while the staff moved nervously around him.
A young footman, trembling under Alistair’s gaze, reached over to refill the wine glasses. His hand shook, and a splash of dark red Cabernet stained the pristine white tablecloth near Alistair’s hand.
The room went silent.
Alistair stood up slowly. He grabbed the footman’s wrist. “Clumsy,” he whispered. Then, with sudden violence, he shoved the man backward. The footman tripped, sending the crystal carafe shattering onto the marble floor.
“You are fired,” Alistair barked. “Get out of my house. And don’t expect a reference.”
Alistair turned his eyes immediately to William, waiting. He wanted the “White Knight” to jump up. He wanted William to defend the servant, to show the “weakness” that prioritized people over perfection.
William’s knuckles turned white under the table, but his face remained a mask of stone. He picked up his fork and speared a piece of asparagus.
“The roast is excellent tonight,” William said calmly, refusing to look at the sobbing servant.
Alistair’s eyes narrowed. He had set a trap, and William had walked right over it.