Chapter 3 - The Phone Call|
Chloe Kensington stared at them, her jaw dropping in utter bewilderment. "Matthew? What are you doing? Why are you touching that servant? Her name is Sarah!"
Matthew slowly stood up. He didn't look at Chloe. He kept one hand resting protective over Mia’s shoulder, helping her ease up onto her feet.
"Rocco," Matthew commanded, his voice dropping into a register so low and icy it made the air in the lounge freeze.
"Boss?" Rocco stepped forward immediately.
"Get Dr. Mercer to the penthouse," Matthew ordered, his eyes never leaving Mia’s pale face. "Tell him if he isn't here in ten minutes, I'll burn his clinic to the ground."
"Right away, boss," Rocco said, pulling out his satellite phone as he sprinted toward the VIP exit.
Matthew then turned his head slowly, looking at Chloe Kensington for the first time since she had walked into his club.
Chloe flinched. The look in his gray eyes wasn't anger; it was the hollow, emotionless glare of a predator deciding how to slaughter its prey.
"Matthew... I don't understand," Chloe stammered, stepping back, her confidence vanishing into sheer panic. "She spilled champagne on my Valentino dress! She’s just a clumsy maid!"
Matthew reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sleek black phone. He pressed a speed-dial button and placed the phone to his ear.
The room was so quiet that the faint ringing tone was audible to everyone nearby.
A raspy, tired voice answered on the third ring. "Matthew? It's midnight. What is it?"
It was Richard Kensington—Chloe’s father.
"Richard," Matthew said smoothly, his voice devoid of any human warmth. "Your daughter is at my club."
"Chloe?" Richard sounded instantly alert, his tone dripping with nervous hope. "Did she speak to you about the fifty-million-dollar harbor credit line? Matthew, I assure you, our port access is—"
"At 12:04 AM," Matthew interrupted coldly, "your daughter struck my wife."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the phone line.
"Your... your what?" Richard whispered, his voice cracking with absolute horror.
"Mia Rossi Castille," Matthew said, every syllable sounding like a heavy iron gate slamming shut. "My pregnant wife. The woman your family helped hide from me five months ago."
Chloe went entirely white. Her knees buckled, and she had to reach out to grab the edge of a leather booth to keep from collapsing onto the floor. "W-wife?" she gasped. "She's... she's your wife?"
"Listen to me carefully, Richard," Matthew continued into the phone, ignoring Chloe’s terror. "As of this second, the Kensington shipping contracts are canceled. Your bank accounts in New York and London are frozen. By eight o'clock tomorrow morning, every loan your firm holds will be called in by my banks."
"Matthew! Please!" Richard screamed over the speaker, weeping openly now. "She didn't know! Chloe didn't know who she was! Don't ruin us! It will destroy my family!"
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"You should have taught your daughter how to keep her hands to herself," Matthew said flatly.
He ended the call, tossed the phone to Vincent, and scooped Mia into his arms, lifting her off the glass-covered floor before she could say a single word.
