Chapter 5 - The Eviction
The room broke into a murmur of pure, stunned chaos.
"Rafael, you can't be serious!" Isabel screamed, her voice echoing off the high ceilings as two servants immediately moved toward the main doors to open them for the exiting guests. "This is our engagement party! My father paid for fifty cases of champagne! My family spent three months organizing the guest list!"
Rafael didn't look at her. He turned to Desmond, who was standing quietly near the library entrance, holding a wooden tray.
"Desmond," Rafael called out.
"Yes, Mr. Dwarte?" Desmond answered, stepping forward instantly.
"Call the dock security team. Have six men report to the main house with two flatbed transport vans."
"Right away, sir," Desmond said, a dark, satisfaction glinting in his old eyes as he pulled his radio from his belt.
"Rafael!" Isabel reached out, her long, manicured nails clawing at the sleeve of his charcoal coat. "What are you doing? What are you doing with security?"
Rafael looked down at her fingers on his sleeve as if looking at a spider. He did not pull away; he simply waited until she realized he wasn't moving, causing her hand to drop back to her side in utter frustration.
"Marisol," Rafael said, turning his back entirely on Isabel and facing the trembling maid.
"Yes, Mr. Dwarte?" Marisol whispered. She was still holding the heavy silver tray, her hands shaking so violently now that the crystal flutes were clicking against one another like small teeth.
Rafael reached out and took the tray from her hands. He set it down on a nearby mahogany side table with a light, quiet tap.
"Go to the kitchen," Rafael told her. His voice softened—not much, but enough that Marisol felt the icy knot in her chest begin to loosen. "Tell Odette to brew a pot of chicory tea. Sit down. Rest your feet."
"I... I have to finish clearing the terrace, sir—"
"You have no more duties tonight, Marisol," Rafael said, his tone leaving zero room for argument. "Go to the kitchen. That is an order."
Marisol looked at him for a long second. She looked into those grey, flint-like eyes, and for the first time in three years, she didn't see a cold, distant employer who walked through marble halls like a ghost. She saw a wall. A massive, unbreakable stone wall that had just stepped between her and the wind.
"Yes, Mr. Dwarte," she said softly.
She turned and walked through the service doors, her posture straight, her head unbowed, her cut hair exposed to the warm light of the corridor.
Behind her, in the ballroom, the nightmare was just beginning for Isabel Croft.
By eight-thirty, the last of the three hundred guests had hurried out to their town cars and limousines, whispering frantically among themselves as they fled down the oak drive. The story of what had happened at Dwarte Manor was already spreading through the high-society group chats of Charleston and Savannah like wildfire.
Inside the grand foyer, Isabel was hysterical.
She stood at the bottom of the grand staircase, her emerald green velvet gown rumpled, her face streaked with black tears, screaming at four thick-set men dressed in black tactical uniforms bearing the Dwarte Maritime logo.
"Don't you touch my things!" she shrieked as two security guards walked past her down the stairs, carrying two of her bone-colored suitcases. "Those are custom-made luggage! I am the mistress of this house!"
"You were a tenant, Miss Croft," Rafael’s voice echoed from the top of the stairs.
He descended slowly, holding a sheaf of heavy legal documents in his right hand.
"A tenant with a conditional residency agreement based on a marriage contract that has not been, and will never be, finalized."
Rafael reached the bottom step and handed the documents to a lean, sharp-eyed man in a grey suit who was standing near the door—his chief corporate counsel, Marcus Vance.
"Marcus," Rafael said.
"Yes, Mr. Dwarte?"
"Read the termination clause."
Marcus Vance stepped forward, opening his leather portfolio with a sharp, professional click.
"Clause 14, Section B of the Dwarte-Croft Preliminary Engagement Agreement," Marcus read aloud, his voice flat, dry, and terrifyingly precise. "In the event that the prospective bride demonstrates actions or behaviors that cause severe reputational damage, civil liability, or gross mistreatment of estate personnel, the Dwarte Estate reserves the right to immediately terminate residency, void all financial support allowances, and impound any gifts or assets provided during the engagement period."
Isabel stared at Marcus as if he were speaking an alien language.
"What?" she gasped. "That... that's for corporate scandals! That's if I got arrested or caught talking to the press!"
"Gross mistreatment of estate personnel," Marcus repeated, looking up over his gold-rimmed glasses with a cold, professional glare. "Section C specifically defines domestic staff as protected entities under the Dwarte Family Operating Trust. Assaulting a staff member with a sharp weapon—specifically garden shears—meets the definition of felony aggravated battery under South Carolina law, Miss Croft. Mr. Dwarte is exercising his right to void the contract immediately in lieu of filing formal criminal charges with the county prosecutor."
Isabel felt her knees go weak. She reached out and grabbed the banister to keep from falling.
"Criminal charges?" she breathed. "For... for a haircut?"
"For assault," Rafael said, stepping directly in front of her. "And for entering my house with the absurd idea that you could break the people who keep it standing."
Rafael signaled to the security chief.
"Take her luggage to the gatehouse," Rafael ordered. "Put her in the back of the transport van. Drive her to the airport in Savannah. If she steps foot on Dwarte property again after midnight, have the port authority arrest her for trespassing."
"Rafael! No! Please!" Isabel burst into wild, desperate sob, dropping to her knees on the marble floor—the exact same spot where Marisol had almost bowed three hours earlier. She reached out, trying to grab the hem of his trousers. "Rafael, I'm sorry! I was nervous! I was stressed about the gala! I didn't mean it! I'll apologize to her! I'll apologize to the maid!"
Rafael stepped back, avoiding her touch entirely.
"You don't get to apologize to her, Isabel," Rafael said, his voice as cold and final as a iron casket dropping into a grave. "You aren't worthy of speaking to her."
May you like
He turned his back on her and walked toward the kitchen corridor.
Behind him, two thick-set security guards gently, but firmly, lifted Isabel Croft by her elbows and dragged her weeping, screaming frame out through the massive mahogany doors into the thick, dark heat of the Lowcountry night.
