Three days.

Ariel had spent three days sitting in the sterile waiting room of NewYork-Presbyterian, surrounded by the smell of antiseptic and the hum of fluorescent lights. Holden's money had bought the best surgeons in the country, and they had operated immediately.

But it wasn't enough.

Dr. Fletcher walked out of the double doors. His scrubs were damp with sweat, and the look on his face told her everything before he even opened his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Ariel. We did everything we could. Her heart was just too weak."

Ariel didn't scream. She didn't cry. She just sat there, the numbness she had felt in the rain returning, spreading through her chest like frost. Her mother, her only family, was gone.

The next week was a blur of funeral arrangements and silence. Holden didn't attend the service, but K. Holloway was a constant, silent presence. He handled the logistics, the bills, and the press, giving Ariel the space she needed to shatter in private.

But grief eventually burns itself out, leaving only ash. And as Ariel sat alone in her vast, silent room at Serenity Estate, staring at the gray ocean, that ash began to harden. She thought of her mother's last pained breaths, and then she thought of Garrick's cruel laughter. The two images fused in her mind, and the profound sadness began to curdle into a cold, diamond-hard rage. Her mother was gone because a man had deemed her life worth less than his convenience. Tears wouldn't bring her back. But justice... justice might quiet her ghost.

A week after the funeral, Ariel walked up to Holloway in the foyer of Serenity Estate.

"I need to go back to the townhouse," she said. Her voice was hollow, but steady. "I need to get my things."

Holloway nodded. "Mr. Tillman has authorized it. I'll have a team accompany you."

"No," Ariel said firmly. "This is my fight. I don't need him to fight it for me. Not yet. But I want your men outside. Just in case."

Holloway hesitated, then nodded. "They'll be across the street."

Ariel drove herself. She parked the Bentley on the wet street and looked up at the brick townhouse. It looked the same, but it wasn't her home anymore. It was a tomb of lies.

She walked up the steps and pressed her thumb to the biometric lock. The light blinked green. Garrick hadn't even bothered to revoke her access.

She pushed the door open. The latch didn't click shut behind her, leaving a small gap. She barely noticed. Bridget O'Malley appeared in the hallway, her eyes widening in shock.

"Mrs. Tillman-"

"Move," Ariel said. Her voice was ice. Bridget stepped aside, intimidated by the dead look in Ariel's eyes.

Ariel walked up the stairs, her footsteps echoing. As she reached the top, she heard laughter coming from the master bedroom. Garrick and Lacey.

She ignored the sound and walked into her old dressing room. Three large boxes sat in the corner, already packed. She had prepared them the week before Garrick threw her out.

She didn't touch the jewelry. She didn't touch the designer bags. They were Garrick's leash.

Instead, she opened a smaller box. Inside were her mother's belongings. A few old photo albums, a string of real pearls, and a small, unassuming ceramic vase.

Ariel picked up the vase gently, wiping a speck of dust off the glaze. It was one of the few things her father had left her, an object of quiet beauty that Garrick had always dismissed as a worthless piece of junk. But Ariel knew its true significance, a secret shared only between her and her late father.

As an afterthought, she grabbed her everyday makeup bag from the vanity—a reflex from years of traveling—and shoved it into the box alongside the vase.

She held it close, feeling the smooth, cool ceramic against her skin.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Garrick's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. He stood in the doorway, his face flushed with anger. Lacey was right behind him, draped in one of Garrick's silk robes, her hand resting possessively on his arm.

"I'm taking what's mine," Ariel said calmly, not looking up from the vase.

"You're taking garbage," Garrick sneered. He stepped into the room, his eyes narrowing. "Get out. Before I call the police."

Ariel finally looked up. She met his glare with a steady, unnerving calm. Then, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She tapped the screen.

A voice filled the room. Garrick's voice.

"Marrying you was a transaction... You're a hen that can't lay eggs... Take the money and get out of my sight..."

The recording was crystal clear. Garrick's face drained of color. He looked like he'd seen a ghost.

Ariel stopped the recording. "I can leave quietly today, Garrick," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "But if you or Lacey come near me again, I promise this recording will be the main event at the next Tillman family gathering."

She knew exactly how much Garrick feared Holden. This recording would destroy the little respect he had left in the family.

Lacey's eyes flashed with malice. She couldn't stand seeing Ariel in control.

Without warning, Lacey moved toward the side table where a silver coffee pot sat, still steaming from the morning brew.

Ariel stepped back, thinking Lacey was going to throw it at her.

But Lacey's target wasn't Ariel.

Lacey's eyes were wild, a calculating madness swimming in them. She looked at Ariel, a sick, triumphant smile twisting her lips.

"She's trying to ruin us, Garrick!" Lacey wailed, her voice trembling with fake fear. "She won't stop until she destroys our baby!"

Garrick, already rattled by the recording, turned his anger back on Ariel, his face twisting in rage.

But before he could speak, Lacey moved.

She lunged toward Ariel, not to attack, but to create chaos. Ariel instinctively sidestepped, her knee knocking hard against the sharp edge of the vanity table in her haste to dodge, and Lacey, as if stumbling, slammed into the side table. The silver pot teetered for a moment before crashing to the floor.

A wave of scalding, dark liquid splashed out, soaking the expensive rug and splattering across Lacey's outstretched forearm.

Lacey let out a piercing, agonizing scream. The skin on her forearm instantly turned an angry, blistering red.

Ariel stood frozen, her eyes wide. She hadn't expected this level of insanity.

Tears streamed down Lacey's face. She pointed a shaking finger at Ariel. "Garrick! She pushed me! She tried to hurt our baby! I tried to get away and she shoved me into the table..."

It was a flawless, sickening performance.

Garrick looked at Lacey's burned arm, then at Ariel. The evidence was right there. The red arm, the spilled coffee, the crying pregnant woman. In his mind, Ariel was the jealous, barren ex-wife. Of course she would snap.

The rage that took over Garrick's face was animalistic. "Ariel Melton!" he roared, lunging forward. "You crazy bitch!"

"I didn't touch her!" Ariel shouted, backing up against the wall. "She did it to herself!"

But Garrick wasn't listening. He was blind with fury, his hand raised, ready to strike her.

Ariel squeezed her eyes shut. In three years of marriage, he had never hit her. But now, for this woman, he was going to. She braced for the impact, her body tensing.

The slap never came.

Instead, the room echoed with a sickening thud and a sharp gasp of pain.

Ariel opened her eyes.

A man in a black suit stood between her and Garrick. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and completely silent. He hadn't appeared out of nowhere. The sound of the scream had been his signal. Hearing it from the bottom of the stairs, he had ascended in seconds, moving through the unlatched front door and up the staircase with silent, lethal efficiency.

His hand-large, calloused, and immovable-was wrapped around Garrick's wrist, stopping the slap mid-air.

K. Holloway.

Garrick was struggling, his face contorted with pain as Holloway's grip tightened. He tried to yank his arm away, but it was like trying to move a steel beam.

"Let me go!" Garrick snarled. "This is my house!"

Holloway's face was completely devoid of emotion. He looked at Garrick the way one might look at an insect.

"Mr. Tillman," Holloway said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of a death sentence. "Does not allow anyone to touch a hair on her head."

Garrick froze. The name hit him like a bucket of ice water.

"Holloway?" Garrick's voice cracked, the rage replaced by panic. "What are you doing here? This is family business!"

Holloway didn't answer. He simply adjusted his grip on Garrick's wrist.

A sharp, wet crack echoed through the dressing room.

Garrick let out a high-pitched scream, dropping to his knees. His wrist hung at an unnatural angle, the joint visibly dislocated.

Lacey shrieked, scrambling backward, her burned arm cradled against her chest. She stared at Holloway in horror.

Ariel gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She knew Holloway was efficient, but this was brutal, instantaneous violence.

Holloway released Garrick, letting him collapse onto the floor, clutching his swollen wrist. Holloway didn't even glance at the whimpering man. He calmly straightened his cuffs, adjusting the white silk so it was perfectly aligned.

Then, he turned to Ariel.

He dipped his chin, his posture shifting from lethal soldier to respectful servant. It was a bow of absolute deference.

"Miss Melton," Holloway said, his voice smooth and respectful. "I apologize for the delay. Are you alright?"

Miss Melton. Not Mrs. Tillman. Not Garrick's wife.

Garrick, through gritted teeth and tears of pain, glared up at them. "Holloway! Are you insane? You break my arm, and then you bow to her? She's nothing! She's my discarded trash!"

Lacey chimed in, her voice shrill. "She's just a broke, useless ex-wife! You're going to lose your job over this!"

Holloway slowly turned his head to look at them. His eyes were flat, dead, and colder than the Arctic. It was a look that promised violence if they spoke another word.

Garrick and Lacey fell silent, the fear choking their words.

Holloway looked back at Ariel. "The car is waiting, Miss Melton. Mr. Tillman has asked me to bring you home."

Home. The word hung in the air, heavy with implication.

Garrick's face went pale. "Home? What home? She's homeless! She's a beggar!"

Lacey's mind raced, her eyes narrowing as she pieced together a twisted explanation. "Oh my god," she sneered, a cruel smile returning to her face. "Garrick, don't you see? She went straight to your uncle. She sold herself to him. That's why he's protecting her. She's his whore."

The idea made sense to Garrick. It was the only thing that made sense. Ariel, the desperate, infertile woman, had traded her body for a roof over her head.

Jealousy, pride, and disgust warred on Garrick's face. "You scheming bitch," he spat. "You seduced my uncle? You're disgusting!"

Holloway watched them for a moment, a flicker of something that might have been pity crossing his features before it was replaced by cold amusement.

He didn't argue. He didn't explain.

He just looked at them, enunciating each word with surgical precision, and dropped the bomb.