Evelyn's eyes filled with hot, frantic tears. She realized Grant wasn't going to save her.

She pushed violently away from the table. The wooden legs of her chair scraped against the hardwood floor with a sound like a dying animal.

"You are all so cruel!" Evelyn screamed, her voice cracking.

She spun around and sprinted out of the dining room. Her footsteps pounded against the floorboards as she bolted for the front door.

Dante sat at the table for exactly one second. He looked at the angry faces around him, realized the money tap was turning off, and decided he needed to keep his meal ticket on the hook. He cursed under his breath, shoved his chair back, and jogged after her.

The heavy front door slammed shut, shaking the walls of the foyer.

The dining room was dead silent.

Then, Camren exploded.

He slammed both hands flat onto the table, rattling the plates. He shot up from his chair, his face flushed dark red with fury. He glared directly at his mother.

"Why would you do that?!" Camren roared, his voice echoing off the ceiling. "Why would you humiliate her with money like that? You have to control everything, don't you?"

Grant slammed his fist on the table. "Camren, sit down and shut your mouth."

"No!" Camren yelled back, pointing a shaking finger at the empty doorway. "This house is a gilded cage! No wonder she wants to escape! You suffocate us!"

Christa raised her hand, signaling Grant to stop.

She stood up slowly. She looked at her son, who was a full head taller than her, his chest heaving with misplaced righteous anger. There was no anger in her eyes, only a deep, heavy pity.

"Follow me," Christa said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

She turned and walked out of the dining room, heading straight for the stairs.

Camren gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles popping. He stormed after her, his heavy footsteps echoing his rage.

Christa walked into the second-floor study. She went straight to the crystal decanter on the side table. She poured two fingers of amber bourbon into a heavy glass.

She walked over to the desk and slammed the glass down in front of Camren.

"Drink it," she ordered. "Calm your nervous system down."

Camren glared at her, but the sheer authority in her voice made his body comply. He picked up the glass and threw the liquid to the back of his throat. The alcohol burned a fiery trail down his esophagus, forcing him to take a sharp breath.

Christa opened the desk drawer. She pulled out her smartphone and tapped the screen. "There's more from that same phone call this morning," Christa said, her voice completely flat. "You should hear how she talks about you." She pressed play.

"Camren is such a moron," the recording played, Evelyn's tone dripping with absolute contempt. "I swear, all I have to do is drop two tears, and he acts like a rabid dog, ready to bite his own mother for me."

Camren's pupils dilated massively. The empty bourbon glass slipped from his fingers, bouncing off the thick carpet.

He stumbled backward, his calves hitting the edge of the leather sofa. His face turned a sickly shade of gray.

"No," Camren stammered, shaking his head rapidly. "No, that's... that's AI. You faked that to get rid of her."

Christa stepped around the desk. She closed the distance between them, invading his space.

"Two years ago," Christa said, her voice sharp and precise. "You got suspended for stealing the midterm exam. You didn't do it. Evelyn stole it, panicked, and shoved it in your locker. You took the fall because she cried and said she'd be kicked out."

Camren's breath hitched. His eyes darted wildly around the room.

"Last Thanksgiving," Christa continued relentlessly. "You screamed at your father for cutting your allowance. Grant never cut it. Evelyn told you he did, right after she maxed out your shared card on designer bags."

Christa stepped even closer, forcing Camren to look directly into her eyes.

"She is not looking for freedom, Camren," Christa whispered. "She has been gaslighting you for years. She uses you as a human shield."

Camren's chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow jerks. Memories flooded his brain-every time he took the blame, every time Evelyn looked away when he got punished, the fake apologies that always ended with her asking for a favor.

The filter he had viewed her through shattered with a violent, psychological crack.

His knees gave out. He collapsed onto the leather sofa, burying his face in his hands. A raw, painful sound tore from his throat.

Christa did not reach out to touch him. She stood over him, her posture rigid.

"I don't need you to believe me right now," Christa said coldly. "Just use your own eyes and watch her next performance."

Camren slowly pulled his hands away from his face. He looked hollowed out, like a ghost. He pushed himself off the sofa and stumbled out of the study, leaving the door wide open.

The low, aggressive growl of a flat-six engine tore through the quiet morning air of the estate.

A silver Porsche 911 Carrera whipped around the circular driveway and slammed to a halt near the front steps. The driver's side door swung open.

Julianna stepped out. She wore a sharp, camel-colored trench coat and a pair of black Louboutin heels. The red soles flashed as she marched up the steps. She had just wrapped up a massive gallery exhibition in New York and drove through the night to spend the weekend in Boston.

Maura opened the door before Julianna could ring the bell.

"Welcome home, Miss Julianna," Maura said, taking the trench coat. There was a noticeable lightness in the housekeeper's face.

Julianna handed over her coat and paused. She inhaled. The air in the foyer felt different. The suffocating tension and the lingering smell of Evelyn's overly sweet vanilla perfume were entirely absent.

She walked into the sunlit breakfast room. Grant was reading the paper. Camren was staring blankly at a plate of scrambled eggs. Christa was sipping tea.

The fourth chair was empty.

Julianna pulled out her chair and sat down. She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow.

"Where is the tragic genius?" Julianna asked, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Usually she's reciting Shakespeare and demanding everyone's attention by now."

Grant stopped turning the page of his newspaper. He let out a heavy sigh and didn't answer.

Camren kept his head down, his jaw tight, his eyes refusing to leave his plate.

Christa smiled. She picked up a plate of freshly baked blueberry pancakes and slid it across the table to her eldest daughter.

"She ran off to pursue her street romance last night," Christa said, her voice light and unbothered. "She won't be ruining our breakfast today."

Julianna caught the dangerous glint in her mother's eye. A slow, knowing smirk spread across Julianna's face.

The rest of the breakfast was a revelation. Nobody interrupted. Nobody manufactured a crisis. Grant actually put down his paper and talked to Camren about the Celtics game.

When the plates were cleared, Christa picked up a woven basket from the counter and walked out the back doors toward the glass greenhouse.

Julianna grabbed her coffee cup and followed.

The air inside the greenhouse was thick and humid, smelling strongly of damp earth and blooming Damask roses.

Christa picked up a pair of heavy steel pruning shears. She expertly positioned the blades around a dead, thorny branch.

Julianna leaned against the wooden potting bench. "Alright, Mom. Cut the act. You finally decided to stop putting up with the little parasite?"

Snap.

Christa cut the branch. She didn't look up as she detailed the events of the past twenty-four hours. She told Julianna about the recording, the dinner, the ultimatum, and Camren's breakdown in the study.

Julianna let out a harsh, bitter laugh. She set her coffee cup down hard on the wood.

"I always knew she was a leech," Julianna spat, adjusting her gold watch. "She's been playing Dad and Camren for years."

Christa stopped cutting. She turned to look at her eldest daughter. In her past life, Julianna had taken the fall for massive corporate fraud that Evelyn had orchestrated, spending years in a federal prison just to keep Grant out of it.

A sudden heat pricked the back of Christa's eyes. She dropped the shears into the basket. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms tightly around Julianna.

Julianna stiffened for a second, completely caught off guard by the physical affection. Then, she relaxed, wrapping her arms around her mother's shoulders.

"Don't worry, Mom," Julianna whispered. "I'm on your side."

Christa pulled back. The brief moment of vulnerability vanished, replaced by cold steel.

"We don't kick her out," Christa explained, her voice dropping. "We let her dig her own grave. We let her push until there is absolutely no sympathy left for her in this house."

Julianna's eyes lit up with predatory approval. "Give her enough rope to hang herself. I love it."

Before Christa could reply, the sound of frantic footsteps crunching on the gravel path echoed outside the glass walls.

Both women turned their heads.

Through the condensation on the glass, they saw Evelyn. Her hair was a tangled mess, her uniform was wrinkled, and her eyes were swollen red. She was sprinting toward the main house, looking like she had just survived a war zone.

The heavy double doors of the estate burst open, slamming against the interior walls.

Evelyn stumbled into the foyer. Her pristine prep school uniform was a crumpled, dirty mess. Her hair clung to her sweaty forehead, and black eyeliner ran down her cheeks in dark, jagged rivers.

She looked wildly around the room until her eyes locked onto Julianna, who was sitting on the living room sofa, casually flipping through an architectural magazine.

Evelyn let out a gut-wrenching wail. She practically threw herself across the room, dropping to her knees on the Persian rug.

She lunged forward and wrapped both arms tightly around Julianna's calves, burying her tear-stained face into the fabric of Julianna's designer trousers.

"Julianna! Thank god you're home!" Evelyn sobbed, her voice muffled against the fabric. "I'm so scared!"

Julianna's face contorted in immediate, visceral disgust. She dropped the magazine onto the glass coffee table with a loud slap.

She did not reach down to pat Evelyn's head. She sat perfectly still, looking down at the girl like she was a diseased rat that had crawled out of the sewer.

Evelyn felt the lack of movement. Panic flared in her chest. She lifted her head, tears streaming down her face, and immediately launched into her script.

"I broke up with Dante," Evelyn choked out, her voice trembling perfectly. "I swear I did. I'll never see him again."

She paused, sucking in a ragged breath, preparing to pivot to her real target.

"But Mom..." Evelyn whispered, her voice dropping into a terrified register. "Mom looked at me with such hatred last night. She said if I didn't get out of her sight, she would make sure I'd never see a penny of the trust fund and would end up on the streets. She said it with such quiet, terrifying hatred, Julianna, I was terrified. It felt like she wanted me dead."

Evelyn reached up and deliberately pulled back the left sleeve of her uniform blouse.

She exposed her wrist. A ring of dark, purple-and-yellow bruises encircled her pale skin.

Evelyn flinched violently, as if the memory was too much to bear. "And when I tried to walk past her, she completely snapped. She grabbed me and shoved me toward the door. If I didn't leave... I was afraid she was going to lose control and hurt me worse. I'm just an orphan, Julianna. I have no one else but you guys."

Up on the second-floor landing, Christa stood holding a glass of water. She looked down through the wrought-iron railing, watching the performance with a cold, dead smile. She didn't make a sound.

Down in the living room, the silence stretched. Evelyn kept her eyes wide and pleading, waiting for Julianna to explode with righteous anger at their mother.

Instead, Julianna let out a soft, breathy laugh.

The sound was completely devoid of humor. It was ice-cold.

Julianna violently jerked her leg backward.

Evelyn's grip slipped. She lost her balance and pitched forward, her hands slapping hard against the rug to stop her face from hitting the floor.

Julianna stood up. She did not reach for a wipe or make a theatrical scene. Instead, her eyes slowly dragged over the wrinkled, tear-stained fabric of her trousers where Evelyn's face and hands had touched. Her upper lip curled in a look of profound, unadulterated revulsion. She turned her head slightly toward the hallway.

"Maura," Julianna called out, her voice slicing through the air like a razor blade. "Please have these trousers sent for dry cleaning immediately. They've been contaminated."

Evelyn's mouth opened, but her brain short-circuited.

Julianna crossed her arms over her chest and stared down her nose at the girl on the floor.

"Are you done auditioning?" Julianna asked, her voice slicing through the air like a razor blade. "Or did your IQ melt into the gutter along with your eyeliner?"