The crackle of the fire was the only sound in the study. Estela stared at her son, her face a mask of fury, disappointment, and bone-deep exhaustion.

He had done it. He had threatened to burn the house down just to stay warm. He was willing to destroy the Burnett name, the legacy, everything, just to have his way.

She slowly lowered herself back into her chair, the fight draining out of her. She closed her eyes. "You threatened me just to expose your own son?a Burnett by blood，but he is an illegitimate child, did you really do something detrimental to the family just to achieve your own goals?" she whispered.

Baron didn't back down. "I am protecting my son. Jagger is a Burnett. The only real Burnett. He is more important than reputation."

The words hit Estela where she lived. She could lose the money, the power, the respect. But she could not lose the bloodline. She could not let the Burnett line die out.

Baron saw her hesitation. He pressed his advantage, his voice gaining strength. "When Gia gets here, we will show Frances what a real family looks like. We will document every misstep, every outburst. We will prove she is mentally unstable and unfit to raise a child."

He began to pace again, his movements sharp and animated. "Once everyone believes she is crazy, we will send her to the best sanatorium in Switzerland. She can 'rest' there for the rest of her life."

He turned to Estela, a cruel smile on his face. "Then, I will divorce her. And Gia will become the new Mrs. Burnett. The new mistress of this house."

In her room, Frances felt the blood drain from her face. Her fingers, resting on the arm of the chair, curled inward, her nails biting into the fabric.

A sanatorium. Switzerland. That was the fate they had planned for her. A living death. A silent, forgotten end.

She forced herself to breathe. In and out. Slow and steady. She would not panic. She would not be a victim.

In the study, Estela opened her eyes. The fire was gone, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. She had made a deal with the devil, but she would make sure she controlled the terms.

"Fine," she said, her voice like ice. "But she does not enter as Gia Hobbs. We give her an airtight identity. One that allows her to move freely and 'guide' Frances."

Baron's smile widened. "We can say she's an old college friend."

"Too easy to verify," Estela snapped. She thought for a moment, her mind racing. Then, a calculating gleam entered her eyes.

"The family trust is looking to acquire a new collection for investment and tax purposes," Estela said slowly. "Gia worked in a gallery, didn't she? She has the knowledge."

"She can be the family's 'art consultant'," Estela continued, the plan taking shape. "She will evaluate the collections and advise the lady of the house on her artistic taste."

It was perfect. It gave Gia a legitimate reason to be in the house, to attend meetings, and to lord over Frances under the guise of professional superiority.

Baron nodded, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "Do it. I'll have her here tomorrow."

The conversation was over. The deal was struck.

Frances pulled the earpiece from her ear. Her hand was steady, but her heart was a drum in her chest. She walked over to her laptop and quickly uploaded the audio file to a secure, encrypted cloud server.

It was her insurance policy. It was her weapon. And when the time came, it would be the rope she used to hang them all.

The door opened softly. Phoebe slipped in, her face pale. She had been waiting in the hallway, keeping watch. "Ma'am?" she asked, her voice trembling. "What did you hear?"

Frances looked up from the computer screen. Her eyes were calm, a still pool hiding a riptide underneath. "Phoebe, get me my lawyer on the phone. Tell him the plan is a go."

She stood up, squaring her shoulders. "They want to bring the wolf to the door? Fine. But I'll be waiting with a loaded gun."

She wasn't going to sit back and wait for Gia to arrive. She was going to hit them where it hurt-right in the Burnett bank account. And she was going to do it before Gia even unpacked her bags.

The conference room at Burnett Group headquarters was a cathedral of corporate power. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of Manhattan. A long, polished table reflected the faces of the board members.

Estela sat at the head, looking smug and regal. Today was the day. The legal documents for the one-year observation period for both boys were to be signed. She believed she had regained control. She believed Frances had been chastised.

Frances sat quietly at the other end of the table. Her face was a mask of polite indifference. But inside, her mind was a steel trap.

Before the lawyers could even open their folders, Frances spoke up. "Before we begin, there is a matter of housekeeping to address."

She looked toward the back of the room, where a middle-aged man in a cheap suit was sitting. He was a junior staffer, one of Estela's spies.

"Mr. Fletcher," Frances said, her voice cutting through the room. "According to your employment contract, spreading false information about your employer is grounds for immediate termination."

The man paled. "I... I don't know what you mean-"

"Security," Frances called out. Two burly men in suits stepped forward. "Please escort Mr. Fletcher out. And inform the HR department that he is blacklisted from every top-tier agency in New York."

The man was dragged out, sputtering excuses. The room fell silent. Herta, standing behind Estela, looked like she had swallowed a lemon. Estela's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. It was Frances's right as mistress of the house.

"Now," Estela said, her voice tight, "let's proceed."

The lead lawyer slid the folder across the table. Frances didn't even look at it. Instead, she turned to the woman sitting beside her-her personal attorney, a sharp-eyed woman in a severe gray suit.

Frances nodded.

The lawyer stood up. She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a thick stack of papers. She walked around the table, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor, and stopped directly in front of Estela.

"Dowager Burnett," the lawyer said, her voice ringing with authority. "This is a copy of the divorce petition filed by my client, Ms. Frances Salinas, against Mr. Baron Burnett."

The room exploded. Gasps. Murmurs. The clatter of a dropped pen. Estela shot to her feet, her face a mask of disbelief.

"You... what?" she sputtered.

The Burnett family's legal counsel snatched the papers from the lawyer's hand. He flipped through them, his face growing paler by the second. He looked up at Estela, his eyes wide.

"It's true, Dowager," he stammered. "Citing 'irreconcilable differences'."

Estela glared at Frances, her chest heaving. The prenup was ironclad. If Frances filed for divorce, she walked away with nothing. She would be destitute. Why would she do this?

Frances met her gaze head-on. "I believe we do have some irreconcilable differences," she said calmly.

Her lawyer stepped forward again. "Of course, if the Burnett family prefers to litigate on grounds of 'adultery'," the lawyer said, her voice smooth as silk, "we are more than happy to oblige. We have ample evidence."

The word 'adultery' hung in the air like a bomb. It was a direct threat. It meant Gia. It meant Jagger. It meant the scandal of the century.

Estela's breath hitched. She realized the trap. A divorce wasn't just a personal matter; it was a corporate event. Discovery. Subpoenas. The exposure of financial records, of offshore accounts, of secret payments.

It would be the end of the Burnett empire.

"Out," Estela barked at the room. "Everyone out. Now."

The board members scrambled for the exits. The lawyers packed their bags. Within minutes, the room was empty, save for Estela, Frances, and their respective counsel.

Estela walked to the door and locked it. Then she turned, her eyes like chips of ice. " We are going to discuss exactly what you want."

Estela's study was smaller, more intimate, and far more dangerous than the boardroom. The walls seemed to close in as Frances took a seat across from the Dowager.

Estela sat behind her desk, her hands folded. "Speak," she commanded. "What is your price? Money?"

Frances shook her head slowly. "I don't want money. I want you to cancel your plan to bring Gia Hobbs into this house."

Estela's eyes widened a fraction. She knows. But how much?

"The art consultant position is a board decision," Estela bluffed, her voice steady. "You have no authority."

Frances didn't blink. "Okay. Then let's discuss something else. Let's discuss the related-party transactions within the Burnett Group."

She nodded to her lawyer. The lawyer placed a single document on Estela's desk.

Frances leaned forward. "This document details the money trail. The shell company in the Cayman Islands that funded Jagger's education? It's connected to a Burnett Group supplier. Payments for 'goods' were routed through this shell company and into Jagger's trust."

Frances's voice was flat, clinical. "Is this embezzlement? Or is it money laundering? I'm not sure. But I know who would be interested."

Her lawyer chimed in, "My client is obligated to report these suspicious transactions to the SEC."

The SEC. The Securities and Exchange Commission. The bogeyman of every Wall Street tycoon. A federal investigation would freeze assets, tank the stock price, and send people to prison.

Estela's face went slack. The color drained from her cheeks. This wasn't a family spat anymore. This was a nuclear threat.

She leaned back in her chair, her breath coming in short gasps. "You... you wouldn't."

"I would," Frances said, her voice hard. "Of course, we can both back down a bit; I agree to her coming in, but you must agree to my several conditions.Here are my terms. One, the divorce petition is put on hold. I will remain Mrs. Burnett, for now."

Estela stared at her, confused.

"Two," Frances continued, "whatever arrangement you've made for Gia Hobbs, end it."

Estela's confusion deepened. This was the opposite of what she expected.

"However," Frances said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register, "today, we will sign a trust amendment. It will have the highest legal priority."

She stood up, placing her hands flat on the desk, looming over Estela. "The core provision is this: Arvel Galvan will be the sole and primary heir to all assets under my personal trust."

She pointed a finger at Estela. "Jagger can be adopted. But he will be second in line. He only inherits if Arvel dies or renounces his claim. And no one, not you, not Baron, can ever change this order."

This was the real goal. Not divorce. Not money. But power. The power to elevate her chosen heir above theirs.

Estela stared at her, a mix of horror and disbelief on her face. "You're insane. You would sacrifice your own freedom, stay in this marriage, just for some stranger?"

"This isn't a negotiation, Estela," Frances said coldly. "It's a notification."

She turned to leave. "You have thirty minutes to have your lawyers draft the amendment. If I don't have a signed copy in thirty minutes, the evidence goes to the SEC."

Frances and her lawyer walked out, closing the door behind them.

Estela sat alone in the silence. She felt a weakness in her limbs she hadn't felt in decades. She had been outmaneuvered. She had been beaten at her own game.

She picked up the phone, her hand trembling. "Legal department," she rasped. "Do exactly as she says."

An hour later, Frances held the signed amendment in her hands. She looked at Arvel's name, printed in black and white at the top of the list. She felt no joy, no relief. Only a cold, hollow victory.

She had won the battle. But the war was far from over.