The second the call connected, a shrill scream filled the Maybach's cabin.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?!" Gwen's voice was so loud the phone's speaker crackled. "Do you know what you've done? You were photographed in a hotel stairwell! A stairwell, Eileen!"

Eileen winced. She picked the phone up by the edges and moved it a few inches away from her knee, trying to save her eardrums.

She glanced sideways.

Carlisle was leaning back against the plush leather seat. His hands were steepled over his stomach. He was staring at the phone with a predatory stillness, waiting for her to break down, waiting for the tears and the frantic, stupid excuses she always made.

Eileen waited for Gwen to pause for a breath.

"Gwen," Eileen said. Her voice was completely flat. It held zero inflection. "Take a breath. Shut your mouth. And listen to me."

A sharp intake of air hissed through the speaker. The aggressive, high-powered manager was stunned into silence by the sheer authority in Eileen's tone.

"The photos are garbage," Eileen stated, her words clipped and precise. "They show a blurry back and a dark corner. There is no facial recognition. There is no hard proof."

"The internet doesn't need hard proof!" Gwen snapped back, recovering her panic. "If we don't issue a statement in the next ten minutes, the sponsors are going to pull your contracts. The studio will recast your role!"

"If we issue a statement, we validate the rumor," Eileen countered instantly. "People will tear apart every word, looking for guilt. It makes us look desperate."

"So what do we do? Just bleed out?"

"We freeze it," Eileen commanded. "Total blackout. Turn off the comment sections on all my social media accounts immediately. Do not answer calls from any media outlets. You are unreachable."

Carlisle's steepled fingers twitched. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"Second," Eileen continued, her brain working at lightning speed. A fragment of the original Eileen's petty gossip collection surfaced in her mind. Seraphina. The director. Of course. She smirked. "Call the PR team. Tell them to dig into Seraphina's files. I know she's been having an affair with her director. Leak it. Buy the trending spots. Bury my name under hers."

The cabin was dead silent except for the hum of the tires.

Carlisle's gaze shifted from the phone to Eileen's face. His jaw unclenched. The woman sitting next to him was executing a flawless, ruthless crisis management strategy. It was textbook diversion and suppression.

Gwen was quiet for a long ten seconds.

"Fine," the manager finally said, her voice tight but compliant. "Where are you right now? Do I need to send a secure car?"

Eileen turned her head. She looked directly into Carlisle's icy eyes.

"No," Eileen said into the phone, holding his gaze. "I'm with my husband. We are on our way home."

"You're with-what?!" Gwen gasped.

Eileen pressed her thumb down on the red icon. The call ended.

She held the power button until the screen went black, then tossed the phone into her leather handbag. She leaned back against the headrest and let out a long, slow exhale.

"What game are you playing?"

Carlisle's voice was a low rumble in the quiet car. It was thick with suspicion.

Eileen rolled her head on the headrest to look at him. His face was a perfect, emotionless mask, but the tension in his neck betrayed him.

She smiled. It was a bright, genuine curve of her lips.

"I died once," she said softly. "I woke up and realized being a vain, stupid girl wasn't worth the energy. I decided to use my brain."

The words 'died once' made Carlisle's eyelids flutter. A strange, heavy weight settled in his chest. He heard the exhaustion beneath her words, a kind of ancient fatigue that didn't belong to a twenty-four-year-old actress.

Eileen didn't elaborate.

Her eyes drifted down. She noticed the air conditioning vents pointing toward the back seat. The air blowing out was crisp and cool. Carlisle was wearing a wool suit, but his legs were motionless. Paralyzed limbs couldn't regulate temperature.

Eileen leaned forward, her leather shoes pressing into the floor mats.

She reached into the storage compartment behind the passenger seat. Her fingers brushed against a folded cashmere blanket. She pulled it out.

Carlisle watched her every move, his body tensing, ready to reject whatever she was doing.

Eileen shook the blanket out with a quick snap of her wrists. Without asking, without hesitating, she draped the soft cashmere over his thighs and knees. She tucked the edges in slightly to trap the heat.

Carlisle's hands jerked upward, a reflex to push her away.

But Eileen was already retreating. She slid back into her seat, her hands resting quietly in her lap. She didn't linger. She didn't look for gratitude.

Carlisle stared at the blanket covering his dead legs. His fingers curled inward, hovering an inch above the fabric. He slowly lowered his hands, letting them rest on the cashmere. He didn't throw it off.

The Maybach glided out of the city traffic.

The concrete skyline gave way to towering palm trees and lush, manicured hedges. The car slowed down as it approached a massive set of wrought-iron gates. The gold crest of the Vinson family gleamed in the afternoon sun.

The security guards snapped to attention and the gates swung open silently.

The car rolled up the long, winding driveway, the tires crunching softly against the gravel. The sprawling, classical architecture of the Bel Air estate loomed ahead.

The car came to a smooth stop under the grand portico.

Mr. Ainsworth stepped out of the front seat immediately. He walked around to the back and pulled the heavy door open, bowing his head slightly.

"We have arrived, sir. Madam."

The security team moved with practiced efficiency. Two guards unfolded the custom wheelchair and locked the brakes beside the open car door.

Eileen stepped out first. Her heels clicked sharply against the cobblestone driveway. She immediately stepped back, pressing herself against the side of the car to give the guards room to work.

She watched as they lifted Carlisle. His face remained an emotionless mask, but she saw the slight tightening of his jaw, the subtle humiliation of needing to be carried. They set him down gently. He adjusted his cuffs, his eyes flicking toward her for a fraction of a second.

Instead of walking ahead of him-which the original Eileen always did to distance herself from the wheelchair-she stepped up to his right side. She fell into step half a pace behind the front wheels.

Two maids in crisp uniforms pulled open the heavy mahogany double doors.

The scent of aged pine and expensive bergamot rolled out from the foyer. The massive crystal chandelier cast a warm, golden glow over the imported marble floor.

In the center of the foyer, an old man was pacing.

Harrison Vinson leaned heavily on a dark wood cane topped with a silver wolf's head. His shoulders were hunched. When he heard the doors open, he spun around.

His eyes locked onto Carlisle and Eileen. Then, his gaze dropped to the leather briefcase in Mr. Ainsworth's hand.

Harrison's chest collapsed. The air seemed to leave his lungs all at once. He looked ten years older in a single second. The deep lines on his face sagged with profound heartbreak.

He struck the marble floor with his cane. The thud echoed loudly in the cavernous space.

"So," Harrison said, his voice thick with gravel and sorrow. "It has finally come to this."

Carlisle frowned. He opened his mouth, preparing to state the facts coldly-that the papers were unsigned.

Before he could form the first syllable, a blur of motion shot past him.

Eileen practically jogged across the marble floor. She stopped inches from the old man. Her chest heaved slightly. Her eyes were wide, swimming with a raw, unfiltered guilt that made her chest ache.

She reached out with both hands. She wrapped her warm fingers over Harrison's cold, wrinkled hands, covering his grip on the cane.

Harrison flinched. He stared down at her hands, completely bewildered. His grandson's wife avoided him like the plague. She hated the estate. She hated the quiet.

Eileen squeezed his hands. The rough texture of his skin sent a jolt of reality through her.

"Grandpa," Eileen said. Her voice was clear, ringing through the silent foyer. "I am so sorry. I'm sorry I made you worry."

She took a breath, her grip tightening.

"But we didn't sign anything. I am never divorcing Carlisle."

The words hit the room like a physical shockwave.

Two maids standing by the door audibly gasped. Mr. Ainsworth dropped his briefcase an inch before catching it.

Harrison's eyes widened to the size of saucers. His jaw dropped. "What did you say? Say that again."

Eileen turned her head. She looked back at Carlisle sitting in his wheelchair. She flashed him a wicked, unapologetic smirk.

She turned back to the old man. "I said, I'm going to stay here and annoy him for the rest of his life."

Harrison's hands began to shake. He slowly turned his head, looking past Eileen to his grandson. His eyes begged for confirmation. He looked terrified that this was a cruel joke.

Carlisle met his grandfather's desperate gaze. His lips pressed into a thin, hard line. He looked at Eileen's back, then back to the old man.

Very slowly, Carlisle gave a single, stiff nod.

The transformation in Harrison was explosive.

Tears instantly pooled in his eyes. He yanked his hands free from Eileen's grasp and slammed his cane against the floor with all his might.

"Excellent!" Harrison roared. The sorrow vanished, replaced by a booming, vibrant energy.

He spun around, pointing his cane at the head butler. "Ainsworth! I want the highest tier family dinner prepared tonight! Tell the cellar master to bring up the '82 Lafite! Now!"

The heavy, suffocating tension in the foyer shattered. The maids smiled in relief and hurried off to the kitchens.

Eileen watched the old man's joy. The warmth of the scene hit her hard.

Harrison's booming joy echoed in the foyer, a sound so full of life and unconditional love that it instantly reminded her of her own grandfather from her previous life. The thought was a brutal knife twist. A sudden, sharp pain flared in her chest. She remembered the screech of tires, the crunch of metal, the absolute silence that followed the crash in her original world. She remembered the family she would never see again.

A hot tear pricked the corner of her eye. Her vision blurred.

Carlisle, sitting silently in the background, saw it. He saw the genuine, devastating grief flash across her face. His fingers twitched against his armrests.

Eileen blinked hard. She forced the moisture back, swallowing the lump in her throat.

She turned around and gave Carlisle a brilliant, flawless smile.

Harrison grabbed Eileen's forearm, pulling her toward the grand dining room. He was already rambling about the menu, asking if she wanted lobster or truffles.

Carlisle watched them walk away. His eyes were dark, calculating. He pushed the joystick forward, his chair humming quietly as he followed them into the house.

The grand dining room was cavernous. A ten-meter-long oak table dominated the space, covered in a pristine white linen cloth. Silver candelabras cast flickering, warm light across the crystal glassware.

Eileen followed Harrison into the room. A server immediately pulled out the chair to the right of the head seat.

It was the position of the lady of the house. Eileen didn't hesitate. She sat down smoothly, adjusting her posture. Carlisle maneuvered his wheelchair into the space at the head of the table.

The kitchen staff moved in a synchronized ballet.

The head chef approached Eileen with a silver cloche. He lifted it, revealing a small, sad plate. It contained a handful of dry arugula leaves and three cherry tomatoes, glistening with a microscopic drop of olive oil.

Eileen stared down at the plate. Her stomach cramped violently, letting out a pathetic, audible gurgle.

She lifted her chin. Her eyes bypassed the salad and locked onto the center of the table.

Sitting on a silver platter was a massive Beef Wellington. The golden pastry was perfectly baked. It had just been sliced open, revealing a center of flawless, pink, steaming tenderloin. The rich smell of butter, mushrooms, and roasted meat filled her nostrils.

Carlisle picked up his wine glass. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her staring at the meat. He saw her throat bob as she swallowed hard. His fingers paused on the stem of the glass.

Eileen reached out and shoved the salad plate away. The porcelain scraped loudly against the table.

She grabbed the heavy silver serving tongs.

The two servers standing nearby froze in shock. They watched as Eileen clamped the tongs around the thickest, center cut of the Beef Wellington. She lifted it, the rich juices dripping onto the tablecloth, and dropped it onto her own bone china plate.

She didn't stop there. She grabbed a serving spoon and scooped a massive mound of creamy, butter-heavy mashed potatoes next to the meat.

Harrison stopped cutting his fish. He stared at her plate, his eyes wide behind his reading glasses.

"Eileen, my dear," Harrison stammered. "That is... quite high in calories."

Eileen picked up her steak knife and fork. She sliced through the pastry and the tender meat. She dragged the piece through the dark truffle jus and shoved it into her mouth.

She closed her eyes. A soft, involuntary moan of pure pleasure vibrated in her throat.

She opened her eyes and looked at Harrison, her cheeks bulging slightly as she chewed.

"Screw the Hollywood diet," she mumbled through the food. "I want to actually enjoy being alive."

Harrison blinked. Then, a booming laugh erupted from his chest. He slapped his hand on the table, making the silverware rattle. "Good! Good! Young people should eat! You're too thin anyway!"

Carlisle slowly lowered his wine glass.

He stared at her. He watched her chew, watched the way she unapologetically wiped a drop of sauce from her bottom lip with her thumb. The vain, neurotic woman who used to faint from starvation to fit into a size zero dress was completely gone.

Eileen felt his heavy gaze.

She swallowed her food. She cut another piece of the tenderloin, making sure it had a perfect ratio of meat and pastry.

She stabbed it with her silver fork. She leaned across the corner of the table, extending her arm, and held the bite of food directly in front of Carlisle's lips.

Carlisle's body violently recoiled.

He threw himself back against his chair. His eyes turned into chips of ice. The air pressure in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Move it," he ordered. The words were razor blades.

The room went dead silent. The servers stopped breathing. Harrison froze with his fork halfway to his mouth.

Eileen didn't blush. She didn't look embarrassed.

She simply shrugged her shoulders. She rotated her wrist, brought the fork back to her own mouth, and ate the piece of meat herself.

"Your loss," she mumbled, chewing happily.

The crushing tension in the room evaporated instantly. Her absolute lack of shame defused the bomb.

Carlisle stared at her lips, watching them move as she chewed. His Adam's apple bobbed once. He looked down at his own plate and picked up his knife, his grip white-knuckled.

The dinner proceeded. Eileen decimated two massive slices of the Wellington and scraped her potato bowl clean.

When the servers cleared the plates and poured the black tea, Eileen picked up her white napkin. She dabbed the corners of her mouth and stood up.

She walked over to Harrison and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, giving him a firm hug. "Thank you for the food, Grandpa. It was amazing."

She pulled back and turned to Carlisle.

The playful, relaxed aura vanished. Her eyes hardened, turning sharp and clear.

"I need to go to Aura Entertainment," she announced, her voice flat and businesslike. "I have a mess to clean up."

Harrison frowned, worry creeping back into his eyes. "Tonight? The paparazzi are swarming the city."

"There is a tumor in my team," Eileen said coldly. "If I don't cut it out tonight, it will kill me tomorrow."

Carlisle looked at her. He saw the absolute resolve in her posture.

He turned his head slightly toward the head butler. "Ainsworth. Have the Team One security detail escort the Madam to the agency."

The word 'Madam' hung in the air. It carried a heavy, undeniable weight of authority.

Eileen's heart skipped a beat. She looked at Carlisle, giving him a single, firm nod of gratitude.

She turned on her heel and marched out of the dining room. Her steps were fast and purposeful, carrying her out of the warm light and into the dark night.