The penthouse on Fifth Avenue was silent. The marble floors reflected the city lights, cold and unforgiving. Beverley stood in the center of the living room, the silence pressing against her eardrums.

She walked down the hallway. The door to Aiden's room was slightly ajar. She pushed it open.

The room was untouched. The bed was perfectly made, the dinosaur throw blanket folded at the foot. The Lego Star Destroyer sat half-finished on his desk.

She walked over to the desk. She picked up the stuffed T-Rex that sat next to the Lego set. It was soft, worn from being hugged too tight. She pressed it against her chest, burying her face in the fake fur. It smelled like him. Like crayons and little boy sweat.

The sound of the front door unlocking echoed through the apartment.

Beverley didn't move. She listened to the heavy footsteps, the rustle of a coat being taken off.

Ellwood Stevenson appeared in the doorway of Aiden's room. He smelled like gunpowder and cold night air, mixed with a heavy floral perfume that wasn't hers.

He saw her and his brow furrowed. His eyes narrowed into slits.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was ice. "I had Evelyn tell you to stay somewhere else tonight."

Beverley looked at him. She didn't clutch the dinosaur tighter. She didn't cower. She just looked at him, her eyes flat and empty.

He pulled at his tie, loosening the knot. "Ryan came home today. Kaleigh was so relieved. You should be happy for them."

The words hit her like a physical blow. Her grip on the T-Rex tightened until her fingernails dug into her palms.

"Aiden?" she said. Her voice was a rasp. "What about our son?"

Ellwood scoffed. He stepped into the room, his posture rigid. "What about him? Where are you hiding him this time?"

Beverley stared at him. The disbelief was a physical weight on her chest. "He's dead, Ellwood."

Ellwood froze for a fraction of a second. Then, a sneer twisted his lips. "Don't play games with me, Beverley. It's pathetic."

He stepped closer, his presence dominating the small room. "You think this little stunt will get my attention? Hiding him because you're jealous?"

"He died on the table," Beverley said, her voice rising, the numbness cracking. "They couldn't save him."

Ellwood's hand shot out. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, squeezing tight. The pain shot up her arm.

"Don't you dare joke about that," he snarled, his face inches from hers. "It's sick."

She tried to pull away, but his grip was iron. "I'm not joking. I signed the papers tonight."

He let go of her wrist, shoving her back a step. He looked at her with pure disgust.

"You're unbelievable. You think I don't know what you're doing? You've been desperate since the day you crawled into my bed. You think faking a tragedy will make me forget you're just a Vaughn? A gold-digger who trapped me into a marriage?"

The words were venom. They slipped under her skin, but the pain couldn't reach her heart. It was already dead.

"You don't know anything about sacrifice," Ellwood continued, pacing in front of her. "You sit in this penthouse, wearing my money, while Kaleigh suffers. You have no idea what she went through for me in Bogota."

Beverley's body went rigid.

Bogota.

The word was a trigger. Her mind was dragged back seven years. The damp dirt. The gunmetal taste of fear. The sound of machetes hacking through the jungle. The agony in her own body as she used their last vial of purified water to clean the gash on his leg, knowing it was his only chance to stave off infection. The memory of forcing herself to drink from a murky, leaf-choked stream, the fever that followed, and the deep, unshakable chill that had settled into her bones ever since. The chronic hypothermia that still haunted her, making every winter a battle for survival.

She had knelt in the mud, praying to a god she didn't believe in, begging them to take her life and spare his.

She had done that. Not Kaleigh.

Her hands began to shake. The memory was a physical ache in her bones. But she looked at Ellwood's face—twisted with admiration for a woman who had done nothing—and the words died in her throat.

What was the point? He wouldn't believe her. He never had. Kaleigh had woven her lies so thoroughly that Ellwood had rewritten history itself.

Ellwood mistook her silence for guilt. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

"Listen to me, Beverley. Don't you dare go near Kaleigh. You and Aiden combined aren't worth a single hair on her head."

Aiden isn't worth a hair.

The words echoed in her head. She remembered six months ago. Aiden had accidentally spilled a bowl of soup Kaleigh had brought over. Ellwood had dragged the screaming boy into the storage closet and locked the door. He had been in there for four hours.

"Aiden is dead," she whispered, the reality of it finally hitting her with brutal clarity. "And you killed him."

Ellwood laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "You're insane."

He turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Beverley stood alone in the dark room. She looked down at the T-Rex in her hands. The shaking stopped. The grief stopped. All that was left was a cold, burning fury that settled in her stomach like a stone.

Beverley locked the door to her study. She leaned her forehead against the cool wood, listening.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

"Open the door, Beverley!" Ellwood's voice was muffled by the heavy oak, but the fury was clear. "I'm not playing your games. Where is Aiden?"

She pushed off the door. She walked to her desk, her footsteps silent on the rug. She sat down in the leather chair and looked at the framed photo next to her laptop. Aiden, grinning, missing his two front teeth.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, but she didn't make a sound. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

Ellwood was lost. He was poisoned by Kaleigh's lies. He genuinely believed she was hiding Aiden. In his twisted reality, she was the villain, and Kaleigh was the victim.

But there was one person in the Stevenson family who couldn't be manipulated. One person who saw through the smoke.

She picked up her phone. She scrolled past Ellwood's name and found the number she had only used a handful of times.

She pressed call. It rang twice.

"Beverley?" The voice was old, gravelly, but carried the weight of an empire. Dennison Stevenson.

"Grandpa," she said. Her voice cracked. She took a breath, forcing the words out. "I need to tell you something."

"Speak. What's wrong?"

It was the hardest thing she had ever done. Harder than signing the death certificate. "Aiden is gone. He died during surgery today."

Silence. Complete, suffocating silence stretched over the line. She could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

"That is impossible." Dennison's voice was low, trembling with a mixture of shock and rising anger. "The doctors said it was a minor procedure. A low-risk surgery."

"They lied," Beverley said, her voice flat. "Or they were paid to lie. He never woke up."

"Where is Ellwood?" Dennison barked. The grief was already transforming into rage. "Where is my grandson?"

Beverley closed her eyes. "He was with Kaleigh Frederick tonight. Celebrating her son's recovery. He thinks I'm lying. He thinks I'm hiding Aiden to get attention."

A crash echoed through the phone. The sound of glass shattering. Dennison was roaring, a sound that must have shaken the walls of his estate.

"That boy is a fool!" Dennison shouted. "I will handle this. You stay put. Do you hear me? I will deal with Ellwood."

The line went dead.

Beverley put the phone down. For the first time since she had left the hospital, a tiny sliver of warmth touched her chest. She wasn't alone.

It lasted less than ten minutes.

Her phone lit up. Ellwood's name flashed on the screen.

She answered, pressing the phone to her ear.

"You crazy bitch!" Ellwood's voice was a scream. "How dare you? How dare you drag my grandfather into your sick little plot!"

Beverley pulled the phone away from her ear, wincing at the volume.

"You think dragging my family into your lies will force my hand?" he yelled. "You hid my son to punish me, and now you're lying to my grandfather? You're desperate, Beverley. You're pathetic!"

A laugh bubbled up in Beverley's throat. It came out hollow, brittle, and utterly devoid of humor.

"You're the one who's crazy, Ellwood," she said. Her voice was perfectly calm.

The calmness enraged him further. "I'm crazy? I'm giving you twenty-four hours! You bring Aiden back, or I will destroy the Vaughn family. I will strip them of everything. Do you hear me?"

"You can't bring back a dead child," she said.

"Twenty-four hours!" he roared, and the line clicked off.

Beverley stared at the blank screen. She stood up and walked to the window. Down below, on the street, she could see the black SUVs. Ellwood's security detail. They were parked at every exit.

She was under house arrest.

She turned back to the room. Her eyes fell on Aiden's photo again. He was lying in a cold morgue drawer, waiting for someone to claim him. Waiting for his father to care.

But his father thought he was a pawn in a divorce game.

She wouldn't let Aiden stay there. She wouldn't let him be erased.

She picked up her phone again. She didn't call Ellwood. She didn't call Dennison.

She called the funeral home.

"I need to arrange a service," she said. "Tomorrow. At Greenwood Cemetery. I don't care about the cost. I want the best casket. I want white roses. And I want it to be real."

She was going to bury her son. And she was going to make sure the entire world knew he was dead.

The sky over Greenwood Cemetery was the color of a bruise. A cold, persistent rain drizzled down, soaking into the black fabric of Beverley's dress.

The small white casket seemed impossibly tiny sitting on the platform above the grave. It was covered in a blanket of white roses, the petals already dotted with raindrops.

Beverley stood still, an umbrella held over her head by Tessa. Her best friend's arm was wrapped tightly around her waist, the only thing keeping her upright.

Dennison Stevenson stood on the other side of the grave. He leaned heavily on his cane, his face ashen. Two large bodyguards stood behind him, holding black umbrellas, keeping the rest of the cemetery at bay.

There was no one else. No family. No friends. Just the three of them and the priest.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," the priest murmured, his voice barely audible over the rain.

Beverley stepped forward. She picked up a single white rose from the top of the casket. She leaned down, her lips brushing the wet wood.

"Sleep well, my little soldier," she whispered.

The casket began to lower into the ground. The mechanical whir of the winch was loud in the silence. Tessa pulled Beverley back, letting her lean against her shoulder. The tears finally came, mixing with the rain on her face.

Dennison walked over to her after the casket was out of sight. He took her hand in his. His grip was firm, despite his age.

"Go back to the apartment," he said, his voice rough. "I have people looking into the surgery. I will get answers. And I promise you, Ellwood will not be there. I've made sure of it."

Beverley nodded. She didn't have the energy to speak.

The car ride back to Fifth Avenue was silent. The city flashed by, indifferent to her grief.

She walked into the penthouse, planning to grab Aiden's things and leave. She never wanted to step foot in this place again.

But the moment the elevator doors opened, she heard it.

Laughter. A woman's giggle. The soft sound of jazz playing from the speakers.

Beverley stepped into the foyer. She walked down the hall and stopped at the entrance to the living room.

Ellwood was sprawled on the sofa, a glass of red wine in his hand. Kaleigh Frederick was curled up against him, wearing nothing but one of Ellwood's dress shirts. Her bare feet were tucked under his thighs.

The air smelled of roasted garlic and expensive perfume.

Ellwood looked up. He didn't jump. He didn't hide Kaleigh. He just smirked.

"Oh, the performance is over?" he asked, taking a sip of his wine. "How was your little play-acting?"

Kaleigh sat up, pulling the shirt tighter around her. She widened her eyes, her lower lip trembling. "Ellwood, maybe we shouldn't be here... I don't want to upset her."

"Upset me?" Beverley's voice was barely a whisper.

Her eyes swept the room. They landed on the coffee table.

Aiden's Lego Star Destroyer. The one he had spent three weeks building. It was sitting on the glass surface. But it wasn't intact. The front section had been snapped off. And sitting in the middle of the broken pieces, crushing the tiny plastic bricks, was a crystal ashtray. A lit cigarette was smoldering in it, the ash spilling over the grey plastic.

Something inside Beverley snapped. The thread that had been holding her together, the one that told her to be civilized, to be the bigger person, evaporated.

She turned around and walked into the kitchen.

Ellwood chuckled from the living room. "Running away again, Beverley? It's getting old."

Beverley ignored him. She opened the cabinet and pulled out the glass carafe. It was full. The coffee maker had just finished brewing. Steam rolled off the dark liquid.

She grabbed the handle. She didn't bother with a mug.

She walked back into the living room.

Kaleigh saw her first. Her eyes went wide. "Beverley, what are you—"

Beverley didn't stop. She walked right up to the sofa. She raised the carafe and tilted it.

A stream of boiling hot coffee poured down onto Ellwood's chest and lap.

Ellwood let out a choked roar of pain. He jerked forward, instinctively shielding Kaleigh, taking the brunt of the scalding liquid on his shoulder and arm.

Kaleigh shrieked. A splash of the hot coffee hit her arm. She scrambled back, clutching her elbow, her face contorted in a dramatic grimace. "Ow! Oh my god, it burns!"

Ellwood looked up, his face red with pain and rage. "You psycho bitch!"

Beverley dropped the carafe. It shattered on the hardwood floor.

Ellwood tried to stand, but he was off balance, his skin already blistering.

Beverley stepped forward. She lifted her right foot. The stiletto heel of her black pump was sharp.

She drove it down into Ellwood's calf with every ounce of strength she had left. There was a sickening, wet thud as the heel punched through the fabric of his trousers and deep into the muscle beneath. Ellwood howled, his leg buckling. He dropped to one knee, clutching his calf, his face white with agony.

Beverley stood over him. She looked down at the man she had once loved, the man who had killed her son and mocked her grief.

"Aiden Stevenson is dead," she said, her voice colder than the rain outside. "I buried him today."

She stepped around him, ignoring Kaleigh's dramatic sobbing. She walked into Aiden's room and slammed the door. She turned the lock.