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.

Beverley sat on Aiden's bed, her back pressed against the door. She could hear the chaos on the other side.

"You need a doctor!" Kaleigh was crying. "Ellwood, your arm is blistering! Your leg—oh my god, you're bleeding!"

"Call the car," Ellwood growled. His voice was tight with pain. "Now."

Footsteps—uneven, limping—stomped past the door. The front door slammed.

Silence fell over the apartment. Beverley let out a shaky breath. She looked down at the T-Rex in her lap. She pulled the sleeve of her sweater over her hand and wiped at the ash stain on its nose.

An hour passed. Maybe two. The apartment was dead quiet.

Then, the click of the front door.

Uneven footsteps walked down the hall. A distinct limp, punctuated by the soft thud of a cane she hadn't heard before. They stopped outside Aiden's door.

The handle jiggled. Then, a key turned in the lock. Ellwood pushed the door open.

He stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on a black cane, his weight shifted onto his good leg. His shirt was unbuttoned, showing a large, red burn on his chest. His arm was wrapped in white gauze. His injured calf was bandaged beneath his trousers, the bulk of the dressing visible, his stance awkward and pained. His face was a mask of fury.

He threw a piece of paper at her. It fluttered down onto the bed. A medical report.

"Second-degree burns," he said, his voice vibrating with anger. "Soft tissue damage to the calf. Kaleigh's arm might scar. You've outdone yourself."

Beverley looked at the paper, then up at him. She said nothing.

"She almost died for me in Bogota!" Ellwood shouted, stepping into the room, his cane thumping against the floor. "She had a fever for three days in that jungle. It damaged her heart permanently. And you, you jealous, spiteful woman, you hurt her again because you can't stand that she's better than you!"

Beverley's jaw clenched. The Bogota lie. Again.

"You are going to the hospital," Ellwood commanded. "You are going to apologize to her. And you are going to take care of her until she recovers."

"I refuse," Beverley said.

Ellwood's eyes narrowed to slits. "You refuse? Vaughn Industries has a lot of overseas contracts, Beverley. It would be a shame if those contracts were suddenly audited. Or canceled."

Beverley's stomach dropped. He wasn't just threatening her. He was threatening her family. Her parents. Her brother.

He knew exactly where to hit her.

Outside the window, the rain had turned to snow. Huge, fat flakes were slamming against the glass. The wind was howling.

"The driver is gone," Ellwood said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "You can take your own car. Or you can walk. But if you're not at New York Presbyterian in one hour, I will make a phone call."

He paused at the door, leaning on his cane. "And Beverley? Where is my son? The twenty-four hours are ticking."

He limped out. A minute later, the front door slammed again.

Beverley stood up. She looked out the window. The blizzard was a whiteout. The city had issued a red alert.

She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. It was a deep, internal cold. Hypothermia. The chronic condition she had developed in the jungles of Colombia seven years ago. The cold rain, the fever, the shock—it had damaged her internal thermostat.

Exposure to extreme cold could kill her. Ellwood had seen her collapse from it twice before—once in their second year of marriage when the penthouse heating failed, and once last winter when she'd been locked out on the balcony by mistake. He knew.

He was sending her into a blizzard. He was risking her life to get Kaleigh an apology.

She pulled on her thickest wool coat. She wrapped a scarf around her neck. She grabbed her car keys and walked out the door.

The wind hit her like a wall of ice the moment she stepped outside. The snow was already ankle-deep. Her car was parked in the underground garage, but the streets were a nightmare.

She drove slowly, the windshield wipers struggling against the onslaught. She made it two blocks before the car hit a patch of black ice hidden under the snow.

The vehicle spun. The back end fishtailed. Beverley slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The car jumped the curb and slammed into a fire hydrant.

The impact deployed the airbag. It smacked her in the face, stunning her. The engine sputtered and died.

The heat stopped.

"No, no, no," she muttered, turning the key. The engine clicked. Dead.

The cold rushed in. It seeped through the windows, through the coat, through her skin. It settled into her bones.

She pulled out her phone to call for help. The screen flickered. The battery icon flashed red. The phone died.

The cold was paralyzing. Her fingers went numb. Her breathing slowed. The shivering stopped, which was a bad sign.

She leaned her head back against the headrest. The world was turning white.

In the silence, she heard a small voice.

"Mama."

Aiden was standing in the snow, holding out his hand. He was smiling.

Beverley smiled back, her eyes fluttering shut. Maybe this was easier. Maybe she could just go to sleep.