Arthur didn't wait for them. He turned and walked down the hallway toward the executive suite.

Gloria followed, her heels clicking on the marble. Jones trailed behind like a ghost.

As she passed Arthur to enter his office, she caught the scent of him. Sandalwood and ice. It was intoxicating and terrifying.

Inside, the office was a cavern of glass and steel. Arthur sat behind a desk that was large enough to land a helicopter on.

He didn't invite her to sit.

Jones sat on the edge of the leather couch, looking ready to bolt.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "School supplies."

He wasn't letting it go.

Gloria stood in the middle of the room. "Yes."

"For Gustavo," Arthur added.

"He needs a new backpack," Gloria said.

"Gucci or Prada?" Arthur asked. The sarcasm dripped from his words.

Gloria thought of the absurd luxury items the old Gloria bought for the five-year-old.

"Bulletproof," she replied.

Arthur paused. He blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You can never be too safe," Gloria said, keeping her face deadpan. "American schools, you know."

A corner of Arthur's mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile, but it was a reaction. The old Gloria was vapid; she didn't make dark jokes about school safety.

"You were meeting with Vance to discuss the settlement," Arthur said, dropping the pretense. "You thought I was dead."

"I knew you weren't dead," Gloria countered.

"How?"

"Because you're too stubborn to die," she said. "And because I haven't spent all your money yet."

Arthur leaned forward. "So you admit it. You're here for the money."

"That lawyer tried to steal your money, Arthur," she said, stepping closer to the desk. "He tried to trick me into signing away the estate for pennies."

"And you defended my money?" Arthur asked, skeptical.

"It's my money too," she said shamelessly.

Arthur actually smirked. It was a cold, cynical expression, but it was familiar territory. He understood greed. He could work with greed.

"At least you're honest about your parasitism," he muttered.

Gloria checked her watch. She needed to get out of here. Her head was still throbbing, and being in the same room as Arthur felt like standing next to a nuclear reactor.

"I have a headache," she announced. She grabbed her purse from the chair where she had left it.

"We aren't finished," Arthur said.

"I am," she said. "I have to check on Gustavo. The nanny said he's... spirited today."

"Spirited," Arthur repeated. "That's code for 'destroying the west wing'."

"Probably."

She looked at Jones. "Jones, are you coming?"

Jones looked at his dad. He wanted to stay. He wanted to talk to the father he thought was dead.

But Arthur was already pulling a stack of files toward him. He was back in work mode. The emotional reunion was over.

Arthur nodded at Jones without looking up. "Go with her. I have a board meeting in twenty minutes."

Jones's face fell. The rejection was subtle, but it cut deep.

Gloria felt a pang of sympathy. "Come on," she said to Jones, softer this time.

She walked out of the office, her back straight. She could feel Arthur's eyes drilling into her spine until the door clicked shut.

In the hallway, she leaned against the wall and exhaled. Her knees felt like jelly.

Jones followed her out. "Why did you lie?"

Gloria put on her oversized sunglasses, hiding her eyes.

"About the backpack?"

"About everything," Jones said.

Gloria pressed the elevator button. "Because the truth is boring, darling. And your father hates boring."

The elevator doors opened. They stepped inside. Gloria caught her reflection in the mirrored walls. She looked like a woman in control.

Inside, she was screaming.

The limousine ride to the Sterling Estate was silent.

The partition was up, separating them from the driver. Jones stared out the window at the passing blur of Manhattan.

Gloria pulled out her phone. She needed to assess the damage.

She opened her banking app. FaceID logged her in.

Checking Account: $500.42.

Gloria stared at the screen. Five hundred dollars. Not five hundred thousand. Just five hundred.

Panic clawed at her throat. The memories of the gambling debts were real. Five million dollars owed to people who didn't send polite letters. They sent men with baseball bats.

She was broke. She was married to a billionaire, and she couldn't afford a decent pair of shoes. With trembling fingers, she quickly opened a browser, navigated to a high-end children's outfitter, and ordered the most ridiculously over-engineered backpack she could find, along with a matching set of platinum-plated pens. She selected 'Rush Delivery: 30 minutes' and paid with her Amex, praying it wouldn't be declined. The lie had to become the truth before Arthur got home.

The car slowed, turning through the massive iron gates of the Sterling Estate.

The limestone mansion loomed ahead, a fortress of wealth and coldness.

The car stopped. The driver opened the door.

Gloria stepped out. The staff was lined up on the steps to greet them.

Mrs. Higgins, the head nanny, looked distressed. Her uniform was disheveled, and there was a stain on her apron that looked suspiciously like chocolate sauce.

"Madam," Higgins said, wringing her hands. "Master Gustavo is... home early."

Gloria remembered the plot. Gustavo was kicked out of preschool today for biting another child.

Crash.

The sound of shattering porcelain echoed from the foyer.

Gloria winced. That sounded expensive.

She walked up the steps, Jones trailing behind her.

Inside, the foyer was a war zone.

A Ming vase-or what used to be a Ming vase-lay in shards on the black and white marble floor.

Standing in the center of the destruction was a five-year-old boy.

Gustavo Sterling.

He was chubby, red-faced, and currently holding a cricket bat that was almost as big as he was.

"I wanted ice cream!" he shrieked. The sound was piercing.

Jones rolled his eyes and headed for the stairs, trying to bypass the chaos.

Gustavo saw him.

"I hate you!" Gustavo yelled.

He grabbed a heavy die-cast toy car from the floor and hurled it.

It wasn't a toddler's weak throw. It was fueled by rage.

The metal car sailed through the air and struck Jones squarely on the shin.

Thwack.

Jones stumbled, his face twisting in pain. He didn't cry out, but he stopped moving. He looked down at his brother with a mixture of resignation and loathing.

In the book, Gloria would have scolded Jones for being in the line of fire. She would have cooed over Gustavo and given him the ice cream.

Gloria felt a surge of anger. It wasn't at Jones. It was at the monster standing in the middle of the room.

She dropped her purse. It hit the floor with a heavy thud.

The sound startled Gustavo. He looked at her, bat raised.

"Gustavo Sterling!" she barked.

The staff gasped. Mrs. Higgins covered her mouth. Madam never raised her voice at the Little Emperor.

Gustavo stopped screaming. He blinked, confused.

Gloria marched over to him. Her heels clicked like gunshots on the marble.

She didn't stop until she was towering over him.

She snatched the cricket bat from his hands. He was too shocked to hold onto it.

She tossed the bat onto a sofa.

"Pick up the car," she ordered. Her voice was low and dangerous.

Gustavo blinked again. His bottom lip wobbled. "No! You pick it up!"

He stomped his foot. "I want ice cream!"

Gloria loomed over him, her shadow engulfing his small form.

"Pick. It. Up."

Gustavo stared at her. This was off-script. Mommy was supposed to give him sweets when he broke things.

He crossed his chubby arms. "No! I'll tell Daddy!"

"Daddy isn't here," Gloria said. "I am."

She grabbed his shoulder. It wasn't a gentle maternal touch. It was a firm grip that said I am bigger than you.

She spun him around.

"Naughty corner. Now," she commanded.

She pointed to a small antique stool in the corner of the foyer, facing the blank wall.

Gustavo's eyes went wide. "No!"

He tried to pull away, but Gloria's grip was iron. She marched him to the stool and sat him down.

"You do not move until the timer rings," she said.

She pulled out her phone and set a timer for five minutes. She placed the phone on a nearby table where he could see the countdown but couldn't reach it.

Jones had stopped on the stairs. He was watching, fascinated. He expected Gloria to hit the kid-she had a temper-but this calculated discipline was new.

Gustavo tried to stand up.

Gloria turned on her heel. She unleashed the "Death Glare."

She squatted down so she was eye-level with him.

"If you move off that stool," she whispered, "I will throw away all the iPads."

Gustavo froze.

To a Gen Alpha child, the threat of losing the iPad was worse than death. It was worse than no ice cream. It was the end of the world.

"No..." he whimpered. "Not the iPad."

"All of them," Gloria confirmed. "Even the one with the blue cover."

Horror washed over Gustavo's face. He sat back down, his butt hitting the wood hard. He began to sob quietly, defeated.

Mrs. Higgins stepped forward, trembling. "Madam, he's just a baby. Perhaps a cookie..."

Gloria raised a hand without looking at the nanny. "Silence."

Mrs. Higgins retreated.

Gloria stood up and walked over to where the toy car lay on the floor.

She picked it up. It was heavy. It could have broken a bone.

She walked to the foot of the stairs and looked up at Jones.

He was rubbing his shin. There would be a bruise tomorrow.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

Jones looked suspicious. He narrowed his eyes. "Why do you care?"

"Because he's your brother, and he assaulted you," she said simply.

Jones scoffed. "Half-brother."

"Blood doesn't justify bruises," she retorted.

Jones stared at her. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.

Ding.

The timer on the phone chirped cheerfully.

Gloria turned back to Gustavo. He was still sitting on the stool, sniffling, terrified of the iPad purge.

"Time's up," she said.

She walked over to him. "Now. Apologize."