Joseph reached out, his hand trembling as his fingers brushed his mother’s frail, cold wrist. Up close, under the dim accent lights of the sub-zero refrigerator, Evelyn looked like a ghost inhabiting her own skin. Her sunken cheeks and bruised eyelids told a story far different from the reports he received during his board meetings.

Joseph reacted purely on instinct. He grabbed the paper plate, threw it back into the hidden pullout bin, and lifted his frail mother gently into his arms. He hurried her into the dark pantry, whispering, “Stay here. Don’t make a sound.”

He stepped out into the middle of the dark kitchen just as the ambient motion lights flickered on, illuminating Sloane standing at the threshold. She was wrapped in a silk floral kimono, her hair cascading in effortless waves, looking every bit the pristine, devoted wife of a billionaire.

“Darling?” Sloane’s voice was smooth, honeyed, dripping with innocent concern. “What are you doing up at this hour? I thought you were sleeping off your migraine.”

Joseph forced his facial muscles to relax, leaning against the marble island, keeping his hands tucked into his pockets so she wouldn't see them shaking. “Just needed a glass of water,” he lied smoothly, matching her tone. “Thought I heard a noise down here.”

Sloane’s eyes flicked subtly toward the dark hallway leading to his mother’s wing, then to the trash drawer. It was a micro-expression—a fraction of a second—but Joseph, trained in high-stakes corporate negotiations, caught it.

“Oh, it’s probably just your mother,” Sloane sighed, walking over to pour a glass of smartwater. She added a slice of lemon with delicate precision. “She’s been wandering again, Joseph. Her dementia is worsening faster than the doctors expected. I didn't want to worry you while you were closing the Miami deal, but... she’s been getting confused. Starving herself, hiding food in her clothes, accusing the servants of stealing.”

Hearing those words—the absolute, calculated sociopathy of her voice—almost broke Joseph’s composure.

“Is that so?” Joseph murmured, taking a step toward her. “We should probably change her medication then. Call Dr. Vance tomorrow morning.”

Sloane’s lips curved into a faint, sympathetic smile. “Dr. Vance said this is the end-stage, sweetheart. He actually suggested we look into a private, specialized memory facility in Montana. Somewhere quiet. Away from the city.”

Montana. A secluded place where no one would ever hear his mother cry for help again.

“I’ll think about it,” Joseph said, his voice flat. He looked at the counter, where a cast-iron kettle sat next to a tin of imported green tea. The very tea Sloane handed him every night before bed. “I think I’ll go back up now.”

“I’ll bring you your tea in five minutes,” Sloane offered gently, kissing his cheek. Her skin felt like ice against his face.

“Thanks, honey,” Joseph said.

As he walked down the corridor toward his office instead of his bedroom, he pulled out his encrypted phone. He didn’t call his lawyer. He didn’t call his head of security, who was hired by Sloane two years ago.

He called Julian Mercer—his wife’s estranged half-brother, a former forensic accountant whom Sloane claimed was an unhinged addict who had died of an overdose three years prior.

The line rang twice.