The rain outside the Newport estate lashed against the leaded glass windows, mirroring the frost gathering in Dominic Mercer’s chest. The text from Brooke’s brother—Move faster—was still glowing on her phone upstairs, but downstairs, the chessboard was already set. Dominic had slipped back into his secure study

The rain outside the Newport estate lashed against the leaded glass windows, mirroring the frost gathering in Dominic Mercer’s chest. The text from Brooke’s brother—Move faster—was still glowing on her phone upstairs, but downstairs, the chessboard was already set. Dominic had slipped back into his secure study, operating from a hidden terminal while his security detail, led by his most trusted enforcer Marcus, monitored every camera on the property. Brooke believed she had four days until the wedding to consolidate her power, purge the estate of Natalie, and seize the Catherine Trust. She had no idea that Dominic was watching her every twitch on a multi-screen array.

At 7:00 AM, the household gathered in the formal dining room for breakfast. Brooke sat at the head of the table—a seat she had usurped weeks prior—wearing an Alexander McQueen emerald dress that cost more than a standard family car. Natalie and nine-year-old Noah sat near the far end, shadows under their eyes, the boy clutching his baseball mascot like a shield. Emma stood quietly by the sideboard, pouring silver-pot coffee with hands that refused to shake.

Brooke dabbed her lips with a linen napkin, her eyes locking onto Natalie. "Have you reconsidered the residency papers from last night, Natalie? The attorney arrives in an hour. It would be deeply embarrassing for everyone if we had to involve local law enforcement to remove trespassers from the east cottage before the weekend."

Natalie’s voice shook, but her spine stiffened. "That cottage was my mother’s final gift to my son. I will not sign it away."

Brooke smiled, a sharp, cold expression. "Sentimentality is a luxury for people who can afford mortgages. You cannot. By noon tomorrow, if those papers aren't stamped, your belongings will be sitting on the gravel driveway in Gladstone trash bags."

Before Natalie could choke back a sob, the heavy mahogany double doors of the dining room swung open.

Dominic stood in the doorway.

The room went absolute, terrifying dead silent. The silver spoon Emma held clinked against the porcelain tray. Brooke’s face drained of every drop of color, her mouth freezing half-open.

"Dominic?" Brooke choked out, her voice pitching an octave higher as she scrambled out of her chair, smoothing her dress with frantic fingers. "You... you weren't scheduled back until Monday. Your private jet—the flight trackers said—"

"Flights can be rerouted, Brooke," Dominic said softly, his voice a low, gravelly hum that carried an invisible weight. He walked slowly toward the table, his black coat still damp from the dawn storm. He didn't look at his fiancée. His dark, impenetrable eyes locked onto his weeping nephew, then onto his sister. "Natalie. Noah. Why are you packing your bags in this house?"

Brooke intercepted him, throwing a hand onto his arm, her eyes wide with manufactured tears. "Oh, Dom, thank goodness you're back. It’s a total disaster. Natalie has been having a severe mental health crisis. She’s been threatening to dismantle the estate's pre-wedding security, and she claimed the family trust was fraudulently given to her. I tried to help her organize a peaceful transition to an off-site wellness facility, but she’s been screaming at the staff—"

Dominic stopped. He slowly turned his head to look down at the manicured hand gripping his sleeve.

"Take your hand off my arm, Brooke," he whispered.

The command wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. Brooke’s fingers recoiled as if she had touched a live wire.

"Marcus," Dominic called out without turning around.