Vivienne stood up, her sapphire velvet gown brushing against the edge of the walnut table with a sharp, dry whisper. The diamond earrings she had worn with such calculated grace now seemed heavy, swinging with a manic rhythm as she forced a laugh that didn't reach her eyes.

"Damian—" Vivienne started, her voice finally losing its polished edge, replaced by a shrill, sharp panic that made the remaining guests scramble backward toward the drawing-room doors like beetles under a lifted rock.

Within ninety seconds, the thirty-two elite pillars of society had vanished into the west wing, leaving only Marco by the door, Evelyn holding little Rosie’s hand, and Vivienne standing alone at the head of the table.

"Where did you get it?" I asked.

Vivienne smoothed the front of her sapphire gown with a trembling hand, her eyes darting toward the tall windows where the rain was turning into a heavy, blinding sheet.

"She gave it to me," Vivienne spat out, the lie shifting shapes because the first one had collapsed.

"Sofia gave you her ring?"

"Yes! Before she died. She... she had debts. Gambling debts, or family debts, something sordid. You people never know what your servants do when they leave these gates. She sold it to me. Privately. She begged me not to tell you because she didn't want to look desperate."

Evelyn let out a short, cold sound from the doorway—halfway between a cough and a snort.

"Sofia Carter hadn't gambled a dime in her life, Miss Vivienne," Evelyn said, stepping forward into the light. "Her only vice was buying oversized sketchpads for her brother’s boy in Yonkers. And she wouldn't have sold that ring if you’d offered her the entire state of New York. Her husband gave it to her before he went down in the shipyard crane collapse. It was the only thing she had left of him."

Vivienne glared at the old woman with genuine venom. "You old vulture, you don't know—"

"I know every inventory list in this house," Evelyn interrupted, her voice level and terrifyingly steady. "Including the fact that Sofia’s quarters on the third-floor staff wing were locked and sealed by your orders, Miss Vivienne, forty-eight hours after she was buried."

I stopped.

The room tilted.

"My orders?" I asked, looking at Evelyn.

"Yes, sir," Evelyn said, meeting my eyes without flinching. "Miss Vivienne informed me that the estate needed to clear the room for new guest quarters. She supervised the packing herself. No one else was allowed upstairs."

I turned back to Vivienne. The silence between us was heavier than the walnut table.

"You cleared her room," I said.

"She died of a stroke, Damian! It’s a biohazard protocol—"

"A stroke," I said. "Not a hemorrhage from an infectious disease. A hemorrhagic stroke. High blood pressure. Stress. Bad luck."

"Ask the doctors!"

"I didn't ask the doctors," I said, taking out my phone. "I asked the medical examiner who signed the release."

I dialed three digits on speaker.

The phone rang twice before a tired, gravelly voice answered: “Dr. Vance.”

"Vance. It’s Damian Vance."

A pause on the line. The rustle of papers. “Mr. Vance. Is this about the engagement dinner? I saw the caterers go by.”

"No. It’s about Sofia Carter."

The line went very quiet. The rain outside seemed to amplify, rattling the leaded glass windows like an angry mob.

“Mr. Vance, we discussed that. The autopsy was conclusive. Natural causes. A ruptured aneurysm in the left temporal lobe.”

"Did you find the bruising on the back of her cervical spine?"

Silence. Long, hard silence.

“The tissue was... degraded by the time she arrived at the county morgue. It was a standard urban facility, Mr. Vance. You know how those backlogs are.”

"Vance," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "My family owns the land your hospital sits on. Every brick, every bed, every machine. If I walk into your office tomorrow morning with three forensic pathologists from Manhattan, are we going to find natural causes, or are we going to find a blunt-force impression consistent with the heavy brass candlestick from the second-floor library?"

The phone clicked twice before Vance spoke again, his voice trembling.

“She... she had high blood pressure. But the contusion... the contusion was there. It was small. We were told... we were told it was a fall.”

"Who told you?"

“A woman’s voice. She called from an unlisted line two hours after the body was brought in. She said she was representing your household. She said if the cause of death was listed as anything other than natural, your security team would ensure the hospital’s state funding vanished before midnight.”

I hung up.

I didn't look at Vivienne. If I looked at her, I was going to use my bare hands to take that ring back, and I wouldn't bother taking it off her finger first.

"Marco," I said.

"Boss."

"Lock the gates. Nobody leaves the property—none of the guests, none of the drivers, none of the catering staff. Bring every security camera drive from the third-floor hallway to my study."

Vivienne stepped back, her heel catching the heavy velvet hem of her gown. She hit the edge of the dining table, her breath catching in her throat.

"You can't do this," she whispered, her face losing every trace of color until she looked like the white lilies she had flown in from California. "We’re supposed to be married in December. My father has half the state legislature in his pocket—"

"Your father," I said, walking past her toward the hallway, "is about to find out how much property I own in his district."

I looked down at little Rosie, who was still clutching her stuffed rabbit, her dark eyes wide and unblinking.

"Evelyn," I said softly. "Put her in my room. Give her whatever she wants."