At exactly 12:04 a.m., Daniel Whitmore was jolted awake by the deafening crash of a mirror shattering to pieces.

By 4:00 a.m., Daniel’s SUV pulled back through the iron gates of his Beverly Hills estate.

Frank Vance, his head of security, was already waiting near the front entrance alongside two uniformed private guards. The moment the vehicle stopped, Frank stepped forward and opened the rear door.

"Is the boy alright?" Frank asked, his weathered face showing genuine concern.

"He's tired, but safe," Daniel replied, unbuckling Noah and lifting him into his arms. "Frank, take him up to the west wing guest suite. Have Martha stay with him until I come up."

Martha was the head chef, a trustworthy woman who had worked for the Whitmore family for over twenty years.

"Understood, boss," Frank said gently, taking the sleepy seven-year-old into his arms and heading toward the side entrance.

Daniel turned toward the grand double doors of the foyer. The shattered glass from his grandmother’s mirror had been swept away, but a faint brownish stain remained on the pristine hardwood floor—a grim reminder of the violence that had taken place just hours prior.

He walked into the grand living room.

Vanessa was sitting on the leather sofa, a glass of pinot noir held tightly in her hand. She had changed out of her black gala gown and was now wearing a ivory silk sweater, looking entirely relaxed, as though nothing extraordinary had occurred.

When she heard his footsteps, she looked up, her expression softening into a picture of gentle concern.

"Daniel, thank goodness you're back," she said smoothly, setting her wine glass down on the glass table. "I've been sick with worry. How is Maria? Did the doctor fix her up?"

Daniel stood ten feet away from her, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes cold as glaciers. "She has a fractured skull, cracked fingers, and a dozen stitches across her forehead, Vanessa."

Vanessa sighed dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. "It's so tragic. I told you, she was heavily intoxicated. She must have fallen into the mirror while trying to carry a tray—"

"Stop lying," Daniel interrupted, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet growl.

Vanessa paused, her pleasant expression wavering slightly. "Daniel, sweetheart—"

"I just came back from East LA," Daniel stated flatly. "I have Noah upstairs."

The glass of wine on the table rattled as Vanessa’s hand hit the wooden edge. Every drop of color drained from her perfectly contoured face. The sweet, innocent socialite persona evaporated in an instant, replaced by a sharp, calculating anger.

"You brought that bastard child into this house?" she spat, her voice dropping all pretense of gentleness.

"He's my nephew!" Daniel roared, taking two aggressive steps toward her. "He's Andrew's son! And you attacked his mother and sent hired thugs to kidnap a seven-year-old boy!"

"I did what had to be done to protect our future!" Vanessa snapped, standing up to face him. "Do you have any idea what happens if that child is declared a legitimate Whitmore heir? Under your father's original trust agreement, Andrew's lineage is entitled to forty percent of Whitmore Holdings! That's over two hundred million dollars, Daniel! Two hundred million dollars going to a low-class housekeeper!"

Daniel looked at the woman he had promised to marry, feeling a profound sense of disgust. "You don't care about me. You don't care about this family. You knew about Noah, didn't you? How long have you known?"

Vanessa crossed her arms, her chin held high in arrogant defiance. "I found out three weeks ago when I accidentally stumbled across Maria's medical records in her locker. I was waiting for the right moment to pay her off and send them both out of the country!"

"And what about Andrew?" Daniel demanded, leaning close. "Did you know he was alive?"

Vanessa hesitated for a fraction of a second—a micro-expression that didn't escape Daniel's sharp eyes.

"Andrew is dead," she said quickly. "He died in that boat crash."

"You're lying again," Daniel said, his eyes narrowing. "You know something about his disappearance six years ago. What did you do, Vanessa?"

Before she could answer, the front doorbell chimed through the quiet estate. Frank Vance walked into the living room, carrying an encrypted tablet.

"Mr. Whitmore," Frank said grimly. "We have a situation. There are three police cruisers from the LAPD pulling up the driveway. And they aren't here for Miss Hart."