The sound of Silas Varelli’s hand striking his wife was so sharp that the twelve people seated around the Christmas table seemed to stop breathing at the same time.

At seven o'clock on Christmas morning, the snow had stopped falling, leaving Manhattan blanketed in a bright, blinding white.

In the master bedroom of the Varelli estate, Silas stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the frozen river. He was still wearing his dark trousers and the white dress shirt from the night before, the collar unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

He hadn't slept for a single second.

On the nightstand behind him, his phone had been buzzing continuously for three hours. Calls from his security team, his public relations director, and his cousin Grant. He hadn't answered a single one.

On the polished mahogany dining table downstairs, the dirty dishes from last night had been cleared by the staff, but the tiny silver wedding ring still sat exactly where Laurel had left it beside his plate. Nobody had dared to touch it.

The bedroom door opened quietly. Sabrina walked in, wrapped in a plush silk robe, holding a mug of steaming coffee. She looked well-rested, her skin glowing, though a slight yellowish bruise was beginning to show on her left cheek where Laurel’s hand had landed.

"You should get some sleep, Silas," she said softly, walking up behind him and resting her hand on his shoulder. "The guests all left hours ago. Grant handled the staff. Everything is fine."

Silas didn't turn around. His shoulder went rigid beneath her touch. "Where is Grant?"

"He’s downstairs in the study," Sabrina replied, her voice sweet and soothing. "He’s going over the end-of-year press releases. He said we need to address... what happened. In case one of the dinner guests speaks to the press."

Silas turned his head slowly. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw stubbled, his expression devoid of the warmth or indulgence he had shown her over the past six months.

"Get your things," Silas said.

Sabrina froze, her hand slipping from his shoulder. "What?"

"Get your clothes, your bags, and get out of my house," Silas said. His voice wasn't loud. It carried the flat, dead weight of an executioner's axe.

Sabrina’s mouth opened slightly. "Silas... you can't be serious. She hit me! She humiliated me in front of your family! I came here because you told me I was safe with you—"

"I hit my wife," Silas interrupted, stepping toward her. For the first time in her life, Sabrina saw real fear in the eyes of the men Silas dealt with, and she realized that look was now directed at her. "I put my hand on Laurel in my own dining room because you couldn't keep your mouth shut about a child that died fifteen years ago."

"I didn't mean—"

"Get out, Sabrina," Silas whispered. "If you are still in this house in twenty minutes, Grant won't be taking you to your apartment. Security will throw you onto the highway."

Sabrina backed away, her face turning pale as paper, before turning and fleeing down the carpeted hallway.

Silas walked downstairs to his private study.

Grant Varelli was sitting behind the heavy oak desk, three phones spread across the blotter, a tumbler of scotch in his hand. When Silas walked in, Grant stood up immediately, looking nervous.

"Silas, man," Grant began, raising his hands. "Listen, last night was crazy, but we can fix this. I spoke to the PR team. We leak a story about Laurel having a nervous breakdown—pregnancy trauma, emotional instability. We control the narrative before—"

CRACK.

Silas’s fist struck Grant across the mouth, sending the older cousin staggering back into the glass bookcase, shattering two shelves and bringing a dozen leather-bound books crashing to the floor.

Grant hit the rug, clutching his bleeding lip, staring up at Silas in absolute terror.

"If you ever speak my wife's name again," Silas said, standing over him, his chest heaving, "I will throw you out of this company with nothing."

Grant wiped the blood from his chin, his terror suddenly flickering into a dark, desperate anger. "Your wife? Your wife left you, Silas! She walked out into a blizzard and took her ring off! You think she's coming back? You think she's going to sit quietly while you play king?"

"Shut up," Silas growled.

"No, you shut up!" Grant yelled, scrambling to his feet, holding onto the edge of the desk. "You think Laurel’s just a helpless little woman sitting in some hotel crying? She was the one who built the foundation's accounting structure, Silas! If she starts looking into where the money went—"

"The money went to the clinics," Silas said, his eyes narrowing sharply. "Where else would it go?"

Grant went dead silent. His eyes darted toward the door, then back to Silas.

Silas stared at his cousin. A cold, terrible realization began to creep into his chest. "Grant... where did the foundation money go?"

Before Grant could answer, the landline on the oak desk rang. It rang three times, loud and sharp in the tense room.

Silas reached out and answered it, pressing the receiver to his ear. "Varelli."

"Silas," his mother’s voice came through the speaker. Cold. Unforgiving.

"Ma," Silas breathed, his voice cracking slightly. "Where is she? Is Laurel with you?"

"Laurel is where she belongs," Celeste said flatly. "With people who respect her. But she asked me to give you a message, Silas."

Silas gripped the phone until his knuckles turned white. "What message?"

"She said to tell you that the fifteen years are over," Celeste said. "And she said to tell Grant that the SEC will be arriving at his office at nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

The line clicked dead.