They made her serve dinner like hired help while receiving lavish gifts, completely oblivious that her empty purse held the receipts for every single one.

Roman sat frozen, the magnitude of his own blindness crushing him like an avalanche. He thought back over seven years—every Christmas morning where he had praised his mother for her "generous spirit," every birthday where Martin had clapped him on the back and bragged about how "the Vales always take care of their own."

He remembered Evelyn always standing near the kitchen doorway, holding a tray, smiling quietly while everyone else tore open glossy boxes tied with silk ribbons. He had bought her gifts, of course—a cashmere scarf, a set of sketching pens, a silver locket—but they were modest, because Evelyn had always insisted, *"Don't spend too much, Roman, we need to be responsible."*

She wasn't being responsible. She was keeping them from starving while his family played aristocracy on her dime.

"Roman?"

He looked up. Evelyn was watching him, her eyes wide with apprehension. She wasn't angry at him; she was terrified. Terrified that she had broken the illusion, that he would turn on her to protect the myth of his family.

"Come here," Roman whispered, his throat raw.

He pulled her into his arms, wrapping his overcoat around her shivering shoulders. She stiffened for a second, unaccustomed to being held with such fierce desperation, before she collapsed against his chest, her breath coming in ragged, silent sobs that shook her entire frame.

"I'm sorry," Roman choked out into her hair. "I am so sorry, Evie. I was blind. I was an idiot. I let them treat you like a servant in my own house."

"It's not your fault," she wept softly into his lapel. "Margaret made me sign non-disclosure clauses regarding the trust accounts. She threatened that if I told you, she would tell your partners you were unstable, that you had married a woman who fabricated lies to divide your family."

Roman’s blood ran cold. "She threatened my career to keep you quiet?"

"She had leverage, Roman. She always found leverage."

The heavy double doors of the observation ward swung open, and a doctor in light blue scrubs stepped out, holding a clipboard. Roman and Evelyn immediately stood, Evelyn wiping her tears with the back of her sleeve.

"Mr. and Mrs. Vale?" the doctor asked.

"Yes," Roman answered, stepping forward with his arm firmly around Evelyn’s waist. "How is my grandmother?"

"She's stable," the doctor said, offering a warm smile. "Her cardiac enzymes look good. The rapid administration of the nitroglycerin prevented any myocardial damage. Honestly, Mrs. Vale," the doctor looked at Evelyn, "your quick action saved her life. Ten more minutes and we would be having a very different conversation."

Evelyn let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. "Can we see her?"

"Just for a few minutes. She's awake, and frankly, she's demanding to speak to 'the only person in that cursed house with a brain.' I assume she means you."

Roman looked down at his wife. "Go in. I need to make a phone call."

Evelyn hesitated, then nodded and followed the doctor through the double doors.

Roman watched her go, then pulled his phone from his pocket. He scrolled past three missed calls from Martin—likely asking where the spare key to the wine cellar was—and dialed the private number of Thomas Vance, the senior partner at his architectural firm and a longtime family acquaintance.

It was 2:45 AM, but Thomas answered on the fourth ring, his voice thick with sleep. "Roman? Is everything alright? Is it Rose?"

"Rose is fine, Thomas," Roman said, his voice terrifyingly steady. "I apologize for calling at this hour, but I need a favor. I need you to put me in touch with Arthur Pendelton right now."

There was a silence on the line. Pendelton was the most ruthless forensic accountant and estate attorney in the city.

"Roman," Thomas said, suddenly awake. "Pendelton handles hostile liquidations and corporate fraud. What's going on?"