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.

By seven in the morning, the snow had begun to fall heavily, blanketing the manicured grounds of the Vale estate in pristine, deceptive white.

Inside the manor, the heat was set to seventy-four degrees. Martin was lounging on the imported sofa in the living room, wearing a cashmere robe and sipping an espresso. Celeste was on the carpet beside him, surrounded by wrapping paper, taking photographs of her jewelry against the backdrop of the towering Christmas tree to post on her social media accounts.

Margaret descended the curved staircase, already fully dressed in a cream wool skirt suit, her hair immaculately coiffed. She glanced at the empty breakfast sideboard and frowned deeply.

"Where is Evelyn?" Margaret asked, her tone sharp with irritation. "The baker delivered the croissants an hour ago, but nobody has set out the preserves or brewed the fresh roast. And the fire in the morning room hasn't even been lit."

"Roman took her car to the hospital last night," Martin said without looking up from his tablet. "I texted him twice to bring back some pastries from that French place near the medical center, but he didn't reply. Selfish, honestly. He knows Celeste only eats brioche on Christmas morning."

"She should have been back hours ago," Margaret muttered, clicking her tongue. "Rose is probably fast asleep on sedatives anyway. It’s performative, that’s what it is. Evelyn always plays the martyr."

The front door opened with a heavy thud.

Margaret turned, preparing to deliver a scathing reprimand about punctuality and domestic duties. But it was only Roman who walked in.

He was alone. His coat was damp with melted snow, his hair unbrushed, and his face was carved from granite. Under his arm, he carried a heavy, weathered leather binder that Margaret recognized instantly.

The estate registry.

Margaret’s eyes narrowed slightly, a microscopic flicker of unease darting across her features before she smoothed it over with her usual mask of aristocratic condescension.

"Roman," she said, stepping toward him. "Where is your wife? The dining room looks like a tavern after a brawl, and my guests for the Boxing Day brunch will be arriving at eleven."

Roman didn't take off his coat. He walked slowly into the center of the grand foyer, stopping right beneath the crystal chandelier.

"The brunch is canceled," Roman said.

Martin let out a short laugh from the living room, lowering his coffee cup. "What are you talking about, Roman? The Van Houtens and the Calloways are coming. Father’s old partners. You can't just cancel."

"I can," Roman said. "Because the caterers were booked under Evelyn’s credit card, and I just had the bank freeze all transactions originating from this address."

Silence dropped over the foyer like a guillotine.

Margaret’s posture went rigid. "Roman, lower your voice. Have you lost your mind? Have you been drinking at that hospital?"