A thunderclap rocked the mansion, rattling the windowpanes. Marcellus Spencer stood frozen, his mind reeling. He clutched at the air, his voice barely a whisper. "What do you mean dead? Who is dead?"

"Elaine Miller! Elaine Miller is dead!" Greta Spencer’s voice cut through the silence like a jagged blade, her eyes swimming with a mixture of grief and icy contempt. "She was killed by your own decree!"

"The poor girl was already frail, recovering from childbirth, and you thought she could survive a hundred lashes? She was a child I watched grow up—bright, gentle, and utterly devoted to you. If you didn't love her, why not just divorce her? Why ruin her life before snuffing it out?"

Greta’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. Marcellus stood paralyzed, the words failing to compute.

Elaine dead? A hundred lashes?

A wave of vertigo washed over him, turning his world into a sickening blur. His hands trembled violently. "Grandma, stop this. This isn't a joke. When did I ever order a hundred lashes? I told them to just put on a show—a few hits to satisfy the elders, nothing more."

"A few hits?" Greta’s lip curled in a sneer of pure loathing. She lunged forward, kicking Derrick Shaw, the shivering butler, in the ribs. "Ask him!"

"No! I didn't know anything!" Derrick scrambled on the floor, clawing at his head and screaming. "The mistress—Morgan Rose! She sent word. She said you ordered us to make it count, to use the full weight of the family law without holding back!"

Marcellus’s mouth opened, but the words died in his throat.

He remembered.

At Morgan’s birthday gala, he had handed her the family signet ring, the physical embodiment of his authority. From that day on, her voice was his. Even if he’d commanded leniency for Elaine, Morgan held the power to override him with a single word.

Panic flared in Marcellus's eyes, though his ego fought to deny the truth. "Impossible. Morgan has no reason to kill her—"

"Do you really not know the woman you’re sleeping with?" Greta snapped, her voice trembling with rage. "As long as Elaine lived, she was a threat to Morgan’s hold on the children and her standing in this house. That’s more than enough reason for a snake like her to strike!"

Greta stared at the grandson she once prided herself on, her expression one of utter heartbreak. "It’s my fault. I thought Elaine was clever enough to help you, so I allowed this marriage. I only succeeded in handing her a death warrant."

Marcellus knew Morgan wasn't a saint—he had always admired her ruthless, decisive nature—but this?

"What past events? What has she done?"

Greta looked at him, disbelief etched into her features. "You have no idea? Hah. Morgan played you better than a fiddle."

"When you had Elaine locked in the Memorial Chapel, it was Morgan who used your name to pull the nails from her fingers! When young Max had that fever, it was Morgan who forced Elaine to crawl and bash her head against the floor over a hundred times before she’d let them take him to the hospital!"

"The nails, the blood, the bone-deep agony... do you have any idea what you’ve done to her?"

Every word hit like a physical blow. Marcellus stumbled back, his knuckles white as he gripped a side table to keep from collapsing.

*How could this happen? How was Elaine subjected to such torment?*

"I was wrong... God, I was so wrong. I shouldn't have trusted her..."

"Grandma, please," Marcellus pleaded, his voice cracking as he slammed his knees onto the hard floor. His eyes were bloodshot, raw with desperation. "Bring her to me. I’ll apologize, I’ll make it right—please, Grandma!"

Greta looked down at him, her gaze cold. "You still think I’m hiding her, don't you?"

"Of course you are! If she’s dead, then where is the body?" Marcellus’s eyes burned with a manic, desperate intensity.

Greta didn't flinch. She pushed his hands away from her skirt. "The body was cremated. The urn is right there."

She pointed to a cold, marble slab in the corner of the room.

"The last thing that child said before she died was that she hoped to never see you again in this life or the next. I was useless enough that I couldn't save her when she was alive, but I will honor her final wish. I won't let you taint her remains."

"Marcellus," Greta whispered, her voice a hollow echo of mourning. "Don't stain her path to the afterlife."

The room went deathly silent. Marcellus let out a ragged, choking sound as the last thread of his sanity snapped.