Marcellus Spencer clutched the funeral urn to his chest, retreating into the master suite of the West Wing. The room was heavy with the ghost of Elaine Miller; her scent still lingered, a phantom presence that mocked his solitude.

He starved himself, refusing food and water, desperate to hollow out his own body in hopes that the physical agony would finally dull the bone-deep ache in his soul. He refused to believe it. This was Elaine Miller. She had survived three agonizing childbirths, clawing her way back from death’s door time and time again to return to him. How could she just... die?

She had loved him with such desperate fervor; how could she leave such a cold, final goodbye? It had to be a lie. All of it. He retreated into a fever dream of denial, letting the business empire crumble into chaos while the rest of the Spencer family scrambled to pick up the pieces.

Finally, unable to watch him wither away, Greta Spencer shoved the bedroom door open.

"Marcellus Spencer, look at yourself! You look like a damn ghost!" she hissed, her voice echoing against the mahogany walls. "Your wife is gone, but have you forgotten you still have children?"

Marcellus lifted his head, his eyes flickering with a sudden, sharp clarity. "The children? My... and Elaine's children?"

"Yes, the blood of your blood! And right now, they’re still under Morgan Rose's thumb." Greta struck the floor with her cane, the sound cracking like a gunshot. "If Morgan does anything to them, you’ll never be able to face Elaine again, not even in hell."

Of course. He and Elaine were bound by more than memories; they were bound by their children. The haze vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp panic. He surged to his feet, bolting toward Morgan’s quarters. As he approached, the muffled murmur of voices drifted through the door—Morgan and Derrick Shaw.

"Are you sure that bitch is dead and buried?" Morgan’s voice cut through the silence.

"Of course," Derrick replied smoothly. "The body is nothing but ash. Congratulations, ma'am. No one can threaten your position in the Spencer family now. You won't have to play stepmother to those brats anymore—you’re free to have your own."

"Heh. I've waited forever for this. Elaine Miller was tough, I’ll give her that. Sending her to that psychiatric ward three years ago—all the 'treatments' and torture—and the wretched thing still wouldn't die..."

A psychiatric ward. The words hit Marcellus like a physical blow.

Memories flooded back, sharp and agonizing. How strange Elaine had acted after she returned from that facility. The unexplained scars riddling her body. The night terrors that left her shivering in the dark. The way she would gag and pull away whenever he tried to touch her, as if his very presence triggered a visceral, physical revulsion.

He had harbored doubts back then, but Morgan had smoothed them over with a serpent’s tongue. *Elaine is just suffering from postpartum depression. The scars are self-inflicted. Her instability is standard—give it time.*

He had believed her. He had believed her so easily. How could he have been so blind? How could he have trusted Morgan?

Morgan’s voice echoed through the door again. "Now that Elaine is dead, get rid of the three brats, too. I don't want them competing with my future children for the estate. Make it clean. Don't let Marcellus find out."

Marcellus didn't wait to hear another word. He kicked the door off its hinges, the wood splintering inward with a deafening crash!

"Marcellus?" Morgan’s face went white, her mask of composure shattering into pure, unadulterated panic. "H-how long have you been there? You... you didn't hear anything, did you? I was just talking nonsense..."

She was still trying to scramble back behind her web of lies. Marcellus didn't give her the chance. He lunged across the room, his large hand snapping around her fragile throat, pinning her back against the wall with enough force to make the portraits shake.