"Marcellus, are you saying Benedict let himself be trapped on purpose?"

Marcellus lounged against the sofa, stretching his neck with a weary crack of his joints. He let out a cold, cynical scoff. "My dear younger brother is a shark in shallow water. He’s made up his mind. He’s going to deal with Greta once and for all."

Evangeline hesitated, her voice barely a whisper. "Rumor has it, you were the one who..."

Marcellus locked his gaze onto her face. He reached out, pulling her into his arms, his expression sharpening. "And if the rumors are true? What would you do then?"

"If it’s a lie, I’ll defend you. If it’s the truth, I’ll cover your tracks."

Her voice didn't waver. She stood on his side, completely, unconditionally. The raw, unfiltered loyalty washed over Marcellus, settling deep in his chest like a sudden warmth. He tightened his grip, pulling her flush against him.

"My little Evangeline, you’re too good to me." He let out a soft, low breath. "But don't worry. I have no intention of testing the limits of the law."

Evangeline chuckled softly. "I know. But tell me—were those names, 'Little Demon King' and 'Psychopath,' coined by your own family?"

Marcellus went silent. He seemed lost in thought, and just as Evangeline began to think he wouldn't answer, he finally spoke.

"My father was the heir the old man trusted most. And he didn't disappoint—the business flourished under his watch. But after my mother died, he just... crumbled. The old man was aging, yet he was forced to step back in for over a decade. That’s when the vultures started circling. Greta wanted to secure power for Benedict, colluding with my uncles to destabilize the firm. Stock prices cratered. In the end, I had to use… drastic methods to pry the company from their hands."

The struggle of a decade, condensed into a handful of sentences. His tone remained flat, detached, as if he were discussing the weather. Evangeline tried to imagine the carnage of those years—a young man walking through a minefield where every shadow held a knife, yet still somehow clawing his way to the top of the corporate ladder in the city. He was formidable.

A sharp, painful lump formed in her throat. She couldn't hold back the tears.

Comforting words felt hollow now. She simply pulled him into a fierce, suffocating embrace, needing to feel the rhythm of his heart against hers.

Marcellus stroked her hair, his eyes glazing over as he stared into the distance. "I almost didn't make it, many times. But my father... he helped me from the shadows."

"But he never said a word. He kept his face cold, as if he never loved me at all."

Evangeline felt the hot sting of his tears on her arm. She tilted her head back to look at him. His eyes were rimmed with a bruised, angry red, filled with a bottomless, aching loneliness. He looked like a man abandoned by the entire world.

The sight of him so fractured cut right to her core. She scrambled to wrap her arms around his neck, holding him in the silence, offering the only shelter she had.

He smoothed the hair at the back of her head, his breathing slowing until his composure returned, smooth and impenetrable as ever.

"It’s alright. I let go of that a long time ago. What I couldn't have as a child, I don't need anymore."

***

Downstairs, Greta sat slumped on the sofa, staring at nothing, muttering to herself like a woman possessed. "It can't be… it isn't possible..."

"Oh, please. Sister-in-law, do you never learn? You’re still stupid enough to provoke the Little Demon King?"

Greta whipped her head around, her eyes blazing with malice as she glared at Fiona. "You’ve been crawling in the dirt like a lapdog for years. What makes you think you have the right to look down on me?"

Fiona, stung, lost her composure, her voice rising to a shrill scream. "If it wasn't for you pushing my husband into this, we wouldn't be living like beggars!"

With no real power in the firm, they survived on the scraps of their dividends. When they tried to branch out on their own, they were crushed at every turn. They were at their breaking point.

Fiona lunged, and the two women devolved into a violent, clawing brawl. Lorelei made a pathetic, performative attempt to pull them apart, her movements so languid they were useless.

The two men remained seated, watching the circus with cold, bored eyes.

"Dad, aren't you going to do something?"

"Nolan, calm down. Your mother and my mother aren't exactly losing, are they? Why are you bothering?"

Nolan looked conflicted. "But..."

"Oh, drop it. Let's go upstairs and play games. The grown-ups’ drama isn't our concern!" Logan grabbed Nolan by the shoulder and dragged him toward the stairs.

Greta, clearly losing the fight, looked like a hurricane had hit her. Her hair was a matted bird’s nest, and deep scratches bled on her cheeks. She was a wreck.

Suddenly, the butler appeared in the foyer, his voice cutting through the chaos like a whip. "Everyone! That is quite enough. The master has retired for the night!"

The butler had been with the elder Montgomery for decades—longer than some of his own sons. He carried an air of authority that few dared to defy. When he spoke, it was as if the master himself had delivered the command.

The screaming died instantly.

Greta scrambled to her feet, panting, her eyes burning with a murderous, frantic heat. Her manicured nails scraped against the floor, a jagged, screeching sound.

"That's enough. Everyone, go to your rooms," Fiona's husband commanded, giving his wife a sharp, warning look.

They shuffled off, leaving Greta alone. She stood in the center of the hall, her face twisted, her knuckles white as she squeezed her hands into fists. She was burning up inside, a furnace of rage that demanded an outlet.

She stumbled toward the maid’s quarters, her gait uneven and swaying.

Rosemary, the maid, was huddled at the foot of her bed, trembling. A sharp knock made her gasp, a sound of pure terror.

She forced her voice to remain steady. "Who… who is it?"

"Rosemary, it’s me. Open the door. I’m here to help you."

Rosemary, desperate for any reprieve, scrambled off the bed and threw the door open, not even bothering with her shoes. "Madam, you...!"

She didn't get to finish. She took a step back, her eyes widening as she took in the sight of her mistress, who looked like she’d crawled out of a nightmare.

"No! Please, no!"

"Oh? 'No'? I paid for your brother’s surgery. I gave you everything. And you still couldn't do your job? You ungrateful little traitor!"

Greta snarled, her eyes fixed on Rosemary as if she wanted to tear her limb from limb.

Rosemary backed until she hit the wall, sinking to her knees in despair. Her voice shook as she sobbed, "Please, Madam, the young master will kill me!"

"And you don't think I will?"

Greta produced a small paring knife, using the tip to tilt Rosemary’s chin upward, wearing a wicked, delirious grin.

"Please, Madam, let me go, just let me go..."

"Ahhhhh!"

A sharp, searing pain tore across her cheek, and Rosemary let out a shrill, piercing scream.

Blood welled up, dripping onto the floor with a rhythmic *drip, drip*.

Rosemary’s mind finally snapped. The world went black, and she slumped to the floor, unconscious.

Greta kicked the limp form on the ground, scoffing. "Useless trash."

She delivered one more savage kick before turning to leave. Back in her room, the rage began to ebb, replaced by a creeping, cold dread. She paced, muttering to herself, trying to stitch her reality back together. "He’s my son. What can he do to me? He won't do anything... he won't. That's right. He won't."

After convincing herself for the hundredth time, she finally drifted off into a shallow, fitful sleep.