The fever that had gripped Benedict Alexander all night finally broke, though his skin still flushed with a lingering, ghostly heat.

The doctor who had been monitoring him all night anxiously pressed a hand to his forehead, letting out a long, shuddering breath. "Mr. Alexander, your temperature is down. But keep your diet bland for the next few days. That toxin is potent; it will take time for your system to fully clear it."

"Understood. Get out."

His voice was like sandpaper, rough and strained. The residual heat in his body made his skin crawl. He threw off the covers with trembling hands, downing several glasses of ice water before stumbling into the shower. He stood under the freezing spray for nearly an hour before the burning in his blood finally subsided.

Staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, a cold, predatory light flickered in his eyes. It was time for this charade to end.

Once dressed and composed, Benedict summoned everyone to the grand hall. Logan Alexander walked in, stifling a yawn and looking as though he’d just been dragged from a deep sleep. "Brother, why are we gathering at this ungodly hour?"

Benedict didn't answer. He slumped into the sofa with a lazy, dominant grace, not even bothering to cast a glance in Logan’s direction. Feeling ignored, Logan rolled his eyes and snorted in disdain. "Still playing the brooding hero, I see."

Leland Alexander watched Benedict with a complex expression, a silent sigh escaping his lips.

"Everyone is here. Bring in Greta Palmer and the maid," Benedict commanded, his voice cold enough to freeze the air.

"Yes, sir."

Moments later, the two women were dragged in and unceremoniously dumped onto the marble floor. The maid, Rosemary Weaver, was pale, her face smeared with dried, dark blood, cowering as she pressed herself against the cold floor.

Fiona Nguyen clicked her tongue, her voice dripping with mock surprise. "My goodness, Auntie, aren't you a little heavy-handed? The poor girl was just doing your bidding. Why take your frustration out on her?"

Greta Palmer didn't seem to hear her. Her gaze was locked onto her son. In his eyes, there was no warmth—only a chilling, final resolution.

"Benedict, I did this for you! You’re obsessed with Evangeline Montgomery; I was just trying to help you seize her. Is that so wrong?"

"This is the last chance I’m giving you," Benedict said, his tone razor-sharp.

Greta felt a shiver of pure terror crawl up her spine, reaching the very roots of her hair. "You... you did this on purpose?"

Benedict’s eyes turned bloodshot, his voice a low, pained growl. "Mother—I told you. I have the power to provide for you. We didn't need to fight this war! Why won't you just listen?"

"Ha! Why wouldn't I fight? You’re a useless coward!" Greta grabbed his shoulders, her teeth grit in desperation. "I am sick to death of the way people look at us with pity. I hate this status, this cage. I fought my way up to prove myself, and you? You force me to play the part of a starving dog begging for scraps! A dog!"

Seeing her intractable madness, Benedict squeezed his eyes shut. With a violent shove, he cast her off.

"If that’s how you want it, don’t blame your son for being unfilial."

Greta scrambled on the floor, clawing frantically at his hand. "What do you mean by that?"

Benedict looked down at her with dead, icy eyes. "My mother has been showing signs of severe mental instability. For the safety of everyone in this household, I have decided she needs to be admitted to a private psychiatric sanitarium. Does anyone have an objection?"

The room went silent. Malcolm Alexander was the first to speak. "We have no objections!"

"Right, yes... no objections," the others chimed in, eager to appease the man who now held the reins.

Benedict turned toward the head of the table. "Grandfather?"

Leland Alexander let out a heavy, defeated sigh. "I have no objections."

Greta jolted to her feet, her hands trembling as she pointed at them. "You pack of wolves! I’ll kill you all!" She lunged toward Evangeline Montgomery, who stood nearby, but before she could get within ten feet, Marcellus Alexander caught her with a swift, brutal kick that sent her flying across the room.

"Hardly surprising. She’s completely lost her mind," Marcellus remarked, his tone bored.

Greta collapsed, a fountain of blood erupting from her lips. Benedict didn't even turn his head. "Take her away," he ordered his security detail.

As Greta was hauled out, screaming, and Rosemary Weaver was dragged toward the police station, the grand hall descended into a heavy, suffocating silence.

Leland Alexander cast a final, warning glare at the rest of the family. "Keep your heads down and your mouths shut. Let Greta’s fate be a warning to you all."

"Understood."

They didn't dare argue. The "Little Demon King" Marcellus was trouble enough; now, with Benedict fully unleashed, the fear in the room was palpable.

Back in their suite, Marcellus sat on the sofa, legs crossed, his mood surprisingly light. "New Year's Day, and the trash has been taken out. A good omen."

Evangeline frowned slightly. "Marcellus, I think Benedict is a lot like you."

"I have to admit, Father's genes are strong. Even with a mother like that, he didn't turn out completely broken."

"But is he really okay? He seems so... twisted."

Marcellus raised a brow. "Are you feeling sorry for him?"

Evangeline rolled her eyes, poking his chest. "Don't be ridiculous. I just think he might be suffering from some serious psychological trauma."

"He was forced to be strong from a young age. He learned to read people and climbed his way up to build an empire that ranks among the best in the city. You think he did that for fun?"

"Because of the cold looks he received?"

"His mother clawed her way to the top using the dirtiest tricks imaginable, and even the staff mocked him behind his back," Marcellus said, his voice flat.

Evangeline nodded slowly. "He really drew the short straw with a mother like that."

"Evangeline, you’re caring an awful lot about him."

"Fine, fine. I’ll stop. I only care about you, okay?" Evangeline dropped her curiosity, snuggling against his chest with a soft, mischievous smile. Her dimples were sweet, like a glass of fruit wine.

Marcellus couldn't help himself; he leaned down to taste them. "Mmm. You’re definitely sweet."

Evangeline flushed, burying her face against his shirt to hide her smile.

***

Elsewhere, Benedict stood by his floor-to-ceiling window, the air around him thick with the acrid scent of tobacco.

When his assistant entered to report, he was forced to stifle a cough. "Mr. Alexander, she has three fractured ribs and severe lung contusions. She’s being admitted to the clinic."

"Post guards. She is not to step foot outside that facility, even after she recovers. She stays in the psychiatric wing."

Benedict’s voice was hollow, as if he were discussing a stranger. Yet, in the shadows where no one could see, his face was masked in an agony that defied words.

"And from now on, I don't want to hear another word about her."

"Yes, sir."

As the assistant retreated, Benedict stared out the window, his vision blurring, his mind drifting into a dark abyss.

Inside his head, his mother's manic, obsessed voice looped on repeat like a broken record. He felt as if a thousand ants were crawling through his brain, his breathing ragged, his chest heaving with every suppressed sob.

It wasn't until the embers of his cigarette burned against his fingertips that he was jolted back to reality.

He stared blankly at the fading spark. The searing pain brought his pulse back to a slow, steady rhythm. He looked out at the night, his eyes vacant, whispering to the silence.

"It’s all... over."