At 10:07 p.m., a millionaire heiress raised her hand to slap an old woman, and the only person in the room willing to stop her was the maid everyone had spent three years laughing at.

The gala dinner was set for eight o’clock on Tuesday evening.

It was an intimate affair by billionaire standards: twenty high-profile guests, including state senators, foreign investors, and the senior partners of Vance Maritime. The dinner was ostensibly to celebrate Evelyn’s seventy-second birthday, but the Wall Street rumors were buzzing—Adrian was expected to finalize the maritime merger contract before the night ended.

At six o’clock, Harper was restocking the linen closets on the third floor when she noticed the door to Evelyn’s private sitting room was slightly ajar.

A low murmur of voices drifted out into the carpeted hallway.

“You don’t have a choice, Evelyn,” Victoria’s sharp voice cut through the silence. “Adrian is too sentimental to make the hard call, but the board is losing patience. Your signatures on the trust transfer need to be executed tonight.”

“I will sign nothing… without Robert,” Evelyn’s voice came back, thin, confused, and distressed. “Where is Robert? Why isn’t he here?”

“Robert has been dead for six years, you senile old bat!” Victoria snarled, dropping every shred of her society charm. “Your mind is mush. You’re holding up a four-hundred-million-dollar acquisition because you can’t remember what year it is. Sign the proxy documents, or I swear to God I’ll have you committed to a state asylum before the wedding flowers wilt.”

Harper’s breath hitched. She stepped closer to the crack in the door, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Through the gap, she could see Evelyn cowering in her velvet wingback chair, clutching a framed photograph of her late husband against her chest like a shield. Tears tracked through the powder on the old woman's cheeks.

Victoria stood over her, tapping a set of heavy parchment documents against her palm. On her right index finger, Victoria wore an unusually heavy, antique silver signet ring with an ornate, raised floral crest—an odd, bulky piece of jewelry that clashed with her delicate diamond bracelets.

“Leave her alone,” Harper whispered to herself, her hand on the brass doorknob.

Before Harper could push the door open, the heavy tread of footsteps echoed from the grand staircase. Victoria heard it too. In a flash of practiced theatricality, the heiress tucked the papers into her leather clutch, smoothed her designer dress, and wiped the venomous sneer from her face.

Adrian walked into the room, holding a glass of scotch.

“Victoria?” Adrian’s eyes moved between his fiancée and his weeping mother. His jaw tightened dangerously. “What’s going on in here?”

Victoria immediately turned, her face crumbling into a picture of angelic concern. She rested a manicured hand over her heart.

“Oh, Adrian, thank heavens you’re here,” Victoria breathed, her voice trembling with manufactured grief. “I came in to bring your mother her favorite jasmine tea, and she suddenly became agitated. She started screaming for Robert and threw her handkerchief at me. I was just trying to calm her down.”

Adrian set his glass on the mantle and immediately knelt before his mother, taking her trembling hands. “Mother. Look at me. It’s Adrian. You’re safe.”

Evelyn pointed a shaking finger at Victoria. “She’s… she’s cruel, Adrian. She said Robert was dead. She wants to lock me away!”

Adrian closed his eyes, pain flickering across his features. To Adrian, this was simply another tragic manifestation of his mother’s progressing illness. He had heard doctors warn him that dementia patients often experienced paranoia and turned on the people closest to them.

“Mother,” Adrian whispered gently, kissing her forehead. “Victoria is going to be my wife. She’s trying to help.”

“No!” Evelyn sobbed, pulling away. “No, she isn't!”

Victoria sighed with theatrical tragedy, shaking her head. “It’s getting worse so quickly, darling. Perhaps she shouldn't attend the dinner tonight. The noise… the photographers… it might be too much for her heart.”

“No,” Adrian said firmly, standing up. “It’s her birthday. She stays. I will not hide my mother in an attic like a shameful secret.”

He turned to the doorway, his sharp gaze catching Harper standing just outside in the hallway.

“Miss Quinn,” Adrian commanded.

Harper stepped inside, her eyes dropping politely, though her insides were churning with fury. “Yes, Mr. Blackthorne?”

“Stay with my mother,” Adrian ordered, his tone leaving no room for debate. “Help her dress in the sapphire gown. Ensure she takes her heart medication. You will remain stationed behind her chair during the dinner service. If she becomes overwhelmed, you escort her directly back here. Do you understand?”

Harper looked at Evelyn’s terrified eyes, then glanced at Victoria, whose cold blue stare was drilling into her with undisguised hatred.

“I understand completely, sir,” Harper said softly. “I won’t let anything happen to her.”

Victoria let out a soft, mocking scoff, adjusted the bulky silver ring on her finger, and looped her arm possessively through Adrian’s.

“Come, darling,” Victoria purred. “The guests are arriving downstairs. Let the help do their jobs.”

As the couple walked out, Harper hurried to Evelyn’s side, kneeling beside the chair. She took the older woman’s ice-cold hands, chafing them gently.

“Harper…” Evelyn wept softly. “I’m not crazy. I know Robert is gone. I know it here,” she pressed a hand to her chest. “She was holding papers. She wants my shares, Harper. She wants Adrian’s company.”

Harper’s mind raced. Was it dementia, or was Evelyn completely lucid about the threat?

Harper glanced at the bedside table. Beside the carafe of water sat Evelyn’s daily medication tray. Harper picked up the small plastic cup containing Evelyn’s prescribed blood pressure pill and a standard beta-blocker. But beside the glass carafe, Harper noticed something odd on the polished mahogany surface.

A tiny dusting of white, chalky residue.

And lying next to the wastebasket was a torn foil packet—unlabeled, unmarked.

Harper dipped her fingertip into the faint white powder and brought it to her nose. It had a faint, bitter almond scent that didn't smell like any heart medication she had ever administered to her father.

A cold dread coiled in Harper’s gut.