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.

Downstairs in Adrian’s private study, the air was thick with the scent of tobacco and tension.

District Attorney Frank Miller sat across the massive mahogany desk, reviewing a stack of sworn affidavits and forensic laboratory reports. Beside him stood Marcus Vance, holding a secure digital tablet displaying financial ledgers.

Adrian poured two fingers of scotch, his movements cold and deliberate.

“Tell me she’s locked away without bail, Frank,” Adrian said, sliding the glass across the desk.

Miller sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. “Victoria is currently in protective custody at the county detention center, Adrian. Her father, Richard Vance, brought in three former federal judges to argue for immediate medical bail. They’re claiming Victoria suffered an acute dissociative episode brought on by severe psychological stress.”

Adrian’s glass hit the desk with a sharp *clack*. “She had a custom-engineered ring fabricated with a spring-loaded hypodermic needle coated in monkshood and digitalis. That isn't a dissociative episode. That is premeditated, first-degree attempted murder.”

“I know that, and you know that,” Miller said grimly. “The grand jury will indict her by Friday. But Richard Vance is moving twenty million dollars through offshore accounts in the Caymans. He’s trying to grease palms to get her transferred to a private psychiatric retreat in Switzerland before the formal arraignment. Once she’s on a private jet out of US airspace, extradition will take years.”

“She won't reach the airport,” Adrian said coldly.

“There’s something else,” Marcus interrupted, tapping his tablet and stepping forward. “We traced the purchase of the synthetic aconitine. It wasn't imported from overseas. It was procured through a rogue compounding pharmacy in Syracuse three weeks ago.”

Marcus swiped the screen, bringing up a surveillance photograph from a pharmacy parking lot.

“Victoria didn't buy it herself,” Marcus said. “She hired someone inside this house to collect the shipments and slip the micro-doses into your mother’s daily herbal teas.”

Adrian’s eyes narrowed into slits of ice. “Who?”

Marcus zoomed in on the surveillance image.

Standing by the trunk of a black sedan, accepting a small insulated envelope from an unknown man, was Caroline—the senior parlor maid who had run the betting pools on Harper’s clumsiness.

A deadly silence descended over the study.

Five minutes later, the heavy oak doors of the staff dining hall were kicked open.

The domestic staff—housekeepers, footmen, and kitchen assistants—were gathered for their afternoon tea break. They froze in terror as two armed Blackthorne security guards flanked the doorway, followed by Adrian Blackthorne himself.

Adrian’s gaze swept across the room like a scythe until it landed on Caroline, who was sitting at the center table holding a porcelain teacup.

The color drained from Caroline’s face instantly. Her hands began to shake so violently the teacup rattled against the saucer.

“Caroline Miller,” Adrian’s voice was deathly quiet.

“M-Mr. Blackthorne…” she squeaked, rising to her feet. “Is… is everything alright with Miss Quinn?”

Adrian walked toward her, stopping three feet away. He dropped a glossy eight-by-ten surveillance photograph onto the table between them.

The picture of her taking the envelope in Syracuse.

Caroline gasped, her hand flying to her throat. She stumbled backward against the sideboard.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Adrian said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “That’s what Marcus found in a newly opened offshore savings account under your sister’s name. You sold my mother’s life for fifty thousand dollars.”

“No! Please, Mr. Blackthorne!” Caroline broke into hysterical sobs, dropping to her knees on the linoleum floor. “Victoria threatened me! She said she’d have my brother arrested for grand larceny—he works at the Vance docks! She said it was just a mild sedative to make your mother seem incompetent for the board meeting! I didn't know it was poison! I swear to God I didn't know!”

“You watched my mother deteriorate for three months,” Adrian looked down at her with absolute disgust. “You watched her weep in the conservatory because she couldn't remember her own son’s face. And you kept putting it in her tea every single evening.”

He turned to Marcus. “Hand her over to the State Police. Ensure she is charged as a co-conspirator to attempted murder. If she breathes a word to Vance’s legal team, put her in solitary confinement.”

Two guards dragged the screaming, weeping maid out through the service exit.

The remaining staff stood in petrified silence, staring at the floor, terrified of the master’s wrath.

Adrian looked around at the room full of employees who had spent three years mocking, belittling, and ignoring Harper Quinn.

“Listen to me carefully,” Adrian announced, his voice ringing through the hall with absolute authority. “Harper Quinn will be returning to this estate as a guest of honor. If I hear a single whisper of disrespect, if anyone looks at her with anything less than the reverence owed to the woman who saved the Blackthorne family, you will be terminated without a reference, blacklisted from every estate in New England, and sued for breach of contract.”

He turned on his heel and strode out of the room, leaving the staff in stunned, terrified silence.

Upstairs, Harper was slowly sitting up in the master bed, helped by Evelyn.

As Harper looked out the tall rain-streaked window, she saw a sleek black town car pulling up to the perimeter gate.

Through the tinted glass, an older man with silver hair and a furious expression stepped out, surrounded by four men in dark suits.

Richard Vance had arrived at Blackthorne Estate.