The dining room of the Grand Regency Hotel went so cold you could hear the ice melting in the water goblets. My mother, Victoria, stood frozen near the head of the table, her hands clutching her silk napkin so tightly her knuckles turned chalky white.

Walking through the grand foyer of the Hamptons estate felt like stepping back into a museum dedicated to everything I had spent my life trying to escape.

The walls were lined with large, expensive oil portraits commissioned by Victoria—portraits of herself, of Richard looking suitably dignified, and, of course, countless center-stage photographs of Madison smiling brightly at her wedding, her baby showers, and various charity galas. My own face was entirely absent from the walls, save for one tiny, awkwardly cropped childhood photo hidden near the back service staircase, as if I were an afterthought who had accidentally wandered into the frame.

"We’re taking those down," Eleanor said, walking up beside me and following my gaze toward the gallery wall.

"You don't have to do that, Grandma," I murmured.

"I am not doing it for you, Arya. I am doing it because bad art and bloated egos have no place in a functional home," Eleanor said briskly, signaling to two estate maintenance workers who were waiting in the hallway. "Take down every single portrait of Victoria and Madison in the main corridor. Store them in the basement crates. Replace them with the seascape collection we acquired from the gallery in Soho last month."

The workers immediately went to work, lifting heavy frames and carrying them away. Watching Victoria’s frozen, perfectly painted smile disappear from the wall felt like watching a physical weight lift off the foundation of the house.

Just as the last large frame of Madison was being unhooked, my phone rang in my pocket.

I pulled it out, expecting a call from Sarah Vance at the office regarding the new client leads. Instead, the screen flashed with a restricted number.

I swiped and answered. "Hello?"

"Arya? Thank God," a shaky, frantic voice breathed through the speaker. It wasn't Victoria. It was my father, Richard.

"Dad?" I asked, my tone instantly cooling. "How did you get this number? I thought Grandma threatened you with an audit."

"I’m calling from a burner phone outside your mother's temporary apartment," Richard whispered, sounding utterly defeated. "She’s losing her mind, Arya. She hasn't slept in thirty-six hours. She’s been pacing the floors, screaming at her lawyers, and threatening to go to the media with a completely unhinged story about how your grandmother manipulated you into stealing the family estate."

"Grandma didn't manipulate me, Dad," I replied evenly. "Mom brought this entirely on herself. You both did."

"I know, I know," Richard pleaded, his voice breaking. "I tried to tell her to stop, but she won't listen to reason. She's planning to show up at the Hamptons estate tomorrow morning with a camera crew from a local tabloid. She wants to stage a public confrontation to shame you into backing down."

I stared at the empty space on the wall where Madison’s portrait had hung just moments before. A cold, steady resolve settled into my bones.

"Let her come, Dad," I said quietly. "Let her bring all the cameras she wants. But you tell her this: if she steps one foot onto private property tomorrow morning, I won't just let security handle it. I will personally hand the police the complete financial dossier Michael Levin prepared regarding her corporate embezzlement."