"My bride tried to throw an eight-year-old girl out of our wedding. Seconds later, the child spoke into the microphone and exposed a secret that ruined everything.

I descended the grand staircase with deliberate, measured strides. Every step felt heavy, like wading through concrete, but inside my chest, a furnace of pure fury burned away every ounce of hesitation. Julian followed closely behind me, his phone pressed to his ear, updating the emergency dispatchers on the situation.

Marcus was pinned against the floor, spitting saliva and curses as he twisted under the security guard's knee. Beside him lay a scuffed leather briefcase that had popped open during the struggle, spilling several thick ledgers, passports under false identities, and a small, sleek digital recording device.

"Let me go, you minimum-wage rent-a-cops!" Marcus snarled, his voice hoarse from shouting. "Do you have any idea who I am? I’m family! I have every right to be on this property!"

"You stopped being family the day our grandfather took his name off your trust fund," I said, stopping two feet from where he lay pinned to the marble.

Marcus froze at the sound of my voice. He craned his neck upward, his sweaty forehead smeared with dust from the floor. When he saw me—and saw that I was not wearing my wedding jacket, and saw the look in my eyes—his sneer faltered, replaced by a momentary flash of panic.

"Ethan," he stammered, attempting to compose himself, forcing a sickeningly familiar, oily grin onto his face. "Cousin. Thank God you're down here. These apes assaulted me! I came to celebrate your big day. I flew in from the islands just to see you get married. I wanted to surprise you!"

"Is that why you were in Brielle’s dressing room at the manor at midnight last night?" I asked, my voice deadly soft.

Marcus’s grin vanished entirely. His eyes darted toward the grand entrance, but two local police cruisers had just pulled onto the cobblestone driveway outside, their red and blue strobe lights painting the frosted glass windows in rhythmic flashes of crimson and azure.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Marcus stammered, his breathing turning shallow. "I haven't seen Brielle in years. Whoever told you that is lying."

"Lily told me," I said.

The name hit him like a taser. Marcus visibly flinched, his body going limp against the floor for a fraction of a second before he tried to heave himself upward again. The security guard pressed down harder, eliciting a sharp groan of pain from my cousin.

"That little bastard was supposed to be locked in the carriage house," Marcus hissed under his breath, the slip of his tongue instantaneous, born of pure panic.

I crouched down until my face was inches from his. I could smell the stale clove tobacco on his breath, mixed with cheap whiskey. It made my stomach churn with disgust.

"You put your hands on that little girl, Marcus?" I asked, my tone dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Did you tell Brielle to hit her?"

"Ethan, listen to me," Marcus pleaded, realizing the walls were caving in around him. His bravado crumbled completely, dissolving into the pathetic sniveling of a trapped coward. "It wasn't supposed to go down like this. Lucas was losing his mind! He was going to ruin the entire Vance name! He was going to go to the Department of Justice over some minor bookkeeping discrepancies. I was trying to save the family business!"

"By driving his car off Blackwood Ridge?" Julian asked from behind me, holding up his phone to record every word coming out of Marcus's mouth.

Marcus’s eyes bulged. "I didn't push him! I swear on our mother's grave, I didn't push him! It was an accident! He wouldn't pull over, he wouldn't listen to reason! We were just trying to run him off the road to get the flash drive back!"

"We?" I demanded, grabbing Marcus by the lapels of his suit jacket and pulling his face closer. "Who is *we*, Marcus?"

Before Marcus could answer, the heavy double doors of the ballroom swung open. Escorted by two additional estate staff members, Brielle walked into the foyer. Her wedding dress was torn at the hem, her hair a wild, disheveled mess, her face contorted with bitter, venomous hatred.