The sound of Silas Varelli’s hand striking his wife was so sharp that the twelve people seated around the Christmas table seemed to stop breathing at the same time.

By ten o'clock the following morning, Silas Varelli had broken two phones.

The master bedroom at the estate felt hollow, like an abandoned tomb. The bed had not been slept in. On the floor near the vanity lay the shattered remnants of an antique shaving mirror he had kicked in a moment of fury three hours before dawn.

Downstairs in the study, Grant Varelli was leaning against the mahogany bookcase, chewing on an unlit cigar.

"You're overreacting, Silas," Grant said, his tone deliberately soothing, though his eyes darted toward the French doors every time the wind rattled the glass. "Women get emotional. You humiliated her in front of Celeste and the board members. Give her seventy-two hours. She’ll realize she has no money, no credit cards under her name, and no place to go. She’ll call."

"You don't know her," Silas growled.

He was standing behind his desk, wearing the same charcoal trousers and dress shirt from the night before, the top three buttons undone, his sleeves rolled over forearms corded with muscle and tension. His jaw was dark with two days of stubble.

"She took the duffel," Silas whispered, his voice dangerously low. "The duffel she bought after her mother died. She didn't touch her jewelry. She didn't take the mink. She took her papers."

"What papers?" Grant's posture stiffened minutely. The cigar stopped between his fingers.

"Her records. Her files." Silas turned, his bloodshot eyes fixing on his cousin. "When she ran the books for the foundation, she kept duplicates of every ledger. I told her to shred them two years ago when you took over. Did you verify that she shredded them?"

Grant swallowed, his throat moving against his stiff collar. "She said she did."

"You *asked* her, and you didn't check?" Silas took two slow steps toward his cousin. The aura of violence that usually terrified business rivals now hung in the room like suffocating heat. "Laurel does not throw things away, Grant. She archives."

Before Grant could answer, the door swung open.

Sabrina walked in. She was wearing one of Silas’s oversized cashmere sweaters, her blonde hair artfully tousled, carrying a porcelain cup of espresso. She looked entirely at ease, radiant in the glow of her perceived victory.

"Silas, darling," she purred, walking toward him and placing a hand on his forearm. "Stop pacing. It’s Christmas. The staff are terrified, and the sound of you shouting is giving me a headache. Let her pout. If she wants to walk away from a fifty-million-dollar life, let her be a martyr. We don't need her."

Silas looked down at Sabrina’s hand.

For the first time in six months, the delicate fingers, the manicured nails, the platinum bracelet with its shimmering leaves did not look alluring. They looked vulgar.

"Get out," Silas said.

Sabrina blinked, her pout freezing. "What?"

"Get out of my study."

"Silas, I was only trying to—"

"Get out!" he roared, slamming his fist onto the mahogany desk with enough force to make the heavy bronze inkwell jump.

Sabrina flinched, color draining from her cheeks, and backed out of the room without another word, her slippers whispering against the parquet floor.

Grant cleared his throat. "Silas, listen to me. Even if she has old ledgers, the foundation's audits were signed off by Arthur Morris. He's one of the best in the city. The IRS doesn't open inquiries based on the word of an angry, estranged wife."

Silas didn't answer. He turned to the window, watching the Hudson churn gray and violent between jagged sheets of ice.

He looked at his right hand. The palm still felt hot, as though the contact with Laurel’s skin had left a chemical burn.

He remembered the look in her eyes when she pulled off the ring. Not tears. Not rage.

Pity.

She had looked at him the way one looks at a man who has unknowingly stepped off the edge of a cliff and has not yet realized the drop has begun.

"Find her," Silas commanded quietly. "I don't care how many private investigators you hire. I don't care how much cash you spread across the precincts. Find where she is staying. And Grant?"

"Yeah?"