You’ll only embarrass me wearing that dress.

A suffocating silence descended upon the grand salon.

Julian Vance watched with a smirk, swirling his wine glass, while Ethan stood motionless, his dark eyes locked entirely on Phoebe. His weapon remained raised toward Julian, but the tension in his broad shoulders was palpable. He didn't speak. He didn't beg. He simply waited for her verdict.

Phoebe looked down at Eleanor’s manicured hand, hovering inches from her face.

Then, Phoebe raised her own hand.

Slowly, deliberately, Phoebe gripped Eleanor’s wrist. Her grip was iron, calloused from years of fighting for her life in corporate backrooms, digging into Eleanor’s delicate skin with enough force to make the older woman’s eyes widen in sudden, sharp shock.

Phoebe twisted Eleanor’s arm downward, forcing the matriarch to take a step back.

"You think you made me?" Phoebe whispered, her voice vibrating with an icy, terrifying fury. "You didn't make me, Eleanor. You abandoned me in the dark. Everything I am—every victory I took, every empire I reclaimed—I built out of the ashes you left behind. I am not your masterpiece. I am your reckoning."

Eleanor’s face twisted into an ugly, venomous sneer. "You ungrateful little brat! You have nothing! You are surrounded by thirty armed men on my private property! You die here, and no one will ever find your bodies in this lake!"

"Julian," Eleanor commanded sharply, "kill them both."

Julian set his wine glass down on the table, pulling a silver automatic pistol from beneath his jacket. "With pleasure, Eleanor. Ethan always was the favorite. It's time to settle the estate."

Julian pointed the barrel directly at Ethan’s chest.

*Click.*

The lights in the entire villa snapped off instantly.

Plunged into absolute blackness, the roar of twin heavy-lift tactical helicopters shook the roof of the villa, their spotlights blindingly illuminating the grand salon through the shattered French doors.

*Bang! Bang! Bang!*

The glass skylights above the salon shattered inward in an explosion of tempered shards. Four elite tactical operators dressed in black urban assault gear repelled down on heavy cables, their laser sights painting bright red dots across Julian’s chest and head.

"Drop your weapon!" a voice roared in Italian over a loudspeaker. "Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza! Hands in the air!"

Julian froze, the laser dots dancing across his face. His arrogance evaporated into instant, paralyzing terror.

"What is this?!" Eleanor shrieked, backing away toward the fireplace as red laser sights covered her silk gown. "This is private sovereign property! I have diplomatic immunity through the San Marino consulate!"

Phoebe stepped into the blinding beam of the helicopter spotlight, pulling an encrypted satellite device from her tactical belt.

"You had diplomatic immunity, Mother," Phoebe said calmly, her voice carrying over the thundering rotor blades. "Until forty-five minutes ago, when Vance Capital and Harrell Enterprise transferred sixteen gigabytes of unredacted transaction logs from your Swiss accounts to the Italian Guardia di Finanza and the International Criminal Court."

Eleanor gasped, her hands flying to her throat. "The logs... how could you have the logs?!"

"Hans Richter," Ethan Vance spoke, stepping forward beside Phoebe, lowering his weapon as tactical police tackled Julian to the floor, disarming him and pinning him against the Persian rug. "You thought Richter was terrified of you, Eleanor. But he was more terrified of dying in a federal penitentiary. He handed over your master encryption keys three days ago in Zurich."

Julian screamed in rage as handcuffs were snapped around his wrists, his face pressed hard into the floor. "Ethan! You bastard! You can't do this! I'm your brother!"

Ethan looked down at the man on the floor, his expression cold, devoid of any brotherly affection or pity.

"My brother died ten years ago in the Thames," Ethan said with finality. "You're just another criminal facing extradition to Florence."

Italian tactical officers moved in, seizing Eleanor by the arms. The elegant, silver-haired matriarch struggled violently, her silk gown ripping, her hair tumbling out of its immaculate coiffure as her regal facade cracked completely.

"Phoebe!" Eleanor screamed, her voice shrill, frantic, and desperate as she was dragged toward the terrace doors. "I am your mother! You cannot destroy me! Everything I did, I did to preserve the Harrell bloodline! You need me!"

Phoebe walked toward her mother, stopping just inches from her face.

"A mother protects her child," Phoebe whispered, her eyes piercing through Eleanor’s soul. "You devoured yours. Enjoy the cage, Eleanor. It’s the only dress that fits you now."