Eleonore walked down the long, silent hallway toward the massive, double walnut doors of the penthouse. She was already drained from the afternoon, but she knew the worst was yet to come.

She pushed them open.

The moment she stepped inside, the sound of her stepmother-in-law's sharp, mocking laughter echoed from the living room.

A maid silently appeared to take her coat. Eleonore handed it over and walked into the vast, sun-drenched space. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Central Park, but the beauty was lost on her.

Meredith Montgomery, Avon's stepmother, sat erect on the plush white sofa, a stack of printed papers in her hand. Without a word of greeting, she hurled the papers across the room. They scattered at Eleonore's feet like confetti.

"From the beginning of last month until now, a total of six hundred and fifty thousand dollars transferred out!" Meredith's voice was cold, commanding, each word a lash. "The Montgomery family may be wealthy, and Avon may know how to earn money, but that does not mean we can afford to have it drained by the likes of you."

Eleonore took a half-step back, her brow furrowed. She looked down at the scattered bank statements.

"So explain yourself," Meredith continued, her eyes boring into Eleonore. "Where did all that money go?"

From her spot beside her mother, Chloe leaned in, her voice dripping with venom. "Do you even need to ask, Mother? It's obvious, isn't it? The Lowe family has a two hundred million dollar hole to fill. She's been stealing from us to prop up her own bankrupt bloodline."

She tossed her hair with theatrical disdain. "Some heiress she turned out to be. A thief with a designer handbag. What kind of socialite steals from her own husband?"

Eleonore bent down, her movements fluid and elegant. She picked up one of the bank statements and scanned it quickly. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the details—the wire had been sent to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands, routed through a series of intermediary banks designed to obscure the origin. Whoever had done this knew exactly what they were doing.

She stood up, her composure absolute. "The money wasn't taken by me," she stated calmly, her eyes meeting Meredith's cold stare.

"If not you, then who?" Meredith snapped. "Me? Chloe? Do not take me for a senile old woman. This is the supplementary card Avon gave you on your wedding day."

"Who took it knows exactly who they are," Eleonore said, her gaze sliding deliberately toward Chloe before returning to Meredith. "If you don't believe me, Mother, we can call the police. The bank will have surveillance footage. A simple request and we'll have our answer."

Chloe's face went pale. She shrank back slightly, her voice losing its earlier confidence. "The police? What are you talking about? You want to drag the Montgomery name through the mud along with the Lowes?"

Her voice rose, edging toward hysteria. "You took that money, and you'd better pay it back, or I'll tell Avon—I'll tell him to divorce you!"

Chloe's eyes darted to the doorway, then back to Eleonore, her breathing shallow.

Eleonore took a step closer to Chloe, her voice dropping, becoming dangerously quiet. "Tell me, Chloe. How much did you lose in Vegas last week? Did your gambling debts get a little too high?"

"I did not!" Chloe shrieked, her denial too loud, too fast. She was like a cornered animal. "How dare you accuse me!"

Meredith slammed her teacup down on its saucer. "Insolence! To think you would dare to turn this on my daughter! You come into this house, you steal from us, and then you have the audacity—"

"I don't even know the password to Avon's supplementary card," Eleonore interrupted, her voice cutting through Meredith's tirade like a blade. "Furthermore, a transfer of that size would require a two-factor authentication code from a security device. A device that, as I recall, is kept locked in Avon's study."

She let the words hang in the air.

Chloe's eyes flickered. She involuntarily glanced away, a telltale sign of her guilt. Eleonore saw it. The flicker of panic. The brief loss of eye contact. It was all she needed.

Eleonore pulled out her phone. "Fine. Let's call the police. The FBI takes money laundering investigations very seriously, especially when they involve offshore accounts."

"No!" Chloe yelped, lunging for Eleonore's phone.

Eleonore sidestepped her easily. Chloe, off-balance, stumbled and fell gracelessly onto the sofa.

"Call your brother!" Meredith screeched, her face contorted with rage. "Call Avon right now!I demand he divorces this woman immediately."

Chloe scrambled for her phone, her fingers fumbling as she tried to dial.

Then, cutting through the chaos, a voice came from behind them. Cold. Sharp. Unmistakable.

"What divorce?"

The three women froze. Their heads snapped in unison toward the sound.

Avon Montgomery stood at the bottom of the staircase, a crystal glass in his hand. He wore a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the fabric stretching slightly across his shoulders. He looked as handsome as the day she had married him—but the coldness in his eyes was something new, something that had crept in over the years and never left.

Avon stopped in the center of the living room. The sound of his leather dress shoes on the hardwood floor was like a judge's gavel.

Chloe immediately transformed, her face crumpling into a mask of victimhood. She ran to him, grabbing his arm.

"Avon, she stole from you!" she sobbed, pointing a trembling finger at Eleonore. "And when I confronted her, she threatened to call the police on me!"

Meredith opened her mouth to add her own venom, but Avon cut her off with a single glance—cold, final, absolute. She recoiled, her lips pressing shut despite her obvious desire to say more. Chloe shrank back, not daring to meet her brother's eyes.

Eleonore stood her ground, her spine ramrod straight. She watched the pathetic performance with cold, detached eyes.

Avon didn't even look at his crying sister. His gaze, cold and sharp, cut straight through the room and locked onto Eleonore.

He looked as handsome as the day she had married him—but the coldness in his eyes was something new, something that had crept in over the years and never left.

His lips barely moved when he spoke, but his voice carried to every corner of the silent room.

"I transferred the money."

The air went still. Chloe's manufactured sobs died in her throat, ending in a strangled gasp.

Meredith stared, her mouth agape. "You... what? Why would you be—"

"Do not question me in my house," Avon said, his voice low and menacing. He glanced at his stepmother with such chilling authority that she physically recoiled.

He shook Chloe's hand off his arm as if it were something unclean.

Then he strode directly towards Eleonore.

The sheer force of his presence made her want to retreat, a primal instinct to flee from a predator. He was too close, too fast.

For a fleeting moment—just a heartbeat—something flickered across her face. Hope, perhaps. That he believed her. That he was on her side.

His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. His grip was like steel. His thumb pressed directly against the raw scrape she had gotten earlier that day at the office—the wound was still fresh, still tender. Pain shot up her arm, sharp and unforgiving.

A small cry escaped her lips before she could stop it. She bit down hard to stifle the rest.

He didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn't care.

"Why," he gritted out, his voice a low, vicious snarl, "did you go see Bobbye Wolf?"

The hope that had flickered in her chest died. Crumbled. Turned to ash. So he didn't believe her after all. He thought she was the thief, just like the rest of them.

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped her. "What's wrong, Avon? Worried your little mistress got her feelings hurt?"

Her words were like gasoline on a fire.

He lunged forward, his hand snapping up to grip her chin, forcing her head back. His fingers dug into her skin.

"You have no idea what you're playing with," he hissed, his face inches from hers. "Don't you ever test me like that again. Do you understand?"

She stared back at him, defiant. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall. She bit down harder on her lower lip, the small pain a focal point in a sea of chaos.

He stared at her stubborn, tear-filled eyes, at her bruised lip. A war was raging inside him, visible in the frantic pulse at his temple. Finally, with a shuddering breath, he released her.

He stumbled back a step, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up.

"You're not going anywhere," he said, his voice eerily calm now. The rage had settled into something colder, more dangerous. "From now on, you do not leave this apartment without my permission."