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."