Damian had just opened the door to his luxurious downtown home when the sound of sobbing greeted him. The cold air from outside had not yet left his body, but in here, the heat was overwhelming—not because of the temperature, but because of the burning emotions.

Isabella sat on the sofa, still wearing her blood-red satin nightgown. Her eyes were swollen, her face wet. In her hand was a picture frame of David, their son who had died two years ago. Her fingers gripped it tightly, as if afraid of losing it again.

"David was our only son," Isabella murmured softly. "The only one you were proud of."

Damian threw...