The dining room fell into a sharp silence, so tense it could’ve been carved with a blade. The polished walls of the Dejeva mansion seemed to close in, every gilded frame, every antique lamp standing witness to the war of truth and lies unraveling before them.

Grandmother Ginger’s piercing gaze, sharpened by years of commanding both business and bloodlines, cut through the thick air. She wasn’t a woman to be fooled by shiny exteriors or honeyed words. Her sharp cheekbones only added to the stern set of her expression as she leaned forward in her velvet-backed chair, eyes flicking from Alvin then landing squarely on her grandson, Cross.

“Tell me...