Chapter 407

The study door creaked open.

Julian Blackwood stood there, watching his older brother Dominic immersed in paperwork. The heater hummed softly, casting warmth through the room. Dominic wore only a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, emphasizing the sharp lines of his shoulders.

Even from the doorway, Julian could see the way his brother’s legs were casually crossed, exuding effortless authority.

He sighed. If he weren’t straight, even he might have fallen for that man.

Dominic was a machine—working through holidays, through weekends, through every spare moment. Julian could barely sit still for thirty minutes without itching to escape. Yet here was his brother, buried in documents like they were his lifeline.

Dominic finally glanced up, his piercing gaze landing on Julian before flicking back to his papers.

Noon sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, framing Dominic in a golden halo. The light caught the sharp angles of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble.

Julian swallowed.

"Dominic," he said quietly.

His brother exhaled a slow stream of smoke from his cigarette. "How’s your mother?"

Of course he knew about Margaret Lockwood’s collapse. Unlike Beatrice, who would’ve reveled in it, Dominic had done his duty—called Dr. Whitmore, ensured she was cared for.

Reginald Blackwood had begged Dominic to forgive Margaret’s sins. And Dominic had—not because he forgot the car crash she orchestrated, the years stolen from him and Evelyn—but because he understood.

His own mother, Beatrice, had shattered Margaret’s marriage.

Some debts could never be repaid.

"She’s resting," Julian said. "Dr. Whitmore says it’s psychological. She’ll need therapy." He hesitated. "I’m sorry, Dominic."

Dominic set down his pen, studying his brother. "You’re off today. What’s wrong?"

Julian clenched his fists. "I’ve decided. After this weekend, I’m joining the company—properly."

Dominic arched a brow. "You already are in the company, Julian."

Julian flushed.

Before, he’d only shown up under their grandfather’s threats. Skipped meetings, taken endless "sick days." His "help" had been not actively sabotaging Dominic’s work.

But now—knowing what his mother had done—

"I’m serious," Julian insisted.

Dominic’s lips twitched. "I believe you."

Julian exhaled in relief.

A glance at his watch reminded him of his next obligation. "I should go. Lillian Prescott’s birthday party is tonight. I need to prepare."

Dominic’s fingers stilled around his lighter. "Lillian Prescott?"

Julian nodded. "Her twenty-second. I got an invite."

Dominic said nothing.

These events were standard for socialites—networking disguised as celebration. He’d tossed Lillian’s invitation without a second thought. Crowds bored him.

But tonight—

He remembered Evelyn’s quiet fury after the last Norman family event.

A slow smirk curved his lips. "I’ll attend as well."

By six, dusk had settled over the city.

A sleek black Rolls-Royce glided toward the Prescott estate, cutting through the winter-bare landscape. Snow clung to tree branches like lace.

Evelyn stared out the window, fingers twisting in her lap.

She didn’t understand Dominic’s logic. He knew she despised Lillian. So why bring her to the viper’s den?

And after her last clash with Elizabeth Prescott—

"We’re here," the driver announced.

Dominic stepped out first, shielding Evelyn’s head as she followed.

The Prescott gates stood wide, a red carpet unfurling toward the mansion. Luxury cars lined the drive.

Inside, the hall glittered with politicians, tycoons, celebrities—all turning as Dominic and Evelyn entered.

Evelyn’s smile felt brittle as greetings bombarded them. She recognized faces from Forbes covers, news segments.

Dominic’s network was terrifying.

Then—

The crowd parted.

And there stood Lillian Prescott, encircled by socialites and starlets, her smile sharp as glass.