The drive to Vermont took five grueling hours through mounting blizzard conditions. The interstate highways narrowed as snowplows struggled to keep up with the blinding whiteout, coating my windshield in thick, frozen slush. By the time I crossed the state line into Vermont, my hands were cramped around the steering wheel, my mind delirious from lack of sleep and days of subsisting entirely on black coffee and stale whiskey.

Elena’s family estate—a sprawling historic property nestled in the foothills of the Green Mountains—was surrounded by acres of dense pine forest and wrought-iron security gates.

I pulled my Mercedes off the snowy shoulder a quarter-mile down the rural road, cutting the headlights so I wouldn't trigger the perimeter sensors. The wind howled through the trees, biting through my cashmere coat as I trudged on foot through knee-deep drifts toward the back property line.

My breath plumed in the freezing air, my expensive Italian leather shoes soaking through instantly, turning my feet numb with ice.

I reached the rusted perimeter fence, scrambled over the top rail with a sharp tear of my wool trousers, and pushed through the heavy evergreens until the main house came into view.

It was a glowing beacon of warmth in the middle of the frozen wilderness. Yellow light poured from the frosted windows of the wraparound porch. I crept closer, hiding behind a massive stone retaining wall, my heart hammering against my ribs as I peered through the glass of the brightly lit country kitchen.

There she was.

Elena wore a thick cable-knit cream sweater, her dark hair tied back in a simple ponytail. She looked healthier, lighter, and more radiant than she had in the final, suffocating years of our marriage. She was standing at the kitchen island, stirring a pot of soup, while a small wooden high chair sat nearby.

And then, my breath caught in my throat.

Harrison toddled into the kitchen, clutching his blue blanket and babbling happily as he chased a golden retriever across the hardwood floor. He had grown even in the few weeks since I last saw him. He looked happy. Safe. Untouched by the chaos I had unleashed.

A fierce, possessive surge of emotion tore through my chest. That was my son. That was my home.

Without thinking, driven by sheer delirium and desperation, I stepped out from behind the stone wall and marched up the wooden porch steps. I didn't care about the restraining order. I didn't care about Victor Vance or the police. I just wanted my family back.

I raised my fist and banged heavily on the heavy oak front door.

Inside, the laughter stopped instantly.

Through the frosted glass, I saw Elena freeze, her head snapping toward the entryway. The golden retriever barked a sharp, echoing warning.

The heavy deadbolt clicked. The door swung open.

Elena stood in the doorway, her face pale in the porch light. For a terrifying second, neither of us spoke. The blizzard raged around us, swirling snow across the threshold between our old life and our irreversible ruin.

“Julian,” she whispered, her voice dangerously steady, completely devoid of the fear I expected to find. “You are trespassing.”