“This is my home, Eleanor,” Maren said, her voice shaking but quiet. “Get out.”

My mother ignored her.

She walked past me into the narrow hallway, smelling of expensive French perfume and damp wool.

“I built Whitmore Capital for this family,” Eleanor said, looking at Celeste. “And I will not let it be ruined by a decades-old mistake.”

“A mistake?” I asked.

My chest burned.

“You paid Lionel Mercer to lie to me,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “You convinced me I was sterile.”

“You were young and reckless, Adrian,” Eleanor said, smoothing her wet lapels. “Maren was a distraction. She was not the wife you needed for the future of the firm.”

Celeste took a step closer to my mother.

“We have a prenuptial agreement, Adrian,” Celeste said, her chin lifted. “And I have the board’s support. If you try to divorce me and drag my family’s name into this, I will align with your mother. We will tie you up in court for years.”

She glanced toward the stairs.

“And we will make sure those children are caught in the middle of it,” Celeste added.